Follow The Rain

Eleven

Early in May, on a day unbeknown to me because I'd completely lost track of time, my mother decided that I needed therapy. "Not because of Camryn," she had explained. "But because of yourself."

It was no secret that I'd forced myself into a corner of darkness and depression but hearing the words come out of my mother's mouth scared me a little. All this time I'd only blamed Camryn and what she did for how I felt but maybe I needed to see that I was bringing my despair on myself. I knew Camryn didn't intend for her death to cause such a down spiral for the people who loved her and maybe that was why I felt guilty.

As much as I wanted to feel happy again, though, I knew that as soon as I started letting go I'd only get hurt again. It was easier to stay in the dark where I was hurting anyway - no surprises. In a way, I was fearful of what I was capable of but it still felt safer than opening up to the world.

My mother booked an appointment with a psychologist by the name of Dr Winslow, coincidentally Jordan's mother. Naturally I wasn't looking forward to spilling my heart out to my friend's mother but I wasn't intending on saying much anyway. I never understood therapy; a person hurting can't just be healed by an hour session with a random person who has a degree, right?

Because the psychology practice was in the city centre, it was a near twenty minute drive from our house. I left dressed in leggings, boots and an oversized woollen jersey with a beanie pulled over my head. I hadn't been out past my garden gate in just over two weeks and the thought of entering the bustling city slightly, if not completely, unnerved me.

I pushed my tinted glasses further up my nose and faced the car window. Classical music was playing from the radio and my mother seemed too engrossed in it to make any conversation. The window was cool to my touch and I felt the drops of rain hitting it as we faced the clouds head on.

"What time is the appointment?" I asked after what felt like years of endless driving.

"Twelve," my mom replied curtly.

"What's the time now?"

"Ten," she didn't hesitate to reply. I turned to her, frowning, and opened my mouth to question but she cut me off. "We're stopping for pancakes on the way."

I knew that it was less about the pancakes and more about the time she was seizing to try and talk to me but the sound of my favourite food drew me in - even if I wasn't hungry in that moment. In a few minutes, the car stopped and my mom introduced me to the Pancake House on Main Street. As we crossed the pavement to the entrance the smell of fresh pancakes and chocolate sauce met me, causing my mouth to water.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked once we were seated at a table for two in the warmly lit restaurant.

"Can't I treat my daughter once in a while?" was my mom's answer and I didn't have the energy to argue with her. My seat was hard and uncomfortable but the food that soon arrived made up for it. My mom helped me cut my pancakes into pieces and add extra chocolate sauce and berries. After so long, I still couldn't eat my own food by myself. It made me feel like a burden - for the rest of my life I'd have to rely on others to help me with everyday tasks.

We ate quietly then my mom spoke up, interrupting my lull of chewing. "I want to know, Kayla," she placed her fork loudly onto her plate, "why you do this to yourself. I just don't understand it."

I said nothing, not wanting to delve into the topic of me. I hated talking about me. All that I ever heard was negative things. Couldn't we talk about my mom for once? I sighed loudly and considered this thought. "I want to know, Mom," I paused for effect, "why you do this to yourself." I took another bite of my apple and cinnamon pancake.

"If you knew what I think every day, it'd destroy you. I just don't understand why you want to get hurt again," I continued.

"It can't be that bad, Kayla -"

"It is."

Something strange and dark prickled my skin then, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I suddenly felt powerful, not inside, but outside. My mom was afraid of me and I knew now that she couldn't control me for much longer. I felt apprehension crawling in my chest, tightening my throat.

"You know, Kayla, I could just decide to give up on you. I could leave you alone to be consumed by yourself and not give it a second thought. But I love you and I want to help you. Just let me help you." She was pleading and I sensed something frantic beneath her words. I decided to ignore it.

"No one can help me," I said quietly and rested my knife and fork on my plate then leant back in my seat.

The therapist's office was cold and empty and smelled strongly of incense. Jordan's mother was known for her designer taste in furniture which was displayed in the uncomfortable couch I was directed to sit on, though I expected it looked better than it felt. Dr Winslow sat in front of me behind a desk, I was told. I'd never had a proper conversation with her. The only time I saw her was when I briefly greeted her while visiting Jordan or catching lifts home with him.

The session was slow and staggered but because I'd never been to therapy in my life, I had no idea if it was normal or not. Dr Winslow had a gentle drawn out voice that forced me to try and stay awake for the whole hour. As far as I was concerned, nothing had changed since I arrived in this place and I doubted that anything would.

I was asked questions like, "How did you feel when..." and "Did this make you angry?" and my favourite, "How are you feeling?" I'd heard it all before and soon grew weary of feeling like I was being interrogated by a detective. Did it not occur to my mom that I have the right to privacy and that includes my mind?

One question caught my attention, though. It was near the end of the session and I was becoming more exhausted by the second, my head starting to spin. I sat stiffly on the hard seat and clasped my hands together in the folds of my baggy jersey.

"Do you feel your friends have been supportive through the past few months?" came her voice and I heard the scratching of a pen on paper. I could smell her expensive fragrance and it was beginning to make me feel ill.

My mind raced to Matthew, Chloe and Jordan. They had been supportive; at least, they'd tried. Not so much now, but I didn't feel I minded all that much. I pressed a hand to my head as I pretended to be deep in thought but in reality, a headache was growing between my temples. My posture slumped for a moment and a wave of nausea edged over me like something hot and sticky.

I inhaled deeply and began to answer her question but instead felt myself falling forwards, my body crumpling heavily underneath me. My mind became fuzzy with dizziness and then the last thing I remembered was the hard floor hitting me straight on.