Recover

Chapter 1

"Isabella, get up, you have your therapy session in less than an hour," my mom pounds on my bedroom door, which makes me want to roll over and sleep longer just to defy her, but I can't afford to miss these sessions. Also, the smell of bacon is enough to get me out of bed.

I know from experience that therapy is a waste of time and money, but my mom thinks it will stop me from "sleeping too much and never leaving my room". In other words, I'm depressed, have been for as long as I can remember, and there's not much I can do about it.

I get up after mentally debating what to wear, and decide on a plain grey hoodie and jeans. I'm not really up for putting in any effort towards my appearance; but, then again, I never am.

I throw on my jeans, shoes, and sweatshirt, grab my bag from the end of my bed, and head down the stairs.

"I made breakfast: eggs, toast, bacon, and orange juice," my mom gestures toward the table. I'm not really hungry, but I walk towards the plate and snag the bacon while my mom finishes cleaning up.

She's frantic, as usual, and in a rush to get everything that she thinks needs to be done before we leave.

"Alright, head to the car, I just need to grab my purse," she says while slipping her heels into her shoes, "I'll be out in a minute." I grab the rest of the bacon and walk out the door, instantly regretting my choice of clothing. Although I usually stick with long sleeves, anyways.

It's much warmer than it should be mid-February, but I should know this by now, seeing as I've lived in Phoenix my whole life. I guess February break is a bit more enjoyable when it's not to freezing to go outside.

It's my senior year and I'm supposed to be starting college in September, but my mom is making me take a year off beforehand because she's not financially stable, and thinks I'm not emotionally stable for it at the moment.

My mom climbs in the car and starts it, "we're going to be late again," she quickly pulls out of the driveway.

"We're fine, mother," I say back, trying my best not to get agitated with her because she's the reason we're always late. She doesn't respond, just focuses on the road, so I play with the radio until I come across a song by Coldplay that I've heard a few times. I turn it up and lean my head against the window.

"Put your seatbelt on," my mom insists, still focused on the road. I hesitate for a second.

I used to intentionally not wear my seatbelt, because I know that an accident can happen at any given moment. I figured maybe if we get in an accident, I wouldn't survive the crash because I wasn't wearing my seatbelt, and all of the pain I feel could finally come to an end in a moment where I wouldn't have time to overthink things.

I talked some sense into myself, though. I knew I couldn't let my mother feel responsible for my death, and I know that she would feel that way if she was driving the car.

I couldn't do that. I know that's just a way of pushing my pain and suffering onto her, and I know that's not fair.

I click my seatbelt in and lean back up against the window.