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The concrete was slick with rain and the lights of the city reflected back. The mirrored images blurred together, hiding the secrets this town really held. Looking down into the puddled raindrops, it was a beautiful sight.
Green, yellow, red.
...
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Depression was a complicated word that I wasn't even sure I fully understood. They told me I was depressed- my therapists through the years. They told me it was normal and that I'd been through a lot; they said I needed time to work through my emotions. Basically, I needed to face my past and move on, and then I could be happy.
They made it sound so simple. Like I could just get over everything that made me unhappy. As if the source of my depression was something I could control. Truth be told, I didn't know what the source was.
Then again, if I did, I'd probably understand how to turn it off.
In my mind, though, it was a plague that kept my brain in a constant state of chaos. It wasn't so surprising: a foster kid with drug-addicted parents and a careless social worker to be depressed. If any thing, it would have been questionable if I had come out of this completely emotionally stable.
I'd succomed to numerous therapy sessions when I was younger. I'd been clinically diagnosed with depressive disorder, but I hadn't received medication to help. What with my parents' addictive history and my age at the time that I'd been diagnosed, my psychiatrist didn't think it'd be best for me to begin medicating myself.
Therapy sessions started soon after I'd been placed in the system. I always hated it.
In therapy, they asked questions. They wanted to know how I was feeling. They wanted to somehow convince me that life was good and happiness could be found even in the most tragic situations. Most of all, they wanted me to talk about it.
They tried to push and make me speak when all I wanted was silence. They wanted to save me; to be able to claim that they'd dragged me out of the darkness to fuel their own satisfaction.
I couldn't help but feel bitter when I imagined therapy. Every passing second that I had to sit in the room, dead silent with only the sound of the ticking clock and the woman or man's occasional, "How have you been doing lately?" Because no matter how many times they asked my answer was always the same: "fine."
