"Kellin, get up. I made you breakfast." I barely heard my mom say in my half-asleep state.
I didn't want to eat; I didn't even feel hungry. I also didn't want to get out of bed.
Today was Monday, which meant two things: School, and therapy.
I was used to what happened in school everyday; getting things thrown at me, being called names, getting pushed, hit, etc. That was going to be nothing new. But today is my first day of therapy, and to tell you the truth, I'm extremely nervous.
I've never been a fan of telling anyone how I'm feeling. No one will ever understand what you're going through, and why? Because they aren't you.
That's the main reason I hated other people's opinions on everything. They aren't me, they don't see things how I do, and that makes their opinion useless to me. On a related note, what if this therapist is a homophobic ass? It was all really over-whelming and the whole thing made me really anxious.
"Kellin, get out here, or I'm throwing your breakfast away and you can starve." My mom's voice was stern.
Food was at the bottom of the list of things on my mind.
I flipped over onto my back and stared up at my ceiling. I tended to get lost in my thoughts sometimes.
They mostly consisted of what it's like after you die. I felt as if Heaven was just an idea, or a wish. Everybody would like to think that they go somewhere amazing after they die, when in reality you probably just rot in the ground.
I'm not a very religious person, and I feel like the only way I'd believe in God is if I saw him myself.
My thoughts were interrupted when my mom swung my door open, causing it to slam against the wall behind it. I glanced up at her; she looked really annoyed.
"I am sick of your shit, Kellin. All you ever do is sit in here and mope around and feel sorry for yourself. You're not who I raised you to be." I was surprised by her sudden outburst, and I didn't have time to speak before she was ranting again.
"I'm hoping the therapy helps you. If not, I don't think I can have you in my house. The bottom line is, if therapy doesn't work, if I were you I'd start looking for another place to live for after you turn eighteen.
I don't want to kick you out, Kellin, but you have no idea how hard it is to take care of you like this. Kids your age are supposed to have friends, go outside, talk to people; anything! But you don't. You wallow in self-pity all day long.
I can't put up with it any longer. So you better take therapy seriously, Kellin. I mean it." She looked at me, her eyes filled with disappointed. Slowly, she turned and let herself out, closing the door behind her.
When my door was firmly closed, I took a few breaths. My own mother couldn't stand me.
It honestly hurt a lot that even she, who had been there a reasonable amount throughout the years, was giving up on me.
Could I really blame her though? I mean, she's right. All the other kids are always out having fun with their friends and partying, and I'm always in my room, isolating myself from the rest of the world. No one will ever want to put up with me. I'm far too screwed up.
After I got myself together a little more, I got out of bed. I put on jeans, a shirt, and my only hoodie. I yanked the hood up and left my room after I was sure my mom had left for work.
I walked to the door and slipped my shoes on, grabbing my messenger bag from it's place on the hook and walking outside.
It was really cold and the light breeze wasn't really helping. It was the first week of February, and there was a layer of cool, white snow all over the ground.
