Today, my mum forced me up out of bed. She said she had something special planned for today, to help me. I’d been guessing for a while that she’d eventually want to send me to a therapist. I hated talking about my feelings.
“To be honest, I think you need therapy more than I do.” This is my lame attempt at an insult. My mum used to be an alcoholic because of reasons of her childhood. She had been sober since she met my dad actually; she said he was the only drug she needed. Cheesy, right? But recently, I had smelt the wine on her breath, but I didn’t make a big deal about it because it wasn’t my problem.
Even after my protests about going, I still went. When we arrived, the place had been decorated very simply. It felt like a blank piece of paper, with a few drawings by children stuck on a wall. The reception desk was again white and the middle-aged man behind it looked like he was angry at everything. His attempt at a smile was terrifying.
“Alena Harrington.” My mum said, without smiling back.
The man looked down, dropping his smile to a frown, and ruffled through some papers.
“Ah yes, Alena. I will go tell Claire you’re here and she will call you when she’s ready. Please go take a seat and read a magazine or do whatever. She won’t be long.” He got up from his desk and walked away.
I took a seat in the tiny, white chair next to my mum. I looked down but I could still feel her eyes on me. After a while of silence, she asked: “Would you like a magazine to read”
I replied “No.”
She looked down and then out of the window.
In about five minutes, the therapist (Claire) called my name. She had short blond hair and looked about 40 or something. She was wearing black trousers and a multi coloured blouse.
“Hello, Alena. Sorry for your wait.” She held out her hand, and I shook it weekly. “My room is just down here if you would follow me.”
“Should I come as well?” My mum asked, and Claire replied “We will call you in later, Joanne.
When we got into her room it was completely different to the rest of the building. Pops of different colours were everywhere. There was a desk and a chair, two sofas and paintings on the wall that didn’t match any theme she was trying to go with.
“So, Alena, please take a seat on either sofa.” She motioned toward the area of where the sofas were. I decided to sit on the pink one rather than the green one. Claire closed the door and sat opposite me.
“So my name is Claire, and I am 46. How old are you Alena?” She asked.
“Erm, 15.” I replied, meekly.
“Okay, thank you.” She noted it down on a notepad “Do you know why you’re here today?” Her bright blue eyes felt like they were piercing my skull, and I couldn’t hold eye contact for more than 2 seconds.
“I don’t know. My dad died?” I shrugged.
“Well, how have you coped with your dad dying?” I could tell she was becoming impatient, but she was determined not to show it.
“Badly, I guess.”
“Can you expand on that, please?” Her brows were furrowed.
“Well, I don’t really eat much anymore and I don’t enjoy to do anything anymore.”
“Do you have any hobbies? Or did you used to, before your dad died?” Claire asked, leaning forward, with her chin on the palm of her hand.
“Erm, I used to be part of a band. I played guitar.” I said.
“Were you good at guitar? Would you consider joining the band again?”
“Kind of, and I guess so.”
After a few more questions on my music, she asked me if my dad had enjoyed it. And then we got on to the topic of my father. It became easier and easier to tell her things. I told her that it felt like I had a hole in my heart, which I could never fill. And it was so strange to think of him so full of life and now he was just gone. I told how he just disappeared from our lives slowly, and how angry he was the last few days of his life. She said she understood, that she herself had had someone close to her die. She said distractions helped, that maybe joining the band and hanging out with my old friends would help. I shouldn’t give up on everything because my dad wouldn’t want me to do that. After she spoke for what seemed like an hour, she called in my mum.
“Do you go to school at the moment, Alena?” Claire asked me.
“No, I haven’t for a while.” I admitted. I knew you weren’t supposed to miss school, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go.
“Well maybe it’d be a good idea to go?” Her head tilted. “You’d be out of the house, distracted and with your friends. I know it’s hard but you just have to push through, otherwise, you’ll also be lonely and sad. What do you think, mum?” She looked at my mum.
My mum looked at me and I looked back. Still looking at me, she said “I think it’d be a great idea.” She smiled at me comfortingly and held my hand. “We’ll get through this together, honey.”
Currently it was Sunday, so I was going back to school tomorrow. Claire had told me to go to the band after school, and maybe pick up my guitar again and have a go. On the ride home, my mum said “Thank you for going today.”
“It’s alright. It helped, I guess.” I admitted.
She nodded and we carried on home in silence.
When we got home, I went to my room and sat on my bed. I picked up my mobile phone that I had hardly used and called Lacey.
“Alena?” She answered, panicking. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, calm down Lacey. I was just calling to tell you I’m going to school tomorrow.”
“You’re-you’re what? You haven’t been in so long.” She was stumbling over her words. “I mean, I’m happy! I haven’t seen you in so long, I miss my best friend. Liam will give you a ride, if-if you want?”
I laughed weakly. “Ok thank you, I miss you too. See you tomorrow.”
“Ok good bye. Thank you for calling, Alena.”
I smiled and then hung up.
I looked over at my acoustic guitar which was actually my first proper guitar. My dad had bought it for me when I was 8. The amount of times I had broken the strings is crazy. I picked it up and strummed a basic C chord. It was insanely out of tune, but still gave me the humbling feeling. I started to play a tune I had learnt, and began to sing. The feeling was overwhelming. My dad had contributed so much to my love of guitar, and I was so grateful. But then I started to remember then dark days and my voice choked up and a strum a flat note and start crying loudly. My mum rushes in and holds me.
“Mum, it hurts.” I sob into her shoulder.
“I know, honey. I know. We will get through this together.”
