Overdose

1. Yvonne Mcreary

My therapist switched the TV off. I had put it on to procrastinate answering her question.

"And how does that make you feel?" She repeated the common therapist line. I believe when you start training to become a therapist, that's the first line they teach you.

"How does what make me feel?" I asked.

"The death of your father, Michael."

"That was a long time ago. It still makes me sad, but I'm learning how to deal with it." I said, not giving her a long answer.

My therapist, Dr. Allison, always tried to make me talk a lot about my feelings. She was the first therapist I saw after my stepdad, James, died in his car accident. My mother took me to her since she knew I was really going to need some help. That was a time before my mom had her breakdown. I was a wreck, and didn't talk to anybody. Dr. Allison was a woman I trusted. Thanks to her, I had gotten the help I needed when I contemplated suicide for the first time and almost went through with it.I had gone to her for years, and never suspected she was doing something wrong. Of course, now I know that she was working with them, the people who turned me into what I am now, I resent everything about her.

"Good, good. And you're using your coping skills for day to day life?" She asked.

"Yep. Luckily I'm taking an art class so that gives me a good hour of just doing something I love." I smiled. She returned the smile.

"Amazing, amazing. You'll have to make a drawing for me."

"Would you take that as payment?" I asked, making her laugh.

"I'll see. How are things with your mother?" The comedic air in the room got sucked out and replaced with the gloomy air that was in there before.

"Not good." I paused. "She's...like she was before. I just wish things were different with her. I know she took the death of my dad hard, and she's still dealing with the death of my stepdad."

"She's still drinking?"

"Hasn't stopped. I tried to help her, but I don't think I can do much anymore. She doesn't want to listen to me."

"Yvonne, you should really work on helping yourself first." Dr. Allison gave me a small, kind smile. "It's important that you're mentally healthy. Do you still think about your stepdad?"

"All the time. Sometimes I still go back to that car accident. I remember every moment of it, and I still get scared sometimes on the road. But, I'm coping.'

Dr. Allison looked at her watch. "Unfortunately it seems like our time is up. You're making great progress, Yvonne. Also, I'm refilling your Mutanol."

"Same Tesco as usual?"

"Of course." Dr. Allison opened the door. "It should be there in an hour. Have a nice day, Yvonne."

"You too." I said as I left.

I headed down the steps to the car, where my mom was waiting for me.

"She said the medicine will be ready to be picked up in an hour." I told her. She nodded, not saying anything.

"I'm going out tonight. How much money will you need for food?" She said, not looking at me.

"Maybe-"

"Here." She handed me twenty pounds. "This should be enough."

"Thanks, mom."

At least she always remembered to make sure that I was fed. That was one of the things I missed about her. I missed the days when she was sober, and we would watch horror movies and scream at the scary parts and laugh at the dumb ones.

She dropped me off at the house, and then drove off. I walked up the steps and into the house, sighing. Empty.

I walked up the steps and into my room. My room was decorated with artwork of my own and posters from TV shows. I looked at my mirror, running my finger over the scar on my eye. It was something I got from the car accident and something I always had to see when I looked at myself. My mom always said it made me look interesting, and was a good conversation starter. I knew she was trying to make me feel better, but every time I looked at it all I could think about was the accident. The feeling of shock and fear, the image of James leaning against the wheel. It almost made me want to never look in a mirror again.

I stopped looking at myself and went downstairs to watch TV. Another night home alone. Another night doing nothing and wishing I had friends. It was nothing special.