Since I was around 10 I had never been one to smile.
I'd walk with my hands in pockets, face looking towards the ground and often lacking the ability to partake in everyday conversation.
It was in my traits I guess, being so introverted. My mother was never the sociable type and my dad was never really around to influence me.
"She's depressed."
The words slid with ease from my therapists mouth.
My head gently tilted up, giving eye contact for a split second before panicking and jolting my head back down to the scratched wooden floorboards of the specialists room once again.
"We already knew that." My mum bluntly stated.
I knew my emotional wellbeing (or lack thereof) was hurting her almost as much as it was me.
Remaining silent, I gulped and released a sigh of discontent.
The silence of the room was deafening, the only audible thing being the droning ticking of the tacky white clock that was loosely hanging from the shabby old wall.
I had grown all too familiar with that room. It reminded me of an antique shop. Old and dusty, like it had never seen a god damn antibacterial wipe. There was a scraggy old rug placed distortedly in the centre of the seat arrangement, which happened to be creaky leather chairs that all the patients were afraid to move on.
Several unknown paintings hung from the peeling beige walls, as though the atmosphere of the discussion had them suicidal also.
That room bared bad memories.
YOU ARE READING
I talk to my therapist about you
SonstigesA teen girl had been battling a severe fight with the demon of depression for several years, with her strong protective partner to push her to succeed. But when she acts upon destructive thoughts, will he still be promising unconditional love?
