The story of a girl's journey throughout her struggles, as she tries desperately to hold onto a life only other people want her to live.


2. A Turtle Stuck In Quicksand

The numerous windows in the room were there to make it feel more open, yet they closed the door behind her when she walked in. It was supposed to ensure secrecy of anything she said but it just made her feel trapped. The chairs were soft, comfortable. The decor was modern but somehow quaint as well. The paint the walls sported was patternless, almost so as not to divert her attention from what she was supposed to be doing.

Yet in the room she felt unnerved despite the descriptions so many people told her, portraying calmness and relaxation, she just waited eagerly for her time to be up, not even slightly patient. Her hands were clenched in fists with white knuckles, thin fabric concealing her scar covered arms, not wanting this person in particular to see her scars for fear of them diverting the topic against her will. Her toes were curled within her sneakers and she found herself fighting to keep up an all too familiar ruse; one of happiness and content and hope for the near future. When in reality she was forced to cope with emptiness that was nearly impossible to endure.

In the room time moved more slowly than a turtle stuck in quicksand. She felt as if months had passed before she was allowed to leave. She has to mindlessly talk about things that don’t matter. The monotonous tones nearly put her to sleep, which would most likely be more interesting than the dull chatter she was forced to partake in.

It was the person that she had to talk to that irked her to no end. They were about as far from her expectations as she could have ever imagined. All they did was repeat what she told them back to her and nod like they agreed with what they heard. She knew that it was in one ear and out the other. She may not have been “mentally fit” but that didn’t make her oblivious. She disliked talking to them just as much as her mother which was really saying something.

They have dozens of clients, there was no way they could keep track of who was who and which problems everyone had. She assumed she had the most average boring ones anyway, she didn’t blame them for not seeming too interested in her dull recollections of everyday experiences that were irrelevant and unnecessary to speak of. She doubted they would notice if she never came back. Or if she didn’t show up at all. Her parents, however, might have. If she didn’t go into the building they would be aware of her absence, since they dropped her off.

She considered walking into the building but simply sitting in the waiting room, or on the staircase that led up to the bland, basically identical offices; all of which contained people with different occupations, yet it seemed as you went further down the halls the jobs get less and less important or commonly known. So as she sat in this room, this dreaded place that she would never go to if she had the option, she let herself get lost in her mind as her mouth simply let out gibberish and lies about “how she was doing”.

And this seemingly never ending cycle was going to continue until the suspicion faded. Therapy was her own personal definition of hell.


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