Memoirs of a Teen: The Untold Story
Therapy
Today is now February fourteenth. Valentine's Day. I am supposed to be going to a meeting of students with straight A's on their report cards. I am supposed to be getting a certificate and a shirt. Instead, I am going to therapy.
My first day of eight on the stairway to recovery.
My mom checked me out of school that day. Before the end of the day. And we went to this new place. I didn't change out of my school uniform. I stayed in it, with me dark green hoodie on. It was like my cage of protection.
The social worker lady who was to counsel me brought my mother and I into her office. It was tiny for the three people to be in it. I was getting claustrophobic. I took calming breaths as she asked me questions. I answered with a simple nod or shake of my head.
We didn't get much done that day. I was quiet. Not the normal, outgoing person that I normally am.
But I would get over it.
As the weeks passed by, my whole image changed. I was steadily changing what I wore there every week. My last session ended with me in flip-flops, a tank top, and some shorts as opposed to the jeans and hoddie with converses that I had adorned only three weeks before. I was more talkative as well. My old self was coming back.
I learned so much from that lady. So very much. She helped me through it all.
That's not to say that I don't still flinch when I hear the word "molested." That's not to say I don't still get freaked out when men stand to close to me, or stare at me as I walk down an aisle in the store. But all the help she has given me has helped me get through my everyday life today.
It has been a while since I've been to therapy. It has been a while since I've had a nightmare. I still write in my journal, getting all my feelings out before i go to bed.
I am a changed person since then. I am the complete opposite of what I was when I went into therapy, as opposed to when I came out.
That was when I got help in my life of lies.
My first day of eight on the stairway to recovery.
My mom checked me out of school that day. Before the end of the day. And we went to this new place. I didn't change out of my school uniform. I stayed in it, with me dark green hoodie on. It was like my cage of protection.
The social worker lady who was to counsel me brought my mother and I into her office. It was tiny for the three people to be in it. I was getting claustrophobic. I took calming breaths as she asked me questions. I answered with a simple nod or shake of my head.
We didn't get much done that day. I was quiet. Not the normal, outgoing person that I normally am.
But I would get over it.
As the weeks passed by, my whole image changed. I was steadily changing what I wore there every week. My last session ended with me in flip-flops, a tank top, and some shorts as opposed to the jeans and hoddie with converses that I had adorned only three weeks before. I was more talkative as well. My old self was coming back.
I learned so much from that lady. So very much. She helped me through it all.
That's not to say that I don't still flinch when I hear the word "molested." That's not to say I don't still get freaked out when men stand to close to me, or stare at me as I walk down an aisle in the store. But all the help she has given me has helped me get through my everyday life today.
It has been a while since I've been to therapy. It has been a while since I've had a nightmare. I still write in my journal, getting all my feelings out before i go to bed.
I am a changed person since then. I am the complete opposite of what I was when I went into therapy, as opposed to when I came out.
That was when I got help in my life of lies.