Scribbles of a Broken Heart

“Well, Constance, it’s three o’clock—time for you to go home.”

“Um, are you sure? I think that your clock is at least five minutes fast…probably more.”

“You try this every time Constance. Your parents are only keeping a close watch on you because they’re worried.”

“You say that I do this every time and yet you still don’t get it!”

“Go out. You’re parents are waiting.”

I got up in a huff and opened the door.

“If you believe things can get better, they will.”

I shut the door behind me and faced the two people that I was mad at most.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“How was your session?” My mom asked robotically, not even taking her eyes off of the road.

I thought about my response briefly. For the past couple weeks I had been cold to them; I said as little as I could and kept to myself. Maybe if I opened up a little, things would get better and they would open up too. Half of the time I was so mad at them for treating me as if I wasn’t me anymore. Their whole perspective of me changed the moment they found out that I had cut myself. They were so ashamed of me. I knew because they were the ones that started acting differently. They became so dismissive that I stopped trying to even salvage our relationship. Even though things before that incident made us fight and avoid each other, it wasn’t as bad as things are now. I didn’t used to dread going home.

I made my mind up; I wanted to let them in. Maybe for once Ms. Templeton would be right.

“It was good. I started telling Ms. Templeton about Garrett.”

Silence.

“I think I’m making good process, you know…since I was able to talk to her about it.”

I might have seen my father nod.

“She even said that after I tell her everything about me and him that she might consider lessening my therapy hours…maybe even give the ‘okay’ that I don’t need therapy anymore.”

“No,” my father said firmly. “Less therapy is the last thing that you need. Even though it’s costing your mother and me two life time’s fortunes you’re going to continue your therapy.”

“But Dad…I’m okay, I’m not unstab-“

“We’ll decide when you aren’t unstable anymore!”

His tone was so harsh. I didn’t do anything to make him angry. This was the most he has said to me in a long while, and the words he now spoke were cruel and demeaning. My mom did not even mutter a syllable in my defense. I clamped my lips shut and ran various lyrics through my head. Breaking down in front of them would only make things worse, and they no longer comforted me when I cried.

I kept my eyes on the floor until I felt the shake of our car when we turned onto the driveway. I made sure not to look to my left as I walked to the opening garage. As soon as there was enough space for me to pass through, I took big strides to the door before I bolted through the house to my room. As soon as I got in a slammed the door shut behind me and leaned back. My breathing was becoming deeper and when I looked at the ceiling it was blurred. Holding myself, I slid down the door slowly until my knees were in line with my shoulders.

I sang as I started to cry, “This house is not a h-home, I’m better off alone…no ma-matter how hard I try, you’re never satis…satisfied. This h-house is not a home.”