𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳 | ᵍʳᵉʸˢ ᵃⁿᵃᵗᵒᵐʸ

⁰¹⁶ 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬

It was one of those depressing, rainy days when all you want to do is stay in bed, or maybe escape to the cinema, where the room is dark and the outside world simply doesn't exist.

Instead I found myself in the dimly lit therapy room of Dr Matthews, a family therapist so old I wondered if he had known Freud personally.

My parents, Addison and Derek, sat on one side of the room and I on the other, as far apart as we could without leaving the office.

The chairs were comfortable, too comfortable for the kind of discomfort these meetings always brought.

Dr Matthews, an elderly man who could easily pass for Gandalf's brother, did his best to get us all talking.

"I'm glad we could get together today. It's an important first step."

"Yes, very important," I murmured, rolling my eyes inwardly.

"Missy, would you like to start by telling us how you feel?" he asked in a soothing voice, probably meant to calm angry teenagers.

I snorted quietly. "Do you really need a university qualification to ask me how I feel?"

Bored, I fished out my phone, only to put it away again as my mother gave me a warning look.

My father sighed, a deep, heartbreaking sound that almost made me feel guilty. But just about.

"Missy, it's important that you're here today and participating," he said.

"Honestly, I'd rather have a root canal", I replied dryly, not taking my eyes off a particularly ugly painting on the wall.

"I understand you don't want to be here right now, Missy," Therapy-Gandalf continued, "But sometimes it's the places we don't want to be that have the most to offer us.

"Wow, that was deep," I replied sarcastically. "Did you get that from a fortune cookie?"

Dr Matthews chuckled slightly, which surprised me. Maybe there was more to him than I had given him credit for.

"Sarcasm is often a shield, Missy. What are you trying to protect?"

"Just my sanity, Doc. If that's alright." I picked imaginary lint from my jeans and avoided eye contact.

Dad rubbed his forehead as if he had a hangover, and Mum gave me one of those 'pull yourself together' looks, but honestly, I just wasn't up for this therapy show.

"Sweetie, we're here to heal our relationship as a family, not reopen old wounds."

"Oh, I see," I said, pretending to think.

"So I shouldn't talk about the, shall we say, 'healing activities' that took place between you and Uncle Mark?"

"Missy," Dad cut me off sharply before I could say more.

"What? It's true." I rolled my eyes.
"Why can't anyone be honest around here?"

Dr Matthews nodded slowly. "It's good to be honest. It's the first step to recovery."

"Or the first step out of this window," I muttered, more to myself.

Dr Matthews leaned forward, crossed his fingers and looked me straight in the eyes. "Missy, what do you need from your parents to make you feel that they take your needs seriously?"

"A Shetland pony would be fine," I replied with a straight face. The therapist blinked in surprise and my parents exchanged an annoyed look.

"Okay, okay," I relented. "Then maybe a teacup pig. They're smaller and fit better in the elevators."

"Missy," my father began, his tone more stern, more Dr Shepherd than 'Dad'. "We're here to talk seriously about our family, not pets."

"Oh God, this is just like Dr Phil," I groaned in despair, turning to the therapist. "I heard smashing things is therapeutic too. Can we do that instead?"

Dr Matthews, with his infinite patience, tried to steer the conversation back to calmer waters.

"Let's all take a deep breath and remember why we are here. We are here to recover and look forward."

The minutes passed, Dr Matthews asked questions and my answers became more monosyllabic. I knew they were trying very hard, but it was exhausting to talk about things that hurt so much.

Derek's frustration was almost palpable as he finally lost his patience.

"You're sitting here acting like it's all a damn joke. Do you understand how hard this is for all of us? Why aren't you even trying?" he snapped loudly and angrily.

I felt something burst inside me, a combination of anger and bitter disappointment that had been boiling under the surface for too long.

"'Trying? Trying?!" I repeated with a hysterical laugh, jumping up, my chair squeaking on the floor.

"I tried, Dad! I've tried harder than anybody else in this room!" My eyes fixed on him, harder and angrier than I had ever looked at anyone before.

"I called every hospital and neurological institute in the country to find you, Dad!"

Derek looked at me in surprise, obviously not prepared for my outburst. "Missy, I-"

"No, you listen to me now!" I interrupted him.

"I believed you would come back, every damn minute! I believed that you would come home, and I would have forgiven everything you had done if only you had come back!"

My voice broke and tears began to stream down my cheeks. The anger, the disappointment, the relentless hope - it all came together in a single, overwhelming moment.

"So don't tell me I didn't try."

Dr. Matthews stepped in and tried to de-escalate the situation, but I was past the point where words could make a difference.

Without another word, I grabbed my things and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

Outside in the hallway, away from the eyes of others, I allowed myself to take a deep breath and let the tears flow freely.

Somehow it felt liberating. I had said everything I needed to say, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do in that therapy room.