Mr. Walter's 24 hour Library Therapy

one

because everything is going to be okay

the music blasted from the cheap speakers mom installed a week ago. it was vintage, and looked weird against the modern interior of the silver lexus. mom had to drag me out of the house this morning, with me kicking and screaming.

she thought i was depressed. but i wasn't. i'm genuinely okay-well, i think so anyway. if okay means going on the internet and typing illegal drugs for sale so i can overdose myself. but i'm coping, mom doesn't think i am.

being depressed in california is really hard. california is a country of happiness, there isn't one person outside-excluding me, of course-that isn't smiling and isnt crying all the time for no reason. before i get started, i don't want you to view me as a spoilt, 'depressed', california-teenager living in a suburban home.

i do live in a suburban home, and i am depressed. i am not, under any circumstances, spoilt. i don't know what i am, a hippy? a goth? a preppy teen? i don't know which category i fit into, and i don't even want to know if i'm honest.

mom takes a left. were nearing the quieter streets, one with less kids running about in 100 dollar bikes and eating popsicles underneath the smoldering heat. summer in california is two things: hazy and brilliant. even i have to smile when i feel that fresh air caress my cheeks.

my mom glances at me for a second, as if to register my attire, and wrinkles her nose. my mom doesn't want a depressed teen, she wants a happy, preppy, annoying teen who wears Lacoste and parades around showing off her new tan and stuff.

i guess ever since my dad died, which was when i was seven, mom changed. she became distant, unforgiving almost. she was harder on me, enrolling me to classes like violin and ballet and stuff just so i can get out of the house.

i was eleven when depression hit. i guess it started with my weight-everything starts with anorexia and self-image issues-and then it went on and off. but now, i'm sixteen by the way, it's worse. i'm drowning in a pool of self-pity. more like an ocean anyway. 

my mom enrolled me to therapy classes. i pictured white rooms with an equally depressing therapist who does nothing but tell me about his/her sob stories. by the way, i'm not very sentimental. i'm kinda like a bitch, but you'll get used to me i suppose.

"i wish you wore something better" mom said, gesturing to me plain, white shirt and stone washed jeans. i was wearing pink chuck taylor's, and my auburn hair was tied in a messy ponytail. on my cheeks were two streaks of mascara tears, and my lipgloss was a tad bit smeared.

"at least i made the effort" i shot back. she glared at me, her elbow digging in my rib cage. i shrunk on the leather seat and winced slightly. mom dug her shit in my rib cage so much there was a permanent purple bruise there.

she parked in front of a yellow building with painted white, arched windows and old-fashioned baby blue shutters. there was wisteria climbing on the side, and the double doors were opened invitingly to show the reception and waiting room.

a happy therapy building. this was california after all anyway, what was i expecting? yeah, i was sort of expecting a white building with pale children coming out tiredly. maybe a group of goths and emos and people who cut. of course, this place probably even had rainbows coming out of fucking asses. 

stop it amelia, i thought. don't be a bitch. 

mom opened the door, i slipped out, stumbling underneath the open light. i trailed behind her, regarding the building with suspicion, touching everything as if to test it wasn't made entirely out of cocaine to drug patients.

"act normal, amelia" mom hissed. let's see how that goes, i felt like saying, but stood there silently when mom went to talk to the pretty receptionist. i ignored their boring conversation, and looked around. 

there was a spiral staircase, on the other side was a open door leading to a hallway leading to a string of rooms. the bottom floor was empty, but i could hear the soft, shuffling footsteps upstairs. there were pictures, probably painted by five year olds, hanging from a piece of string, and i traced a finger over them.

"amelia" mom said. "your first appointment. call me afterwards when the session's finished, it's upstairs. room 6" 

i blinked, watching as she exited the building. sighing, i trudged upstairs, heart hammering and stuff. room 6, i thought as i scanned the string of rooms. my converse squeked against the shiny floorboards, and i could hear snippets of conversation from each room i passed.

room 4...room 5...oh shit, that is NOT room 6.

"get a grip amelia" i whispered. "it's just a stupid therapy session, hopefully it won't be a sixty year old something who's a pedophile and will kidnap me at the boot of his truck and-

get a grip. i inhaled sharply, placed a hand on the door knob, and twisted it open.