Similar Differences (Harry Styles Fanfiction) (CURRENTLY EDITING)

Chapter 1

Bethany's POV

"It's fine. You aren't crazy. Regular people have problems too, right?"

These were the words that coursed through my head the first time that I had sat in an office of the sort that I was in once again. Today, once again, those words ran through my mind along with millions of other buzzing thoughts.

I had always thought that I was crazy because I had no reason to have any issues. I was never bullied, or a victim or any form of abuse, my parents were happy together, and I'd never really suffered a big, tragic loss.

As sick as it may sound, I had always wished I had some sort of event that I could define as the cause for my backward mindset. Not having a rational reason for it not only made me feel crazy, but also guilty.

I remembered the first therapy session I had ever attended, when the blonde, overly-enthusiastic woman asked me, "So, where did this all start?"

After reflecting back on my life for some sort of trigger or breaking point, I finally realized I had none. After telling her this, initially she assumed I just wasn't ready to open up and continued to prod me with questions about "it." Agitatedly, I explained that there was genuinely no identifiable instance that I could trace my thoughts back to. I remembered feeling the way I did for a long time, but now it had just been progressing.

Suddenly, I was taken away from my thoughts when the office door opened and a cold gust of air flew in. I shivered and tightened my arms around myself. A guy, probably around my age if not a bit older, walked into the office, and glanced back out the door once before heading up toward the receptionist. He gave her his name, which I couldn't quite catch, and then sat down with an angsty expression that probably mirrored my own.

I moved my attention away from him, and looked up at the clock. They were behind schedule, which irritated me. I sighed heavily, and then the boy did the same. As I looked over to him once more, he stood up, cleared his throat, and abruptly left the office.

Honestly I'd seen so many people like that come in here. They're the ones who believe they don't truly need the help, or they're too good for it. I was stuck there myself at the start too. But by now I've recognized that the whole denial stage actually just worsens the situation.

As I let out yet another deep sigh, my counselor finally entered the room, 15 minutes late.
"Bethany?" She announced in a chirpy tone .

I stood up and followed her toward her office. In routine fashion, I took my usual seat at the squeaky, brown leather loveseat across from her desk. Behind the loveseat was a large painting that had scattered inspirational quotes like "Be yourself!" and "Love who you are!"

"So," Kimberly began, folding her hands on her desk. "The last check-in, huh?" She smiled vibrantly. Her smile was inviting, but very obviously a fake gesture that she plastered on for each patient.

However, this was the visit that would enable me to "graduate" from my outpatient program. So, I decided to ignore her artificial expressions and speak to her anyway.

"How are you feeling about that?"

I looked at her and knew exactly what I had to say to get a good evaluation. "A little nervous, but still confident about it." I smiled softly.

I had thought out all of my answers to questions I imagined she'd ask, because I was so sick of the outpatient program. I was doing really well, and having to go there all the time for check-ins had been playing with my mind. How was I supposed to move on if they were holding me back in the past?

Throughout the rest of the appointment, she asked all sorts of questions, from the events that took place over the years, to my coping mechanisms. As I spoke, she jotted things down on a little yellow pad of paper. I almost laughed at how fake this whole appointment seemed, from the stereotypical yellow notebook, to my scripted responses.

By the end, she had concluded, "Well, it seems you're definitely stable enough to graduate from outpatient,"

I immediately smiled gratefully, however, she began to speak again.

"But," She continued and I frowned, suddenly worried. I thought back on my answers, wondering which one had conveyed the idea that I still needed to be in outpatient, or worse, that I needed to go back go the center.

"You should already know that in recovery, there are setbacks sometimes, whether we like it or not. You shouldn't be ashamed if anything starts rising up again. If it does, make sure you talk to your parents or go ahead and set up an appointment. Just because it's easier to slip back into old habits now, that doesn't mean you should. Continue to take care of yourself, and remember that recovery is not an overnight thing. Okay?"

I sighed in relief that she hadn't wanted me back in any programs.

"The one thing I'd like you to continue doing though, is to continue attending the support group you spoke about for a while longer." I sulked back in the chair. For years, my mother had forced me to attend a support group because she thought it would help, but really it was just a waste of my Thursday nights. I thought that speaking to this woman about it would make her think that I was more ready to move on, but I apparently shouldn't have even brought it up. She continued, "Not only does it seem like it may help you, but in your recovery, you may be helping other kids that attend. I can't force that on you, but consider staying with it for a while."

I nodded, and decided I'd genuinely think about it. I knew she'd have to call my mother and inform her of everything because I was still a minor for a few more months.

I had hoped she wasn't going to tell my mother about her thoughts on the support group, but I already knew she would. And I already knew that regardless of my own thoughts, I'd still probably have to go.

bit lighter and relaxed than when we had entered. I was ready for freedom, but a small part of me was saying that it was going to be easier to fall back into everything. However, at least for that day, I disregarded the thought, and contently celebrated my "graduation" with my mother.

{-revised on 12/31/15}