step into the sun ☼ deh

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     I worry about my father a lot. More than I should, actually, and he knows it. My father is a counselor, and he specializes in people with social anxiety and who are contemplating suicide, so we're okay in the financial department. But, why social anxiety and suicide contemplation are his specialties is one of the biggest reasons I worry about him.

      My dad doesn't like go talk to me about high school much. But I remember, right before freshman year, I asked my Grandma about it, mostly because I asked my dad for advice and/or stories and he just said "Make good choices, stay out of trouble, and be honest".

     Anyways, Grandma told me that he had severe social anxiety when he was a teenager, and he didn't have too many friends or anything. My dad could barely even talk to a pizza delivery guy. Then, my grandma told me that Dad tried to commit suicide, before his senior year.

     "He didn't tell me exactly what happened, though... But I knew..." Grandma told me.

     Dad, evidently, jumped out of a tree, but (obviously) survived, but broke his left arm. Then, Grandma just said he made some "bad choices" during his senior year. I never learned what those "bad choices" were, but I decided not to let my curiosity get the best of me. At some point, I figured I was one of those "bad choices", but my dad didn't turn out like most teen parents. He finished college and turned out pretty successful. The fact I've never met my mother kind of fuels that fire, though...

Still, Dad's mental health state worries me, because I have no idea how he's doing. I can't just ask him these things, mostly because I don't want to be rude, and I don't know if he knows that I know about how he was during high school. Since I don't know anything about my father's current mental health state, I have to make sure he's okay, a lot. Over the years, I've learned how to check in with his mental state, without being obvious. I check his pill bottle every week, whenever he's not home, to make sure he's taking his meds, and if I have a feeling something's wrong, I just ask my dad if he's okay. He'll obviously say yes, but I can tell when he's lying.

When I finally feel mentally prepared to start my final year of high school, I open the door to the bathroom, and head out, so I can get my stuff from my bedroom. My black Victoria's Secret PINK bag was in the corner of my bedroom, which contained my binder, pencil pouch, etc. It being my senior year, I didn't have as many supplies and things as I did on my first day of freshman year. However, I still wanted to be able to do well in my classes and not slack off too much...

When I got downstairs, I saw my father, standing by the island in our kitchen, messing with some settings on his nice Canon Camera (as I used to call it, his "Paparazzi Camera"). Dad was kind of sentimental about things I did, and he loved taking photos. First/last days of school, dance recitals, choir concerts, awards ceremonies, even sometimes school football games that I went to, were documented my my dad's pictures. He put them all in a scrapbook, that was tucked away somewhere I have yet to find. Although I've never seen the scrapbook, I've known about it since I was small. I've never been allowed to see this scrapbook, but I know it's there. I've figured it's a Graduation gift, or maybe he'll give it to my future spouse or something. I try not to think too much about the scrapbook, but the scrapbook sometimes consumes my thoughts, especially on days when my father has his camera with him.

"Hi..." I said quietly.

"Oh, hey, Mia," my dad said, quickly clicking a button on his camera, "You look nice..."

I chuckled. I was wearing a pair of ripped jeans, and a navy top from Ivory Ella, not to mention, my star necklace that I never took off. It wasn't an outfit that I really put much effort into. Nonetheless, I accepted the compliment. "Thank you... I might go in a little bit, so if you want to do pictures or anything..."

My dad nodded, and we both started to the front door. I did my usual posed that I did every year, as Dad clicked away at the camera. People tell me that I should be a model, and go to Los Angeles after I graduate. Modeling, though, isn't exactly a career I would like to pursue, and I've made my point clear by owning a shirt that clearly states "Models Suck" in bold print. Modeling causes shallowness and eating disorders, and I would prefer not to have either. Not to mention, I would rather do something more meaningful than having my picture taken. I want to be a writer when I graduate. Grandma told me that my dad used to write a lot in his teenage years, and that I inherited some of his ability. I wrote a lot as a child and in middle school. I went through "fangirl" phase in middle school, and I had my own account on a story sharing website where I wrote all my fan fictions, mostly about bands and internet stars. I guess that's where I found my true love of writing, though I stopped writing on the account around halfway through my freshman year.

"Are you sure you don't need me to drive you or anything?" Dad asked, after he got his pictures. I couldn't tell if he was joking or being serious. Personally, I think it was both.

"I'm good, but thanks..." I replied, starting out the door, with the car keys in hand.

"Okay... I have a session at 6:00 so I might get home later than usual tonight... I don't know if she'll be regular or not, but if she is, then I'm going to be coming home late on Thursdays..." my dad told me.

"Okay, thanks for telling me..."

"Have a good day... Make good choices, hang out with good people-like Chris or Susan-and think before you do things..." My dad said, giving me the annual advice for the school year.

"I will, Dad..." I replied.

"I love you, Mia... Stay safe..."

"I love you too... I will, and have a good day," I told my father as I made my exit out of the house.