12:01

18:00

[unedited]

Baby steps. More like full-on downhill. Addison clasped her hands together and shook her head. She couldn't believe it.

"I don't want you to have any pressure to complete your goal. I want you to do it when you feel comfortable," Dr. Martinez said as she jotted down notes on her clipboard. Addison didn't reply and closed her eyes instead. She was sure that if she had opened them, they'd be shaking at the sounds of the pen clicking, the smooth draw of the pen as it touched the paper.

The seconds ticking by on her watch reminded her of her failure. She knew that ups and downs were part of reaching goals and recovering, but every low felt like she was experiencing the same feeling after her father's death. Useless.

If she were honest, she didn't know why she wanted to recover from her father's death so badly. The first time she went to group therapy, other kids were already ready to accept it and go at their own pace. Why was she different, though? Why was she constantly craving the need to be better? Was it because of her mother?

Her mother. She hadn't said anything when Addison was breaking down, just wrapped her arms around Addison's shoulders and told her to get some rest.

She could still remember how it started: light, a tone of excitement and security because her mother was here. Also, dread. Addison didn't want to see her mother's reaction if she had a panic attack.

Which she did.

"Addison?" She opened her eyes. Dr. Martinez's lips moved, but the words sounded faint. It was like watching a movie without sound—the world moved, but she couldn't. Today, Dr. Martinez's soothing voice and kind expression was no match for Addison's bitter and self-hatred.

She felt stiff, a mannequin placed to stay this way. She loosened the tension on her shoulders and sighed. "Yes?"

Her therapist smiled. "You have your own pace, Addison. Don't get discouraged."

I wish life was easier. I wish it was that easy. She remembered all the positive thoughts that ran through her mind yesterday as she had approached the silver Lexus with cautious steps. She didn't think about much then, but looking back, what stood out first was the color. Their first car had been red, but her mother had changed the color—new model, too—to silver. The saleslady had reassured the two of them that silver was a popular and neutral color.

It wasn't a neutral color—it was almost the color of glass.

"Thanksgiving is coming up soon," Dr. Martinez commented. "What do you plan to do then?" Though she was asking a harmless question, Addison's hands started to shake, thinking about the candy wrapper she had found hidden between the grass. She went outside again yesterday after feeling dejected. Her mother had been taking a nap, and since she was a deep sleeper, Addison found that time to escape—or reflect.

Without her mother's nagging, Addison's thoughts had been invading her mind, closing her in. She had used every technique she knew to stay calm, in control. Her breathing became irregular, her body had trembled, and the cube she had built, the one she had poured all of her memories into, had shattered.

It was ironic, simply because she had been planning to use it as a last resort, which meant that she was somewhat confident that she wouldn't break down that bad. And the small plastic piece of litter didn't help, either. It had been the candy she handed out to the kids a few months ago, at their latest—and last—family gathering with their father. Did they forget to clean them up? Or was it another reminder that her life was already worse than it was?