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And I have no fucking clue what to do about it.
* * *
As the days go by I slip deeper and deeper into depression. I try to keep my spirits up, I try to keep up with running, and getting myself out of bed and dressed every morning.
But as the days start to meld into each other, It gets harder and harder to keep going.
“Madison, we're worried about you.” My mother says one night over dinner. I’m barely eating, only picking at my food as I push it around on my plate.
“I would be too.” I mutter. The words slip out before I realize I actually said them out loud.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My dad says, his tone stern.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”
“It’s not a joke, Madison.”
“I don’t think it is, Dad.”
“Then what’s going on with you? You can’t just sit around and let life pass you by. You have to get up and keep on going.”
His words and even more so, his judgey tone, take me by surprise. My lip trembles and I bite down on it in an attempt to put a clamp on my emotions.
“John, don’t be so harsh.” Mom says.
“I’m not.”
“She’s grieving. And she’s trying to figure out life without her best friend by her side.”
“Don’t you think I know that, Cindy? But we’re all grieving. We’re all just trying to get through this. Every excruciating second.”
“Yeah Dad, exactly. Every excruciating second. I can barely breathe let alone think about going back to school. But when I figure it out you’ll be the first to know.” I jump to my feet and push my chair back. I’m not one to disrespect my parents but my feelings are hurt. I can’t believe he’s judging me during a time like this.
“I’m no longer hungry, but thanks for dinner.” I say before I stomp up the stairs and slam my bedroom door shut.
And then I collapse on my bed and cry.
* * *
When I walk into the office, the waiting area is warm and inviting. A soft noise machine in the corner plays ocean wave sounds and potted plants decorate the tables.
“This looks nice,” Mom says as she looks around. She checks me in for my first appointment and hands me the clipboard of paperwork.
After a small argument with my parents the other day, I made the decision to start therapy. I knew I needed it because this thing called grief? Yeah, it’s a fucking beast.
I need some coping skills, someone to help me manage everything I’m feeling before I’m so far done the hole, I’ll never climb out.
A few minutes later, I’m called to come in by a young, pretty woman with a friendly smile that reaches her eyes. “Madison?”
I stand up and follow her to an office behind the reception area. “Nice to meet you, Madison. I’m Paulette.”
After some more formalities and paperwork, she starts off straight to the point. “So what brings you into therapy?”
“My twin brother died.”
Her face instantly falls. Usually I don’t want people’s sympathy or pity. But hers looks sincere so I’ll give her a chance. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry to hear that. Recently?”
I nod. “Four months and two days.”
