I went to therapy, every week for about a year.
My mother drove me up to the office complex. I stepped out her silver Honda CRV and walked up the fake stone steps.
I opened the door and entered a world of soft Christian music wafting an air conditioned message of “Jesus is our lord and savior” in an overcrowded space of ugly wholesale dining room furniture and plastic plants, a kind of televangelist set.
It was a safe place I suppose and I hated it.
Don’t get me wrong, I really wanted to like it. I knew in some way I needed help and this did seem like a place that could help.
I am a white teenage girl with divorcing parents; I am sure that is a huge pie slice in some demographic chart. I really wanted to feel like a character in a teen drama. “Poor Paris.”…
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