I remember that girl, sitting on the red leather sofa. She’s a lot like me, though I doubt she’d see the similarities. She hated everything around her. Hated the air she breathed, and the earth she walked on. She wanted more than anything to dye her hair. She wanted to tell her parents how she felt, but knew they wouldn’t listen. I remember the stuffy office the red sofa was in, crammed into the furthest reaches of the building that housed it. I remember how she sat in it, how she wished she could sink into the back of it and disappear forever. There’s a man so ancient I’m afraid he’ll turn to dust across from her, withered, and clad in a white laboratory coat. He’s speaking, and has been for awhile now; each word falls pathetically from his lips

I remember what she thought as her gaze lazily cycled over the doctor’s decorative antique toys. She hated him, for sitting there in front of her, babbling nonsensically about himself. She hated coming here every week, her misery silent aside from the erratic bobbing of her heel. But most prominently, she hated the people who hauled her there every week.  

Her hatred existed not for her parents’ insistence that she speak to a psychiatrist, but because of their beyond misguided intentions. Typically her weekly appointments would merely consist of her nodding along as the doctor preached endlessly about his infinitely insightful personal anecdotes. However, occasionally they would all meet, the girl, the doctor, and her supposed detainers. It was supposed to be an open discussion. But on these days, she felt as though there was nothing to do except concede. The three of them just went around in circles, affirming each other’s assumptions about her. Beratement always followed, crafted haphazardly by the stubborn ignorance that fueled all three. They could have helped her. She cried, and screamed because they laughed at her. 

Somehow these cyclical wastes of time generously called appointments appeared to gradually ease tensions. The war continued at home, the girl would break down into a pathetic, sobbing mess; having been goaded to the point of fragmentation by anxiety yet again. Though their presence slowly became less and less frequent. 

Time passed as it always does. I remember how she felt in those years after. Like a carapace devoid of opinion and thought. Their praises slid off her without having so much as left a trail. I remember what they said, “We’re so proud of you, for finally growing out of it”; each word a reminder of the battle long-fought. They pinned badges to each other, commending themselves for having survived their daughters tumultuous period. It was her burden to bear, not theirs. 

Today is different, now that I’ve had so long to puzzle over everything. I came to the conclusion over many sleepless nights that both nobody, and everybody were to blame. And that none of it matters in the end. Both sides have been shaped and changed so much, their previous forms are hardly recognizable. That girl was angry, and her judgement was soured with the need to find someone to blame for every apparent wrongdoing. The pain of those ages has faded, but what was the point of it all then? Did all that suffering serve no purpose at all? Maybe, but perhaps not. Without it, all of us would be irreparably changed, for worse or better. I’ll never know it any other way, so I may as well enjoy these steadier waters.