When the monsters arrived
I was sitting in my mom’s car at the church parking lot, when she asked me what was wrong. Tired of lying to her, I said I didn’t feel too great. It was in that moment of confession that would change our relationship forever. Of course, she knew about the accidents from years before, but assumed nothing ever became of it.
The doctor’s office had an awful atmosphere. Grey, plain, and a metallic smell you can only find around metal instruments and latex gloves, that feeling of things been “too clean.” I sat there, with my head down. Should I run out? I don’t even know what’s wrong with me.
The doctor came. My first visit with my new family doctor, not exactly a great welcome for a shy, introverted child of thirteen. He asked me why I was here. I didn’t really know, and told him as much. He looked to my mom, who was on the other side of the room, insisting she stay with me. ”She’s not feeling good.”
It’s dull. Nothing fancy, just a terrified child with “big girl pills.” No diagnosis, no nothing. Effexor. A nightmare which cannot be summed into words dark enough to describe the effect they would have in my life.
The nightmare began.
