Kimi Howell, Informal Writing #1

As people walked through the doors, I sat on a chair near the wall for I didn’t want to talk to anyone. It has only been a month since my mother died, but it felt like a century. My father thinks going to counseling will help me deal with the accident, yet I see no point in it. All I do is listen to sad stories about past love ones from depressed people, but I didn’t want to hear them anymore. I don’t want to hear how Nancy’s husband loved the theater so she now goes behind the curtains to cry. I don’t want to hear that John’s grandmother took him fishing every Saturday, but now he goes by himself. I don’t want to listen to any more of these stories, yet here I am listening to the same stories from the same people. Not one of these people know my story and that’s how I wanted to stay to the end. My father can make me come to these things but he’s isn’t going to make me talk.

 One by one everyone shares their feelings and all I wanted to do was run out the doors. Next up was me, but I didn’t want these complete strangers know how I truly felt. I didn’t want them to know how miserable I am without her, and how I just lie on a couch my mother design every night crying myself to sleep. These people don’t want to know how I’m feeling nor do they care.   I want to become invisible, so no one could see how much I hurt inside. I want to become so invisible that if I was standing in front of a magazine cart you couldn’t even see me, yet I am not invisible. I slowly close my eyes and pretend that my mother was still here. As I opened my eyes, the counselor nodded at me, indicating it was my turn so I said what I always said, “Pass.”