Sent

I was fifteen when I came home on a late April afternoon to find a big light-gray car under the blooming dogwood tree where our blue plymouth was usually parked.1

"What's psycho-mom up to now?" I questioned aloud.  I've learned to expect thye worst from my motherover the years.  I haven't trusted her since the day she read my journal.  She wants to help me live and love, but if you ask me... she could use some of her own advice.  Mom was a social worker back in the day, and because of that, she thinks she should and can diagnose anyone.  She thinks everyone should listen to her and that she's always right.  I take a deep breath and push the door open.2

"Hillary?"  My mom screamed from the livingroom.  I could tell she'd been crying.  Another pointless argument with dad.  It was probably about me.3

"What, Ma?" I yelled back.  I threw my backpack to the floor, kicked my bowling shoes off, and stomped my way into the livingroom.  G-d, my mom looks like a stupid chihuahua sometimes.  How could anyone take her seriously?  "What?"4

"We're sending you that a hospital in Illinois."  We had talked about a special hospital in Naperville, Illinois that works on ending self-injury.  A few weeks ago, I had decided not to go.  Apparently, my opinion didn't count for shit.5

"I told you I wasn't going!  Why can't you respect my decision?  When were you thinking of sending me?"  By now the tears were stinging my eyes.6

"We leave next week.  We already booked a flight."  I looked to my dad.  Even he had tears in his eyes.  I don't think he wanted to send me, but what my mom says goes.7

The next week, we flew to Illinois.  A month later, I returned home with a new outlook on life and some real friends.  The outlook didn't last, and I lost touch with those friends.  Now I'm just living life day by day.8