diary two
“Can you draw me a picture of how you feel right now?” the therapist asked me.
“Yes.” I replied.
I was seventeen years old, sitting at a table, drawing my feelings on a piece of paper using colored pencils. The therapist watched me carefully, noting the colors that I used, as if it were telling. Was it?
I was finished in a matter of seconds. The therapist leaned closer, examining the inane scribblings of the hormonal teenager. Could it have been hormones? She looked at me, then back to the paper, then back to me.
“What is the yellow?” she asked.
“Happiness.” I replied.
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