I love the way the rain looks as it falls down from the top of the window to the bottom. Each droplet racing down to get there the quickest.
“This weather explains my mood,” I bluntly tell my mother as we are driving slowly on the road to who knows where. She ignores me because she’s obviously too busy trying to see out of the foggy windows. The defroster doesn’t work anymore, which is a shame since we live in wettest weather in the west. I try to tell my parents to get a new car all the time. The one we have now, still to this day has a lingering scent of cigarette smoke from the previous owner. My mom has tried everything to get rid of it, but her efforts are futile. The scent that remains bothers her because her brother died a couple years ago due to lung cancer. My dad refuses to buy my mom a new car because his mother, my Nana grew up in the Great Depression, raising my dad to be stuck in the idea of not being wasteful. He won’t buy a new car until the one we have can no longer take us where we need to go.
Sitting in the car, thinking about my nightmare last night, my mom slams on the brake which causes me to lunge forward. I hold my hands out in front of me so my head doesn’t hit the dashboard. My seatbelt is on, but the strap that goes around your chest is behind me, just like I usually wear it. My first instinct is to get mad at my mom for this sudden slamming of the brake. “Mom!” I yell at her, “Why would you do that?!” Apparently there was a cat on the road that I had not seen. I hate cats. They’re so selfish and always in the way. I fix my seatbelt so it’s the ‘correct’ way to wear it. “Mom, where are we going anyways?” There is an awkward moment of silence before she answers.
“Haven… I’m taking you to see a therapist,” she says in her serious voice. “I think it’s for the best that I do.”
  I’m in shock but I don’t show it. I just sit there while I can hear my mom talking in the background but I’m not listening to her. All I can think about is why in the world my mom thinks she needs to take me to a therapist. It’s not like I’m suicidal, addicted to anything, have a weird obsession, or in an abusive relationship. I mean, I do tend to tune people out, but that’s nothing serious.  A couple minutes later, I decide to listen to my mom.
“And that’s why it’s important to live your high school experience to the fullest,” my mom concludes with. I roll my eyes and stick my headphones in, making it obvious to her that I think she’s being ridiculous. I don’t want to see a therapist. I don’t need it. I am perfectly fine the way that I am.
We pull into the therapy office. The first thing I notice when I walk in through the doors is the strong scent of bubblegum. I look around and can see brightly colored zoo animals covering the walls. This definitely is not the place for me. My mom and I go to the front office to check in.
“Please have a seat right over there and we’ll be right with you momentarily,” the woman at the front office says.
I am skeptical of being here because I don’t want to be treated like a little kid. Based on the appearance of this place, I fear that  is exactly what is going to happen. As I’m flipping through a People magazine, a frightening lady with thick glasses comes from around the corner. She introduces herself as Dr. Schwann. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says, although I don’t believe her. She seems like the kind of person who genuinely only cares about herself, and maybe her pet dog. “Follow me.” I follow her down the hallway, leaving my mom in the cozy and colorful waiting room. Every door  we pass is closed. That is, until we get to the end, in which the door is open, and the room is waiting for me to walk in. I see another woman sitting in the rocking chair. She stands up quickly as if she had been waiting all day to see me.
“Hi! You must be Haven. I’m Dr. Liz and I’m going to be your therapist.” She brushes her long brown hair behind her ear.
As much as I don’t want to be here, I’m a little relieved to know that Dr. Schwann will not be my therapist. That lady scares me with her big, magnified eyeballs. This woman, however has kind eyes. “Hi it’s nice to meet you,” I say.
“You probably have so many questions. I’m here to answer--”
“Why am I here?” I ask without hesitation.
Dr. Liz takes a deep breath. “Your mom has concerns on how you have been acting for the last little while. I’m here to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
After that, I let Dr. Liz do a lot of the talking. She went on asking me simple questions like what my hobbies include, what I what I like to do on the weekends, my favorite food, boring stuff like that. I wonder how this is going to help me at all. She tells me some basic things about herself too, hoping that we can “get to know each other better.”
It’s been about an hour now and I’m getting ready to leave. “I’ll see you next week?” Dr. Liz asks me.
“Uh, yeah sure, I guess.”
My mom would not stop asking me questions on the way home. I swear, this woman can talk your ear off, literally. She basically wanted to know every detail of the appointment which, I obviously wasn’t going to tell her. “Nothing excited happened, Mom,” I assure her.
I keep going back to the therapy office every Wednesday. I do it mainly so my mom can get a peace of mind. As the weekly appointments go on with Dr. Liz, she gets more and more personal when she asks me questions. One day specifically, she asks me about my friends. “What are they like? Do you get along with them pretty well?” she questions.
Before answering, I think about what I’m going to say. I decide that telling the truth would be the best thing to do at this point. “Before we lived here in Seattle, we lived in Phoenix, Arizona. I didn’t have many friends there, but I did have a best friend. His name is Charlie. He and I were together all the time. He passed away about 3 years ago, right before we moved here” I tell her. I can see the shock in Dr. Liz’s face.
I once heard the quote “There are two reasons why people don’t talk about things; either it doesn’t mean anything to them, or it means everything.” The latter option is how it is with Charlie passing away. It means everything. We were so close. Losing him simply to a car accident is the hardest thing I have ever had to go through.  I don’t ever talk about it because it’s really a hard thing to talk about. Emotion starts to build up inside me and I can’t hold back. I start to sob.
“All right, I think that’s enough for today. I’ll see you next week.”
She doesn’t ask me how he died, or anything in that case. I think it’s just because she can tell that I need to be alone right now. My mom is waiting for me in the waiting room, like usual. She notices my teary red eyes and comes over to hug me.
“I’m so sorry Have,” she quietly says. The sincerity in her voice is present.
The car ride home is pretty quiet. I draw simple pictures on the foggy windows. My mom hates it when I do this, but this time she doesn’t care.  As I’m about to step out of the car, my mom catches my attention.
“You don’t have to go therapy anymore… You know, if it’s too hard on you,” she says slowly.
“No, I want to keep going, Mom. I want to get better. I really think the therapy is helping me,”  I say.  I meant it. After talking about myself so much to Dr. Liz, I start realizing things I didn’t know about myself-- Things I want to change.
“Alright, I’m glad to hear that you’re improving.” She smiles and walks into the house.
The next appointment at the therapy office is different this time. Dr. Liz asks me questions in which I really have to dig deep. She asks me questions I thought I would never have to answer in my life. As hard as it is, I think we are finally coming to a breaking point.
Randomly, she asks, “Do you often have nightmares?”
I’m taken back in surprise. “Yeah, I do almost every night. How did you know?”
“Having them is a symptom of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is what you have,” she reveals.
I am startled with this new information. “I have PTSD?”
“Yes, and it is actually quite common. Especially in people who go through hard things such as a loved one passing away.”
All I can say is, “Wow.”
“Now, I want you to tell your parents when you get the chance tonight. I want it to be you that tells them instead of me. I think it will be more personal that way,” Dr. Liz suggests.
“Okay. I’ll see you later then.” I walk out of the room.
That night after dinner, I decide to inform my parents about it. I am nervous to see how they react. I get both of “Mom, Dad, I have PTSD. Dr. Liz told me at the appointment today. I know it sounds crazy, but she says it happens to people that go through hard struggles. For me, it was because Charlie died.”
My dad rushes over to me and hugs me. He whispers, “Everything is going to be alright,” in my ear.
For the first time in years, I actually do believe that everything will be alright. The last three years have been stressful, not knowing how or when the pain would be over, if it ever would be over. The relief I feel is indescribable.
So that’s that. I have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Something that takes time to get through. Something that I will take medication for. Something that I wouldn’t have known I had, if I refused to come to therapy that first day. The first step into fixing a problem, is realizing that there is a problem to be fixed. Life isn’t about getting everything you want; it’s about dealing with the things that you get. Losing my best friend is something I deal with everyday. Time doesn’t take the pain away from you. Time teaches you that you’ll be okay. And I, I will be okay.