Most stories start off in an okay situation. Not this one. This story starts in probably the worst of situations.

I'm Elainie. My mom walked out when I was ten. I haven't seen her since.

And, all thanks to her, I spend an hour after school every day in the counselor's office, even though everyone can tell that I got over her leaving when I was eleven and that the counseling isn't helping one bit.

"So, Elainie, how was your day?" Mrs. Gay-ass counselor asked.

I glared at the floor and said nothing, as usual.

"How have things been at home?"

Why the fuck is this any of your business, bitch?

"Elainie, I can't help you if you don't let me help you," Mrs. Gay-ass counselor repeated. That's what she said, word for word, promptly after I glare at the floor for ten minutes.

And, unfailingly, I pretend to contemplate this for thirty or so seconds before saying, "I never asked for help. I don't want your help. You have no business in my life. And besides, I'm not about to tell you every little secret I have just because your nameplate says 'Dr.' If anyone can help, it's my friends. So just give up already!"

And then, she says, every time, "Elainie, too many people have given up on you. I'm determined not to be just another person like that. And I want you to know that you can trust me, even though you may not want to call me a friend."

And that's when the glaring at the floor starts again.

Today, though, she was extra determined or something because she asked me questions that she knew I would want to answer. "What are your friends like?" Dude, why did she friggin care?

The floor would get scorch marks one of these days.

"What type of music do you enjoy?"

She was trying to get me to open up. Not going to happen.

"What's your favorite color?"

Two things wrong with that question. One: I was not in kindergarten any more. Two: I could tell she was getting desperate, no matter how hard she was trying to hide it.

"What's the best book you've ever read?"

"Suicide for Dummies," Twilight.

"What do you enjoy remembering about your mom?"

"She made good cookies." I always had the house to myself because she was never home. My dad worked.

Ten minutes of silence.

The rest of the hour was worse than ever. "I noticed you enjoy writing. Why don't you write what you are thinking instead of saying it out loud."

I grabbed the paper and pen. In the end, the entire piece of paper, both sides, was filled with a story about a purple llama who enjoyed watching Hannah Montana.

"That's quite interesting. Next time, though, I would like you to focus more on your feelings. I'll see you then."

Blessed relief.

My dad showed up then, all fancy in his work clothes. "How did she do?"

Repeated answer. "Great. I think we got a little bit further today."

Mmmm-hmmmmm, right. This therapy was definitely going to help. Everyone could see the improvement in me. Not.