Psychiatrist

Shortly after my sister was born, I started seeing a psychiatrist once a week after school. Every Tuesday, I'd sit anxiously in the car as my mother and I drove to the next town over. I remember in the beginning I was so nervous. In actuality, I was nervous when it came to any kind of social contact with someone besides my family. We'd parallel park, then I'd jump out of the passenger door hard onto my school-only shoes and easter dress. My parents, especially my mother, always cared so much about what others thought of me. While I was running around the house in my old baby shirts and ripped jeans fresh with grass stains and dog drool, anytime I was in the company of someone my parents felt intimidated by (which was quite a lot of people), they'd dress both me and themselves up as perfectly they could with the discount clothes they had bought with the remainder of last month's check. Back then, my family was having a hard enough time trying to keep the home we lived in by fixing our land lord's problems, like unclogging her toilet, or painting her side of the duplex, just for another month of low rent. My Dad was also working a side job in Beverly on nights, so often the dinner table would be empty, leaving more canned corn for my mother and I. So being sent to a shrink was actually a bigger deal than it seemed, since it cost nearly one hundred dollars every visit.
Walking up the stairs of the old victorian house, once loved and lived in, now turned into a complex full of offices, I'd run fast to the top floor. By his door, he had a large, wooden sign hanging with his name and specialty; psychiatist. A psychiatrist is someone who specializes in the diagnosis of mental disorders. I didn't know or understand that then, but I sure as hell do now.
My mother would knock on the door, and as if he were awaiting our arrival from right behind the door, he'd automatically open it and greet us the same way he had every week. After the first few weeks, I'd just dismiss myself into his office while he and my mother chatted about any new discoveries he found about my problems, or some ideas on how to help me at home. All the while, I'd be sitting on his carpet, eyeing his box of games and paying no attention to what they were saying. Eventually, she'd leave me be with him, and he'd let me take out a game to play. It was usually Don't Break the Ice or Ants in my Pants. We'd take turns while we held a casual conversation. He'd ask me typical questions about school, my home life, and I'd answer his questions painlessly. Soon, our one hour would be over and my mother would be waiting at the door. We'd walk out together, holding hands, back when she used to be okay with touching me. When I got into the passenger seat, there would always be a brand new blank fuzzy poster waiting for me to color when I got home.
Eventually, I was diagnosed with both social anxiety disorder and anxiety attacks. Shortly after that, I stopped going to the sessions. I don't remember that time all too well, but I do know I stopped coming home sick from school on an almost daily basis, and everyone thought I was cured. I even thought I had gotten better.
A mental disorder is something that affects my everyday life. Living with one has changed my life in so many ways, mostly negative. I never did get better, and to this day I still feel like the young girl in the back of the first grade classroom, suffocating with my heart about to beat out of my chest.
Still. And I always will.