I remember the day of my last appointment.
It was snowing, it was cold. It was the year no one made it to my eighteenth birthday party, save the few who managed to trek there. I decided to bring my camera. I needed to document everything, to keep it all, somewhere, I knew my head wasn't enough.
I took photographs. Of the chairs. Of the posters on the walls, of the cup of tea I'd been given, of the waiting room. Of his room. Of the pictures on his walls. Of the drawings done by children that he'd put up. Of the paper he would buy everyday, just to see what 'the other side' were up to. It was snowing and it was grey and it was nine in the morning.
It was cold. I still have the scarf I wore, I got it for a birthday years ago. It was cold and it was grey and I was saying goodbye to a place I had spent an hour every week in since the age of 13. I still can't quite get my head around how I ended up there, what happened. I was a baby. Thirteen is a child.
I needed to remember every detail. At the time, I didn't know how much I would need to remember it all, but I do now. The purple walls and the green carpet, the videos in the waiting room and the crappy TV, the files and the whiteboard and the other things I needed to remember.
I looked so sad when I was eighteen. I was eighteen and hopeless and in love and falling apart and trying to keep myself together long enough to get some A Levels out of me, before it all imploded again in a matter of months.
The things in my bedroom at home haven't changed. The same things are on the walls; the same drawings, the same photographs, the same pictures. It is lonely to think of them now. They seem from someone else's life.
I have spent too much time drunk and scared and looking for something I still haven't quite found. I don't know what it is. I know I haven't found it yet.