Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
We all nod in response.
“My name is Maryam. I unknowingly trusted the wrong group of friends. They spiked my drinks and food, until I got addicted. I brought shame to my family and my parents dropped me here. I think they hate me.”
Brought shame to my family…
I think they hate me.
Yeah, that hits close to home.
The room is quiet again, the silence almost poignant. No one offers any condolences to each other. It’s almost like we know we are past that. We don’t want sympathies or someone’s futile pity. No one is trying to be righteous here. Because a stranger’s pity will not end our ceaseless suffering. We all know that to be true, and the silence speaks what is left unsaid. Everyone seems to have realized the real reason why we are here. In this circle.
Dr. Bailey isn’t trying to fix us.
I think…She wants us to heal on our own.
But we can’t do that without a support system, without people who think and feel just like we do. Because our experiences might not be the same, but we understand.
We see each other — everything bad, everything good and everything in between. Dr. Bailey was right about one thing.
The first step to recovery is acceptance.
I need help.
I want to get better.
I want to be Riley who fixes her own crown, fearless Riley — not the Riley who is scared of her own shadow.
TWO MONTHS LATER
Maybe Dr. Bailey wasn’t so wrong about these social circles and the impact of them. I mean, she is right about one thing. The girls and I have been able to create a foundation of camaraderie for ourselves. A support system, as Dr. Bailey would put it.
We have it once a week, but over the last few weeks, we’ve grown even closer. We meet up in the cafeteria at lunch, outside of our restorative circle time, to talk about the things that have no importance whatsoever. But it’s the little talks that keep us going — the idea that we can learn to trust again.
I grab my 16 by 16 inches canvas, waiting for the others to do the same. Our assignment today is to paint something that has meaning to us. Painting is supposed to be therapeutic, I guess. Or that’s what we’ve been told.
“Do you have any idea what you want to paint?” Maryam asks, coming to stand beside me. She has her canvas tucked under her arm and the box of paint in her left hand.
I shrug, because I actually haven’t had the chance to think about it. To paint something that holds importance to me? What does? I guess breathing is important. Oxygen? That’s what’s keeping me alive, at least. “I’m not much of a painter.”
I’ve heard that hope is the dream of a soul awake. But, what happens when the soul loses all hope?
“I think it’s kinda fun,” she laments thoughtfully. “My dad tried to woo my mom with his painting skills. We have canvases that he painted over two decades ago all over our house.”
Maryam talks a lot about her parents. Her words are always filled with so much longing and melancholy. She sounds like she has a better relationship with her parents than the rest of us.
“Ohhh, your nails!” Steffy gushes, bringing our attention to where she’s standing. She holds Olivia’s hand in hers, inspecting the yellow, flowery nails closely. “What the heck, they look so pretty and professionally done.”
“I did them myself,” Olivia, says proudly. “I have the DIY kit in my room. I can do yours.”
“It’s giving me spring vibes, I love it!” Maryam adds. “The pastel color is so pretty.”
“I can do yours too, if you want. I have more pastel colors, what do you like? I can do pink or purple,” Olivia suggests, but Maryam is already shaking her head.
“I can’t put on nail polish right now, I have to pray later.” Steffy and Olivia give her understanding looks, and she elaborates, “But maybe next week? If you don’t mind. I’ll be on my period.”
“Cool, I can do it next week.”
Maryam smiles in appreciation. After grabbing our canvases and supplies, we walk outside to the garden to find the painting spot Dr. Bailey has reserved for us. We find six easels placed in a circle, and we each pick one before getting set-up.
The spring breeze caresses my skin, bringing me a small amount of warmth. I used to like this season. A new beginning, I would think.
I used to think that spring is a slowly overflowing bottle of bubbling joy. It banishes the cold claws of winter and brings us the warm caress of summer. With buds blossoming, trees thawing and grasses turning greener. Healthier. Livelier.
Spring brings life — the season of fragrance.
I liked that.
But now spring is cold and lonely — a painful melancholy, with dreadful memories and empty solitude.