It was beautiful, really. It was nice because in the silence of that room we all secretly knew one or more reasons why we were there. And while the educators monitored us from outside the window, we remained in the little room painting on sheets of recycled paper those thoughts that we, and only God, knew. There were girls there who had been touched by the devil, who hadn't touched food for weeks, who violated their bodies in order to purify themselves. That silence seemed like a competition to see who was worse off, because compared to the others I couldn't draw anything, I was stuck with my head telling me that my problems were useless. I wasn't fasting, I wasn't hurt... I didn't have any particular traumas, yet there was a reason I was there. My mother convinced me to go to group therapy after I tried to take my own life, she and I believed in God, and we hoped that with concrete and spiritual help something in me would improve. I just wanted to be free, like my dad.
© PityPoem