HARPER
I hated doctor's offices.
I always had—especially when it involved me or my family.
The first time was when I was seven, when the Wilsons took me to a mental health facility.
I was "crazy."
That was what they told everyone. I had fought back. I had called them out for what they were doing.
But no one listened.
No one questioned why a seven-year-old would carry that much rage, that much pain, bottled up inside her until it spilled over.
They never mentioned the mental torture they put me through.
Instead, they told the doctor I was a violent child. That I had tried to hurt their precious daughter—my biggest bully—and that I needed to be locked away before I became a danger to others.
But it never happened.
After all the evaluations, I was diagnosed with ombrophobia and claustrophobia. Conditions they had caused.
And still, they played the victims.
Now, sitting here again, I could tell from the look on the doctor's face that this wouldn't be any different.
