Growing up, my parents would always think of how my future was going to be held. A husband and maybe some kids to make them become grandparents. But, I haven't even bought the thought of that kind of future for myself.

As you can see, I have always been known as the introverted little sister, who doesn't usually socialize with people around me who may try to ask me questions that would probably go down my throat.

Unlike my older siblings, who usually like to go out with friends that they know from school and don't mind with questions that come their way. Whenever how good or bad the question could become. I usually don't know how they do it, but when it comes to me, I keep my thoughts to myself. By not letting anyone try to get my inner thoughts socially and emotionally.

My parents would be worried about how I don't really talk about how I feel and that I'm not open-minded to them. I understand the situation with myself and how they're overwhelmed about their poor daughter not talking to them about her feelings. Their bright idea was to find me a therapist at the age of fourteen so that they could find a way what was wrong with me.

To think that impossibility could help me with anything with the thought of something serious. Yet, they officially brought me to see a therapist who would make me answer their questions. I remember the first day of seeing the therapist in person by how anxious I was by seeing someone who was just simply doing their job.

Me, sitting there in that office, alone, of course, with nobody here to help me out with this mess that my parents had made. My parents had thought I could handle it by myself, as they had waited for me outside of the therapist office. My thoughts were all over the place, and I thought it was a good idea to excuse myself to get my way out of there.

Yet, my thoughts didn't want to listen to me, as I saw the therapist step into the room, giving a warm smile. I didn't smile back , yet I gave a blank stare at the therapist. I don't understand why my parents think something was wrong with me, but I think nothing was wrong with me at all, but I'll try to give this therapist a chance.

But my theory is telling me that this session is going to be a long, thoughtful time of me being here. Man, by how I was right.

"Alright, Ms. Butler, what brings you in here today?" The therapist asked, ready to write down whatever I had to say with a stupid clipboard. I didn't want to say anything to the therapist, but I want to get this over with.

"My parents think something's wrong with me. But, clearly, I'm just a quiet kid," I said, short and simple to their question. It's clear to say that I didn't want to be here in the first place. Why can't my parents get that?

At the end of the session, the therapist thinks that I should socialize with people more than being inside my bubble. I didn't feel pleased with the thought of that. My parents thanked the therapist, and we went straight home afterward. I went straight to my room, locking myself inside with my own thoughts and happiness.

Nobody can change that. Of who I am as a person.