When I was about 3 or 4, my great-grandpa, Papa George, died in my living room. I was the first person to find his body. Papa George was face-first into the rectangular carpet people stepped on when they entered. As one would think, finding a corpse of a beloved family member in your childhood living-room, does not bode well for therapy expenses.

About 5 or 6 years after his untimely death, I started middle school, of course, this trauma is still somewhat fresh in my mind, I wore his hospital bracelet from a month or two before his death for a long time. I tried to make friends at this school, which I did! I met some pretty okay people, but one of them kind of rubbed me the wrong way, Let's call them the letter V, without giving too many details, they wore boys' clothes, never wore jackets, had blonde hair, blue eyes, and had a very obvious higher than a mighty way of talking about themselves. But they had this really bad tendency with believing they were the solution to everybody's psychological problems. Around the month of Papa Georges's death, I was visually upset, so V asked me what was causing me to be so upset and didn't stop asking me what my problem was they chased me and pinned me to the ground telling me to confess my heartache, when I did they then tried to force some "words of wisdom" down my throat, which summed up just said "get over it because it happened a long time ago" ever since then they always prided themselves on being great as psychology. I ended up not liking them too much, they knew it, and at 8th-grade graduation asked me why I'd been avoiding them, I told them I have been bullied for a while now, they asked who, and instead of speaking a million words I just gave a simple sentence "For someone with such an anti-bullying mindset, you don't realize that you are one yourself, You've made me feel like I cant safely look sad. Have a nice summer"

Looking back, I have no regrets.