Belle Connor

To The Unsung Heroes

I pull into a parking space of the small shopping center that houses my therapist’s office. The drab brown buildings loom before me as I sit in my car dreading the next hour of my life. Today’s the day. I’d been seeing this therapist to help with my stress levels and anxiety, PTSD as some would call it, from the various traumas in my life. My ‘98 Honda CRV’s dash says its five minutes until one. I guess I should head in now and get checked in. I get out of my car and walk toward office 2A. Opening the door, I enter the brightly lit reception area with its yellow walls and paintings of flowers and smiling people. I walk to the front desk where the perky receptionist, wearing her dark purple scrubs greets me with a bright smile.