Chapter Text
When Katara was eight years old, her mother was killed in a home invasion gone wrong. She remembers the rough feel of the blanket the police officers gave her, Sokka’s hand a heavy weight on hers. They probably made quite the sight, two children experiencing the worst day of their young lives, but neither of them were crying, just empty.
The funeral was equally as dreary, even though it was a beautiful day, as if her mother was smiling down at them and wanted to let them know that it would be okay. They were a strong family, came from strong stock, both physically and emotionally.
Eight-year-old Katara let herself cry once. She had to stay strong for her family.
When Katara was ten years old, her father moved them across town to a nicer neighborhood. One of the life changes that came with that move was therapy. Her father was concerned that she wasn’t expressing herself in a healthy manner (his nice way of saying she was moving through the fifth grade like an emotionless tiger seal), and she was willing to go to therapy if it eased his worry.
She didn’t want to lose both of her parents.
Her first therapy session was a disaster, ending with her screaming at her therapist about how no one would never understand what she went through, what that criminal put her through, put her family through. Her childhood was stolen when her mother left. Who would do laundry, help cook, make sure Sokka isn’t eating them through house and home? It was Katara who did that, helped keep them all afloat. Her father ended up cutting this session short.
Her second therapy session didn’t go much better, but her therapist had a new method to get her to talk without exploding with feelings: write letters. If she were to write her feelings down, she could get all of her raw emotions out on paper, and she can revisit them if she needed to. Her own words could be her salvation.
Katara stopped going to therapy shortly after that second meeting, but she never forgot about the letters.