Falling

17

I hate therapy. I don't like talking about my bullshit, and it makes me uncomfortable, so why would I enjoy therapy week? So then, as if Thursdays couldn't get any worse, you add in a therapy session every other week, and they move to a lower layer of hell.

Okay, I should give this little private feeling circle session some more credit, given there are some days when I really do feel like talking. Just not today. I'm already in a pretty bad mood due to getting a D- on my Spanish test and Cartman showing up at school even though he said he wouldn't be here today. But then there's the other thing, about you know who. But I'm not ready to go through that whole thing yet. I promised myself I wouldn't cry.

"You didn't have to drive me. You know I can just get here on my own," I mumble, staring out the window at the passing trees.

I hear a sigh as my body gets pulled from the sharp turn into the parking lot, "Stanly, stop acting like you would have actually driven here instead of leaving the house and ditching. I'm not paying for a fun way to help out a local therapist. It's to help you."

"Mmm hmm, yeah, that's nice and all, but I don't really need any help. I don't have any problems that need solving. So I think we can just quit this place and stop paying for our membership."

"Honey, this is a therapist, not a gym. There is no membership," my mom parks the car and leans back in her chair, knowing it will take me a minute before I get out. "And I'm not blind. You're clearly going through something and are hurting. But I'm also aware I'm your mom, so you're not going to tell me what's going on, so I found you a lovely place where you can talk it all out to a stranger who can help you through whatever's on your mind and are legally obligated not to tell me anything about what's going on in your life."

I chuckle lightly, continuing to direct my eyes out the window. I feel bad. I know my mom's just trying to help, but as fucked up as it sounds, sometimes I just wish she'd leave me and my self-destructive behavior in peace. After a few minutes, I huff and swing open the car door, finally having mustered up the little courage I have to get this damn appointment over with.

Longest hours of my life, I'm telling you.

We walk into the lobby and get checked in, taking seats in the chairs and waiting for my therapist to get me for our session. I like her, okay, Dr. Peterson. She knows her shit. That is about the fucked up minds of teenagers. And adults don't want to discriminate. No matter your age, gender, race, or anything else, anyone can be fucked in the head.

But just because Dr. Peterson is good at her job, that doesn't make me like therapy or cause it to work. I know, I know, if she's a good therapist, then how come therapy doesn't work for me? Well, let's just say I'm well aware that I'm the problem. If you don't open up, you don't get anywhere, and if you don't accept the 'advice,' then same thing. But I really don't care. I still think it's all bull shit, no matter how much work one puts in.

"Stan, are you ready?" I lift my head from its leaned-back position to see the blonde standing in the doorway.

"Is that rhetorical, and it's not seriously a question, or are you literally asking?" I know exactly what she means, but I might as well have a little fun if I'm forced to do this.

"The first one," she smirks as I roll my eyes, forcing myself to my feet to get this trainwreck over with.

I follow Dr. Peterson through the door leading to a hallway full of loads of offices, most unoccupied. Eventually, we reach her office, which we turn into and take our seats. I like her room. It has a couch and a chair, so you have options, even though I always sit on the chair because it's further away from her desk seat. There are some plants and windows covered by curtains. My favorite part is the little stand holding a variety of fidget toys that help this uncomfortable situation feel almost bearable.