Lovesick

Chapter 8

Jay's POV

I was sitting down in a pale blue chair in my therapist's waiting room. The room wasn't all too big. The walls were a soft cream color and there were several paintings on the wall. One was an oceanside sunset, another was a tropical cliffside waterfall.

I usually come here once every two weeks, but my dad felt it would "help me" if I increased it to weekly sessions. So now I was being forced to come here weekly after school on Wednesdays.

It all started near the end of last school year when I got into a fight so bad, I ended up breaking a locker by pushing the other guy into it with my full force. The school wanted to expel me, but my dad and the school guidance counselor (who is one of the only faculty members in the school who isn't against me) pleaded with them to rethink their decision and they reached an agreement: I would have to go to therapy to work on my anger issues.

Luckily the school helped me find one that would take our insurance. I also would have to speak to the school guidance counselor every two weeks and report back on the progress of my therapy sessions.

I thought the sessions with the guidance counselor and the therapy sessions would end at the end of the school year, but they didn't and the school told me that if I stop going to therapy over summer I'd be expelled without a second thought.

So here I was having now weekly therapy and speaking to the school guidance counselor every two weeks.

I see therapy as an annoying hurdle I have to go through. It's a weekly hour where my therapist tries to get in my head and "understand me better".

Dr Thompson, she's nice and all, but I just don't see why I need therapy. There's people who are actually fucked up, yet I'm the one who needs to work on my "issues".

I don't need a therapist to poke around and ask me redundant questions for an hour straight every week.

"Jay. Dr Thompson is ready for your session." The short redheaded female receptionist informed me.

I reluctantly got up from my seat and walked towards the back of the building until I stopped at Dr Thomason's office.

I opened the door and Dr Thompson greeted me.

Her auburn dyed hair with dark brown roots was in several loose ringlet curls that went down slightly past her shoulders. Her maroon glasses sat on her face and complimented her tan skin. She was around her early thirties.

Dr Thompson quickly noticed the bruises on my hands as soon as our session started. "How did you get those bruises on your hands?"

I repositioned myself in the chair, "A fight in school."

"What exactly happened?" She questioned me.

I looked away from her and looked at my fist. "A guy was blocking my locker and wouldn't leave, so I punched him and got him to leave."

"And was that necessary?" She asked.

"It got the job done. He left." I said with a slight smug expression.

"What was the outcome of you deciding to punch him?"

"Two days of in school detention, and my dad gave a VERY long lecture." I shrugged.

"Well, what were you thinking when you punched him?" She asked me.

"I was thinking "damn, I want him away from my locker" that's all."

"Maybe next time, it would be a better idea if you try just asking for him to move away from your locker."

I felt like I was being patronized.