I've never much liked psychologists.
They're kind of disconcerting, aren't they? Their job is to worm their way into your mind, to read it from the inside-out, and to categorize you based on whatever fucked-up shit they find. It baffles me how often people seem willing to give themselves over to the mercy of a person like that, because if someone gets off on that, there must be something awful wrong with them, too, don't you think?
Anyway. I digress.
It's obvious it wasn't my choice to visit a psychologist. Given the option, I'd much rather live with those invisible restraints descending from my brain and binding me hand and food, thank you very much. If a psychologist could hear the rattling of the chains in my mind, they could use it for themselves, couldn't they? Making me nothing more than a puppet on a string.
Unfortunately, my parents wouldn't take no for an answer.
Oh, sure, sure, I tried to fight them on the issue. In fact, every single appointment was preceded by a shouting match, one that I was always destined to lose. Since the appointments were monthly affairs, our house was pretty tense as long as they continued.
Our arguments tended to go something like this.
"You're going, so help me God," my mother would say.
"I'd rather slit my own throat," I'd answer.
"You have to get over this. By avoiding it, you're only hurting yourself," she'd reply.
"What the fuck do you know about it?!" I'd scream. I would usually regret that one, but not until it was too late to take it back.
This scene repeated itself in a variety of variations each month, and yet the result was always the same. I found myself sitting in that pristine, lifeless waiting room, wondering why it was that I had to be so fucked up as to require a shrink.
This went on for over a year, almost a year and a half, each session getting longer, each day feeling a little more tense.
You'd better believe I was ready for it to end, and, on that particular Wednesday, I had decided to make it stop.
I guess my therapist had the same idea, because when I walked into the office, she wasn't there. In her place was a tall, rather muscular man with thick black hair and a tattoo showing just under his collarbone. I froze as I saw him, because it was just so unexpected.
"Um... where's Doctor Hadley?" I asked. I never thought a day would come when I actually preferred to see the slim, blonde woman.
The man looked down at Doctor Hadley's ledger, which had been sitting open on her desk. "Ah, you must be Sianna. I'm sure you're surprised to see me here, but Doctor Hadley called me in to help consult in your case. She's worried that you two aren't making the progress you should be, so I'm here to help."
Another therapist? I was skeptical. Much of the time, therapists are paired up with people of the same gender. It makes it easier, in a way. It especially makes it easier when it comes to... sensitive cases like mine. So, seeing a different therapist - a MALE one, at that - was pretty damn surprising. Additionally, the man didn't look like a therapist. He was wearing jeans and a sort of grimy flannel shirt.
"You're... going to be my therapist from now on?"
He smiled, and I found it particularly unpleasant. "No, not from now on. Just for today, I imagine."
I might have protested, but the man walked past me just then and moved to lock the door. The gentle click jumpstarted something in my heart and I realized that I should have left when I had the chance. The room was small, and the man was bigger and stronger than I was. I didn't doubt he was faster. If I needed to get out, that half a second it would take to unlock the door would be my undoing.
