Unicorns On Wheels [Petekey]

2. Thursday

I hadn't a clue why Gerard was jumping from foot to foot as we waited in the snow for the elevator, just like the week before, or why he was even waiting with me at all. Almost like he thought that if he didn't see me go into the office with his own eyes that he wouldn't be able to believe that I had. Like if he left me alone for a second, I might disappear into the snow leaving the distinct track of wheels behind me.

Except that he was wrong because, as much as I would've liked to run off (or, more accurately, wheel away until my arms got tired and I gave up) I couldn't go as fast as he probably thought. Not to mention that fact that travelling in snow was about as ideal as trying to eat a cactus. Because it wasn't something anyone wanted to, not mention the amount of time and effort being put into something so ridiculous.

When we finally got into the elevator, we had to get into the same time a girl was getting out of it. Her hair was dyed an atrocious shade of orange and her fringe looked like someone had put a bowl around her head and cut around it. As if to be more unattractive, she seemed to be wearing more eyeliner than a 20 year old man who was still in his emo face, namely Gerard Way.

Even though they had the same style in clothing (black leather jackets and skinny jeans), probably used the same hair dye and watched the same make up tutorials, they didn't speak to each other and Gerard pushed my chair into the elevator and made way for the Gerard-girl to hurry out of the elevator quickly. We didn't say anything while he pressed the button and we went up.

When we got to the door, we followed the same greeting routine as always. The one where Gerard hugged her and smiled and they had a small talk conversation about how they'd been in the past week even if neither of them really cared. Then she greeted me, with a big grin that seemed too big to be real. Gerard patted my head and then Dr Nestor wheeled me to her office and across from her chair.

Right on schedule, she asked about my week and I told her exactly what I'd done. That The Boy in Striped Pajamas was still my favourite book, Mr Bowie hadn't missed any lessons this week, that I had new gloves from Frank in case my hands got cold and that Sherlock had died but she shouldn't worry because he came back in the next episode.

She asked about my diary and I told her I had a blog. She asked about how it was going and I wanted to say you should know, you followed it on Sunday but I didn't say that. I just told her that I posted on Sunday and that 14 people had read it but only 3 people had followed it. She seemed happy at this prospect, like I'd somehow changed the entire universe by writing a single post on a stupid, useless blog.

Except that I hadn't. And she knew that I hadn't and I knew that I hadn't but we both pretended that I had anyway because that's just a huge part of therapy: pretending to do what they tell you to do and hoping you get better by ignoring their requests and going to therapy once a week so that you can lie to her face by saying I'm honestly feeling better and she can lie to your face by saying it really shows that you do. Because somehow that was part of the process of healing. Which made you wonder really, whether being completely healed was worth it if it meant pretending you were okay the entire time.

She seemed pleased by my blog but she didn't ask for the title of it and she didn't ask for me to send her the link to it. Which is how I knew that she had already followed my blog and read every single little thing I'd written about her and my brother, Gerard. Which was stupid. She could've at least pretended that she hadn't.

But I wasn't surprised. Because therapists were stupid. Especially therapists who didn't have their own certificates or diplomas on their walls.

The rest of the session was spent with psych analyses that I'd already heard before. Things like You're just in the first stage now. You realize that, don't you? You're feeling denial right now, Mikey, and it's okay to have a general numbness to things, especially right in the beginning. And I'm sure that, to some extent, Dr Nestor thought that I cared. She was wrong.

When I nodded, I didn't look away from the snow outside. The window was covered in frost and all I could really think about was when we were children and I would try to draw a smiley face in the frost before it froze over again and I wasted my time redoing it over and over until I felt satisfied with the fact that the glass of the window was happy enough.

Dr Nestor sighed and took off her thing, frail glasses. They looked like they'd break if she put them down on the table hard enough and I was pretty sure they were only for decoration because they hardly seemed necessary. I didn't care, really, to listen to what she was going to say. But I still half-listened in case she said your session is over or something like you can go home now or maybe Gerard's here.

Then she asked me why I enjoyed Thursdays so much and I told her exactly why: because it meant that I could read The Boy in Striped Pajamas over and over until I knew the words off by heart and that I could listen to ACDC as loud as I wanted to and also that I didn't have any lessons and Mr Bowie didn't give me any homework.

She asked me whether it would be okay if I had another session on Thursdays so that it was 2 hours instead of only 1. And I told her that it would mess up my schedule because I would have to take time off of my reading schedule or off of my listening to ACDC schedule. Which I absolutely couldn't do.

She tried to reassure me that I would have enough time to read The Boy in Striped Pajamas as many times as I wanted and that I would be able to listen to ACDC just as much as I usually did. I might even like it, to come to the extra session. But I told her that it didn't matter, I didn't really want to spend another hour in her office anyway.

She asked me whether I would prefer to go to an extra hour of therapy every week on a different day of the week like Tuesday but I told her that if I missed an hour of my daily routine I might not be able to finish my homework or I might have to skip a meal or Mr Bowie wouldn't get to finish his lesson (even though I wouldn't mind that all that much).

She nodded and said she understood but I had the feeling that we weren't done with this discussion and that she'd somehow force me to come to an extra hour a week.

Andbutso, when the hour ended and Gerard came to pick me up she made me wait outside of the office while she spoke to Gerard inside of it. And I just knew she was trying to convince him to make me come back for an extra hour a week. And I didn't doubt for even a second that she'd worm her way into his brain and make him think it was a good idea.

And I think I realized that it didn't matter what I wanted or needed. All that matters to you, Dr Nestor, is how many hours a week you can spend trying to annoy me.

Regardless. I'll see you next Thursday.

Mikey.