A/N:
Hey my lovely readers!
If you are here from my other books, just know that this one gets just as ...juicy 😉....it just takes a few more chapters than the other ones.
Don't get discouraged..hang in there.
You won't be disappointed 😙
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"Five therapists in two months...FIVE!"
My mother's glare bores into the side of my face as I slide my ass into the passenger side of her car, my eyes rolling into the back of my head.
Here we go again...
Yes, I chased away five therapists in two months. It's not my fault they can't handle my amazing charm and spitfire attitude. I'm just a seventeen year old girl trying to figure out who she really is.
Am I bipolar?
Am I schizophrenic?
Multiple personality disorder?
It's a very exciting time in my teenage life.
I close my door and wait, staring at the red brick building in front of me, but she sits there with laser beams shooting from her pupils. Apparently she wants some kind of explanation.
She's not getting one.
Not the real one, anyway.
"I knoowww! It's so weird, Mom. It's like...they don't get me. Ya know?" I turn my head, putting on my best confused face.
Oh God, her head's going to blow off.
"Why, Angelina? Why are you making this so difficult? We just want what's best for you, hunny," the anger changes to sympathy and I really prefer the anger.
I flip the visor down to reveal the small, rectangular mirror. I run my fingers through my hair, making a mental note that I need to dye it soon. It's starting to look like my natural dark brown instead of the beautiful, unnatural eggplant that I prefer.
I stare back I my own blue eyes as I wipe off the bit of black eye liner smudging in the creases.
I hear a frustrated sigh as my Mom realizes that I'm ignoring her so
I flip the visor back up and continue my stare at the stupid bricks.
I can't do this everyday. The same conversation over and over with the same results.
You try to commit suicide one time and everyone loses their shit.
Ok fine, they had the right to lose their shit but WHY does everyone insisted that I must be diagnosed with some form of mental illness just because I had a moment?
"Maybe they are leaving because they are frustrated at the fact they can't find anything Wrong. With. Me." I enunciate each word with my fingers pointing at my chest.
The reason they are leaving couldn't possibly be caused by me driving them insane, never giving them straight answers, or purposely acting out different disorders that I Googled to completely throw them off.
I would never.
Ok fine, that's exactly what I do. In my defense, I didnt plan on continuing the facade, however, I had way too much fun after I Googled Tourettes Syndrome.
But they have to find something wrong with me. And I must be treated for whatever that is before I'm able to resume my "normal" life. I can't go back to school "mentally unstable" and if I don't go to therapy, they can put me "away".
My brain does "air quotes" five thousand times a day.
My life consists of people talking about what's best for me. Right in front of me. Constantly.
For the past three months, I've been stuck in my house, getting home schooled for my senior year and that alone is enough to make someone lose their mind. I miss my friends. I even miss my teachers.
No one really comes to visit because they don't know how to act around me. It's like they're afraid that if they say one wrong thing, I'll jump off a cliff.
Sorry people, you aren't that important.
The big problem is that I refuse to tell anyone why I did what I did. It's none of their business and it never will be.
So, until I'm eighteen and no longer a minor, they will continue sending me to therapy and I will continue to keep my mouth shut.
"I'm not giving up on you," my mother let's out a long breath, looking straight ahead. The statement isn't really directed at me. I feel like if I wasn't a foot away, and she was by herself, she still would have said it.
Bring it.
Only 110 days until I turn eighteen.
"Well, you have a new therapist to meet tomorrow so maybe this one can shed some light on the situation," She finally turns the key to start the car and I know she may not be giving up on me but she gave up on the conversation.
"Can't wait to meet them," Sarcasm drips from my words and her death glare is back on me.
I hold up my hands in mock surrender, silently telling her I'll be on my best behavior.
But I won't.
I have some serious research to do tonight...
***
The following day, I walk in the front door of my home away from home aka Shady Meadows aka Satan's asshole for my daily four o'clock appointment. I practically skip in with the anticipation of fresh meat to torture. I even took a bet out with myself of how long this one would last.
Me and the voices in my head agreed on one week.
The receptionist is the only part of this place I like. "What's cooking in Hell's kitchen today, Betty? Get any exciting new crazies today?" I slap my palms on her desk, bending over to meet her eyes.
"Good afternoon, Angelina, " She holds a smile back trying to act professional but I see right through it.
"Nothing exciting today, really. And even if there was, I'm not allowed to tell you. I've explained this."
"Come on! Any people come in with like giant stuffed animals that they believe are actually their soul mate?" I ask in a hushed tone, leaning further over her desk. I blow my bangs out of my eyes and notice my hair draping over her key board as her hands stop typing.
I need a haircut too.
"I'm sorry, can't tell ya," She shakes her head, smirking. She enjoys this interruption in her day. I don't know why she wants to make it seem like I'm bothering her, but I know I'm just making her life a little more interesting.
"Ughhhh," I whip my head back dramatically, my hands laying over my heart. "One day I'll get you to crack, Betty. You just wait," I point at her while walking backwards before spinning on my heel.
I sit at one of the chairs in the waiting room, glancing around at the hand full of people. They are all either pretending to read magazines or scrolling through the same Facebook feed they've looked at fifty two times that day already.
I cross my right foot on top of my left knee, wiping a smudge off my black and white converse.
I'm bored.
You know what's nice about the waiting room at the therapist's office? You can do anything and everyone will act like its "normal" because it's a "judge free zone".
"Fuck! Big fat hairy dick!"
After my little outburst, I look around and everyone flinched but never looked up. They just continued their pretend reading and silently accepted my mental illness.
I can hear Betty cracking up behind her desk.
"Angelina Porter," It's a statement, not a question as the assistant calls me back. They know who I am. I make my presence known as often as possible.
"It's Katy today. Katy Perry," I get up and stroll through the door. "We need to make this quick. I have to practice for the VMAs tonight," I make serious direct eye contact with the very impatient assistant.
I don't know what her problem is. I would kill to have that job, meeting all kinds of interesting people everyday.
"Let's go, Angelina," She walks towards the room.
"Katy," I correct her.
She holds her arm out to signal we've reached our destination. "Ahhhhh, room four today. I like room four because it's an even number. If it was odd, I'd have to walk in backwards while patting my head,"
I got nothing.
Her expression dead pans as she still holds her arm out for me to proceed.
Thank God I have some new audience today because my ego is bruised.
I jump onto the couch, laying my head back and putting my feet up. Might as well get comfortable for this shit show.
My head is facing away from the door so I only hear the new therapist walk in.
"Ms. Porter?" The deep voice comes from behind as he walks in and I lay there not bothering to turn around.
"What's up, Doc?" I ask but the words get a little stuck in my throat as I watch him sit across from me.
How old is he?
My guess would be about twenty four. And apparently he just walked straight out of one of the magazines that were in the waiting room.
Maybe this is a tactic for them to throw me off my game.
Not happening.
I gather myself once again and put on my game face. I shall just look straight forward at the wall and ignore Dr. Sexy Ass Sexiness.
"Why don't we start off with you telling a little about why you're here," he directs in his best therapy voice.
And so it begins.
"Ok, so this is how it all happened. I actually grew up in Africa and was home schooled until my parents moved us here. I had to start this new high school and everyone looked at me like I was crazy because I didn't know any of their teenage verbiage," I continue to spew out words with my hands waving all over.
"And then the most popular girl in the school asked me to be a part of her group but we had all these stupid rules about when to wear pink..."
"That's the movie Mean Girls,"
Ok, he was quick. I'll give him that.
"You're right, I'm sorry. I watched it last night and got confused," I palm my forehead in mock frustration.
"So, how did I get here, you ask? This is what really happened. I was doing some janitorial work at night for this college to make some extra cash and I would find myself completing these really hard math equations..."
"Good Will Hunting,"
"I was floating on this giant door in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.."
"Titanic"
"Oh, you know what? You're right. Do you mind if I just count how many tiles are on the ceiling before I explain my life story to you; a complete stranger?"
For the first time my eyes meet his and he holds his ground. There's only a slight crease in his forehead and the only emotion I see is curiosity.
No frustration or annoyance.
"Count away,"