“Do you remember what the dream was about?” Dr. M asked as she looked up from her disturbing lizard drawing.
“Nope,” I said. “All I remember is the screaming.”
It was a lie, but Dr. M didn’t know that and she didn’t need to. When she’d asked me how my day had been I only mentioned waking up screaming because I’d figured it pretty much summed it up in a nutshell. I had no desire to go into the details of my nightmare.
Yes, there were details. Shattering glass. Crying. Broken furniture. A phone being ripped out of the wall. A bowl of spaghetti being thrown across the room. The bowl colliding with the wall and smashing into a million pieces. Spaghetti sauce dripping down the wall like blood.
My father standing in the center of it all, taking a swig out of a bottle of whiskey.
It was hard to forget the details when you’d had the dream before. It was harder to forget the details when you’d had the same dream at least once a week for the past two years.
Dr. M nodded. I didn’t know whether or not she believed me and I didn’t really care. It wasn’t like she could prove that I remembered my dream.
“What did you feel when you woke up?” Dr. M asked.
I stared at her.
What did I feel? I felt like I was being transplanted from one nightmare straight into another. I felt an extreme sense of disappointment at the fact that I was even waking up, that I hadn’t drifted off into a peaceful coma or something.
I couldn’t say that though because that could be taken as slightly suicidal and the idea was to get off of suicide watch. I had to be careful about how I answered Dr. M’s question.
Therapists asked a lot of questions. It’s something that surprised me when my mom first started making me see Dr. M. Before going to therapy I thought that I’d walk in and she’d talk to me about how to fix my problems and, you know, my broken life. It wasn’t like that at all though. Mostly it had just been an endless supply of meaningless questions. I could say I spilled toothpaste on my shirt and she’d ask how that made me feel. I could say I was feeling sad and she’d ask me why I thought I was feeling sad. It was honestly so freaking stupid. If I knew why I was sad then I wouldn’t need to see a therapist. They basically got paid to sit there and confuse the hell out of people whose mental stability was already questionable.
And I learned real quick that I always had to be very careful of the answers I gave to a therapist’s questions. I could make the simplest statement of “So I had a turkey sandwich for lunch,” and it could lead to:
Why did you have the turkey sandwich?
Why not the ham?
Was it good?
Do you always eat turkey sandwiches?
Why do you think you always eat turkey sandwiches?
And then suddenly my therapist would be asking me what I thought the meaning of life was and I’d just be sitting there stunned because I had no idea how I ended up where I ended up because all I’d said was that I had a turkey sandwich for lunch because I thought it would be a safe statement. There were no safe statements with therapists. They turned turkey sandwiches into portals to other realms.
“Carson?” Dr. M said. “How did you feel when you woke up this morning?”
That was another thing about therapists. I could stare at Dr. M all I wanted, but she never forgot that she asked me a question. She’d give me a moment or two of uncomfortable silence and then rephrase the question because obviously the reason I didn’t respond the first time was because I was too dumb to understand what I was being asked.
“Spectacular. There is no better way to start the day than screaming your head off.”
I couldn’t sound suicidal. I could, however, sound as sarcastic as I damn well pleased.
“I think it might be helpful if you change your perspective a little bit, Carson. Let’s try to think of the positives. The negatives will always be there if you look hard enough. So tell me, what is one good thing that happened this morning?”
One more thing about therapists: They were quite resilient. It was quite annoying. I could spend a whole session trying to wear her down, doing everything I possibly could to break her positivity button, but the next time I saw Dr. M that stupid button would be as good as new. It was like she took it to some kind of happy mechanic in between sessions to get a tune-up.
“Well,” I said. “My mom got tired of breathing down my neck while I use my hair straightener, so I got to do my hair without a chaperone this morning.”
This had indeed been the most positive part of my day. I had to hand it to my mom; she’d lasted much longer than I’d thought she would.
Dr. M nodded. “Why do you think your mom felt the need to watch you use the flat iron?”
Oh, I don’t know. I guess she’d been afraid I was going to try to deep-fry my body, one inch at a time. Or maybe she thought I’d be tempted to bring the straightener in the bathtub and casually electrocute electrocute myself.
“I believe she said that I couldn’t be trusted with certain utensils. Forks were among those as well.”
“And do you think she trusts you more now?” Dr. M asked.
“Well she didn’t make me eat a chicken breast with my fingers the other day so, yes, I’d say things are looking up.”
“Do you understand why your mom was worried, Carson?”
I nodded. What else was there to say?
Dr. M looked at me for a moment like she was trying to use some kind of freaky shrink x-ray vision to see within my soul. Then she moved on.
“What about school?” she asked. “What happened at school today?”
“I have to be tutored in geometry or else I’ll flunk out of high school,” I said.
See, what had happened at school today was Bree I-Can’t-Keep-My-Mouth-Shut Rewins told Mrs. Aito that I’d refused her help. This was a false statement as I hadn’t refused her help. I’d simply told her that her services were not needed. I’d been trying to do her a favor.
But of course Bree had made it look like I was the big bad wolf and she was an innocent little pig just trying to help. I’d expected her to do this, but I figured Mrs. Aito couldn’t force me to be tutored if I didn’t want to be.
But apparently she could.
That’s what I’d learned at school today.
More accurately, that’s what I’d learned during the ride to Dr. M’s office today. Sometime after Bree blabbed about our conversation, Mrs. Aito called my mom, who informed me on the ride to my shrink’s office that I’d be participating in tutoring, and she’d set the sessions up with Bree herself if she had to.
Dr. M jotted something else down in her notebook. Next to her epic lizard doodle was probably a little note in the margin that read: Carson is stupid.
Bold. Underline. Exclamation point.
“Lots of people get tutored, Carson. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Dr. M said.
“I’m not ashamed.”
“Then why are you so upset about the situation?”
“Because I honestly don’t care if I pass geometry or not and tutoring is a waste of my time,” I said.
“But if you don’t pass geometry then you won’t graduate, correct?”
“So? Either way, I’ll probably end up flipping burgers at some grease-pit for the rest of my life, so what does it matter if I have my high school diploma?”
Dr. M stared at me. She tilted her head and furrowed her eyebrows. I was being analyzed.
There was nothing to analyze though. Okay, so maybe I was slightly downplaying the importance of a diploma, but it was likely that my future really would look like that. Burgers didn’t require any special skills. Extracurricular activities, glowing letters of recommendation, a transcript full of advanced classes – those things weren’t necessary to shove a deflated meat patty sandwiches and over-salted fries into bags. There wasn’t anything special about greasy fast food and there wasn’t anything special about me.
“Is something else bothering you about the tutoring, Carson?�
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“No,” I said, surprised that Dr. M wasn’t pouncing on the whole burger thing. “I told you, I don’t care if I pass geometry.”
Dr. M shook her head. “You’re a smart girl, Carson. You have a lot more potential than you give yourself credit for. I think the tutoring could help you to realize that, don’t you.”
“Look, I just don’t understand geometry, and I doubt anything Bree Rewins says will change that,” I snapped.
“Bree Rewins?” Dr. M asked, her eyes lighting up like bulbs on a Christmas tree. “Is that your tutor?”
I could see the wheels turning in her head. Crap. Had I mentioned Bree in therapy before?
I swallowed. “Yes.”
Ding, ding, ding! Now Dr. M’s entire face was beaming.
“Didn’t she used to be a good friend of yours?” Dr. M asked.
“A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.”
“Is that why you don’t want to be tutored?” she asked. “Because you don’t want to see Bree?”
“It could have something to do with it.”
The woman looked like she might pee herself, she was so excited about cracking the code.
“Do you think this could be an opportunity for the two of you to reconnect?” Dr. M asked.
I hated it when she did that – asked a question that was basically a statement of her thoughts that she phrased as a question so she could try to force me to agree with her.
If I thought tutoring would be a good opportunity for Bree and I to become best buddies again, then why the hell would I have been talking about how much I didn’t want to do it?
Breaking news: My therapist was an idiot.
“Nope,” I said, getting that same rush of anger I’d gotten when Mrs. Aito had told me about my tutor. “Bree is part of the past and the past is gone. If it were up to me, I would never have to see her again, let alone talk to her once or twice a week.”
“So why are you doing the tutoring?”
I thought this woman was being paid to listen to me talk. Maybe if she took a break from doodling she wouldn’t ask such dumb questions.
“Because my mom is making me,” I said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Carson, you don’t strike me as the kind of person that does things you don’t want to do.”
Really? Because I was at therapy and I didn’t want to be there.
“Are you saying I should disrespect my mother’s wishes and blow off tutoring?” I asked.
“That’s not – ”
“Wow, Doc. I wasn’t expecting that, but if you insist.”
“Carson, I didn’t – ”
“My mom probably won’t be very happy, but I’ll make sure to tell her it was your idea.”
“Carson – ”
“Sorry, Mom. Doctor’s orders.”
“Carson!”
Frazzling my therapist probably shouldn’t have been so fun. A decent human being wouldn’t find it so fun. Ten out of ten people would say that I wasn’t exactly a decent human being though, and I rather enjoyed frazzling my therapist.
“Yes?” I asked sweetly, batting my eyelashes.
Dr. M looked like she needed a shot of something strong. Perhaps a bucket. I should’ve come with complimentary alcohol. I was quite a handful.
I decided to just answer the question Dr. M hadn’t asked yet. My good deed of the day.
“My mom said that I needed to start taking my responsibilities seriously. She said if I don’t pass geometry and start making progress in here with you then I’ll be spending the summer at church camp.”
I was pretty sure this was my mom’s idea of “getting involved” in my life. I think the fact that she hadn’t been aware that I’d already failed geometry twice and was currently a senior in a class full of sophomores kind of made her feel like she was slacking a bit in the parent department.
So she’d threatened me with church camp.
“And you don’t want to go to church camp?” Dr. M sighed. I think she was relieved that I’d stopped antagonizing her.
“That would be an understatement.”
When my mom brought up the church camp, I’d laughed.
“I’ll be eighteen,” I’d said. “You can’t make me go to church camp.”
My mom had shaken her head. “You won’t be eighteen until the end of August and until then I can do whatever I think is necessary.”
Then she pulled out the pamphlet and I’d known she meant business. Whenever the parental dictator went out of their way to get a pamphlet, you knew they were serious. I didn’t know what went on at this church camp, and I didn’t want to find out. I had a funny feeling that my lifestyle would be considered somewhat of a sin there.
And that was how Bree Rewins, Mrs. Aito, and my mom forced me into tutoring.
Dr. M scribbled on her notebook. “We’ve never talked about this before, Carson. What are your religious or spiritual beliefs?”
I was a little surprised. When I told Dr. M about my mom’s ultimatum, I’d expected her to ask me about my thoughts on my progress in therapy. But no, she asked about my religious preferences.
“I don’t have any.”
“Do you believe in a God?” she asked.
“I believe in dinosaurs. Rawr.”
Dr. M cleared her throat. She sometimes had a hard time appreciating my humor.
“But your mom is religious?” she asked.
I snorted. “My mom is what I like to call a Superficial Christian. She goes to church once in a while when she has nothing better to do and thanks God when one of her cakes makes it to its destination without toppling onto the floor.”
Dr. M was writing away on her little notebook. I could see the words now: Hates the Big Man Upstairs. Devil Worshipper. Soul-less Waste of Skin and Bones.
“Belief gives people hope, Carson. Sometimes people seek religion so they can put their faith in something or someone, a higher power. It helps them get through difficult times when they can believe that there is a purpose for their struggles or some bigger plan,” Dr. M said.
I tensed up. I didn’t want to talk about religion or God. I didn’t need to be hit over the head with a Bible. Sorry, but I had a hard time putting my “faith” in someone that I couldn’t see, not to mention someone that, based on my current situation and the fact that I was sitting in a damn therapist’s office, didn’t give a shit about me. I was in a tunnel of endless darkness and believing that the Big Man Upstairs had a reason for me being in this tunnel wasn’t going to make it any brighter.
“I’ll take my chances with the dinosaurs,” I said.
“I’m not trying to change your beliefs or say that what you think is wrong, Carson,” Dr. M said. “I’m just trying to help you understand where your mom is coming from. Church can bring people with the same beliefs together, and many people find comfort in this sense of community, but religion is about much more than a building.”
I looked at the clock. Only a few more minutes until I could get out of that Hell hole.
Pun intended.
Dr. M glanced at the clock too. Maybe she was also counting down the minutes. When she turned back to me she smiled. She got up from her chair and opened one of her file cabinets, pulling out a sheet of paper before sitting back down in her chair.
“I can’t help much with the geometry,” Dr. M said with an airy laugh (shrink jokes were the absolute worst). “But I think I have something that might help with your progress in therapy.”
If this was a list of local churches, I was going to rip my eyeballs out.
When Dr. M handed me the paper, I saw it was some kind of checklist.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s a list of different activities that can help to calm a person down and encourage a more positive mood and attitude,” Dr. M said. She looked so hopeful.
I remembered what Dr. M said to me during our emergency session last week, about how we’d be discussing techniques that I could use when I
was feeling overwhelmed.
Great. Mom shoved tutoring in my face and now I was getting depressed-kid assignments from my therapist. If I hadn’t wanted to kill myself last week, I sure did now.
“So is this like homework or something?” I asked.
“Not at all,” she said. “Those are just some enjoyable activities that could help you to feel a little better when you’re down. They’re meant to help you learn how to deal with your emotions in a constructive way, rather than a destructive one.”
I looked down at item one on the list.
“Make a new friend?”
“I think making a new friend could be good for you, Carson,” she said. “You said before that you don’t have any friends and you don’t have any siblings either. That must get lonely.”
Lonely or not, the world was fortunate not to have any other spawns running around with my father’s twisted DNA.
“I think I deal with the loneliness just fine on my own.”
“Nobody expects you to do it all on your own, Carson,” Dr. M said somberly. “There are people out there that want to help you and be there for you. You should let them.”
I looked down at the list again. I looked back at Dr. M. I looked at the clock. Time was up.
I shoved the Happy List in my pocket and headed for the door. I’d throw it away after I left the office. I believed that constituted as “progress.”
“Carson,” Dr. M said when I reached the door. I stopped but didn’t turn around. “The world is a heavy thing. It’s not meant to be carried by one person alone.”
I stood there for another moment. When Dr. M didn’t say anything else, I walked out of the room.
When I got outside I looked out at the parking lot. I looked up and down the street. It was stupid, but I had actually been looking forward to seeing Kellen after my session. I didn’t know why. He was annoying and wore baseball hats. He wasn’t my type.
Maybe it’s because he wasn’t a total dirtbag.
But, again, that just further confirmed he wasn’t my type.
Still, I found myself scanning the lot again, looking for a flash of color or the glint of a bike wheel and feeling slightly disappointed when I didn’t see anything. Where was he? I’d thought he would’ve been there already. Unless he changed the day of his sessions. Unless he wanted to avoid seeing me.
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