EVERYTHING I WANTED | 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝟗𝟎𝐬 pt 3

𝟎𝟎𝟏 | ellie

   

“WOULD YOU SAY YOU'RE HAPPY?” tick. tick. tick.

     “Elizabeth?” tick. tick. tick.

      “Ellie.”

     My eyes shot up, the uncomfortable pressure of my therapist’s ocean blue eyes burning into my soul. Wrinkles cascaded down her cheeks, filling her laugh lines to the point that I was mentally cringing. I shouldn't be such an asshole; she had been nothing but gentle with me since I'd met her, which couldn't be said about many people.

     A gulp formed in my throat as she waited for an answer, an answer I most certainly did not have.

     Sure, I was happy, sometimes. Other times I was praying I could miss my friends by an inch and sneak away to my bedroom just so I could climb into my bed and never get back out.

     But sometimes, sure.

     I inhaled, adjusting against her brown leather couch; a favorite for therapists for some reason.

     The room was swallowed in colors of chestnut brown and items that screamed “I'm a tree hugger!”. Plants overlapped each other on her wooden decorative shelf, pointing out the small collection of fake crystals a shelf below them. The walls held a mixture of paintings and pictures, mostly being of nature and the wonders of Earth. She had even decorated the chair she was sitting in across from me; with a knitted blanket lapped over the back and odd looking doodles that must've been done by her children.

     Jean wasn't truly all that bad, in fact, she wasn't bad at all. The moment she had taken me in as a patient, she had made it a priority to listen to me unlike the other therapists and counselors I had been to. She heard me.

     My fingers picked at each other as my knee tapped. I hadn't looked away from her, and she hadn't taken the look out of her eye that told me she wasn't going to drop this conversation. Hmph.

     With another forced inhale, I cocked my head, “happier than before.”

     A small smile broke into Jean’s face. She breathed gently as she brushed her platinum blonde hair from her face. I could almost hear the fried crunch.

     One day, she would have to accept her gray hair and stop dyeing it, it was almost turning yellow.

     “That's good,” she shifted in her chair, “How are things with your friends?” It had been a year and some since I had come back from Oregon, and after the whole ordeal with my parents and quitting my job in Oregon, I was living with Estee. While the girl loved that she could come home to me and complain about every little thing that happened during her day, I was secretly praying that I would find somewhere else to live. I loved Estee, and I loved being with her, but I needed my space just like everyone else.

     I thought about moving in with Fuckshit and Ray, who had – of course – moved in with one another only a few months after I had decided to stay in California. Surprisingly, Fuckshit hadn't onced asked me to move in with them, while Ray had offered it a multitude of times.

     “We’re fine,” I kept it short. As much as I appreciated the woman, I had forever regretted paying for a therapist. Not only was it a fortune, I also hated coming in and talking about the same fucking things. I hated sitting in the parking lot of the wooden building, waiting for the patient before me to finish their session. I hated coming in and smelling her oak scented candles. I hated the anticipation of talking about the same fucking things. The same things over and over and over; was I happy, how was my day, how were my friends, and how was he.