The Quest For Eternal Happiness

Chapter One

"And how did that make you feel?"

Those were the words my therapist said to me on a rainy Friday afternoon, in an office space deliberately set up to give you the illusion of safety and comfort. The room was painted in cleverly picked out shades of red and warm, homely browns. On the wall in front of me was a picture of a cat holding on precariously to a tree branch with the caption "hang in there!" written in cursive. Not helpful, but cute.

"It made me feel like my emotions didn't matter." I responded to my therapist in regards to an argument I had with a friend of mine earlier that week. "Like, he wasn't really listening to my side of the story. It was kinda like he just... I dunno, wanted me to shut up so he could prove his point."

She jotted something down quickly onto her clipboard, or the "board of judgment" as I liked to call it. Maybe it was my anxiety getting the best of me, but it never really felt like she was truly taking in what I was saying. I always wondered if therapists come home after a long day of work and gossip to their significant other about their patients that day. Like, "Hey honey, I'm home, you wanna hear about this loser's crippling eating disorder?"

"I think," My therapist began, "That next time you see him, you should respectfully tell him how you feel."

"I mean, yeah, probably." I said, "I just wish that he wouldn't be such a stuck-up asshole about it."

"Well... people can be stuck-up assholes about a lot of things." She smirked. My therapist liked to parrot the more profane things I said sometimes, possibly as a way of seeming more down to Earth.

"If a person wants to bring you down, then they'll use anything they can find in order to do that, because they already made up their mind that they were going to insult you long, long ago." She said. "But you don't have to let them control your feelings - that's for you to decide."

"Yeah, that's true." I responded. My therapist finished by writing something down and then checking her watch.

"Well Silas, I'd love to have you around longer, but I'm afraid our time is up." She slowly rose from her seat, and I did the same.

"It's all good." I said, "I'm feeling better already."

"Oh really?" She smiled.

"Yeah, totally." I said half-sarcastically. "New day, new me."

"Well, I'm sure your mom wants to meet this 'new you.'" She's waiting right outside in reception."

"Alright, I'll get going then." I said. "Thanks for the appointment."

"Of course." She responded warmly. "See you next Friday, Silas."

Moving to the reception room, which wasn't nearly as warm and comfortable as my therapist's office and had about the same aura as a sterile surgery center, I saw my mom sitting cross-legged on a dusty gray chair, her face half covered by a broad sun hat and deeply engrossed in a vanity magazine. On the front cover was a large, over-saturated and extremely unflattering photo of the British royal family. She looked up as soon as she saw me enter.

"Ready to go?" She smiled and tossed the magazine on the adjacent coffee table.

"Yeah. What's that you were reading?" I asked.

"Oh, gosh, only one of the most interesting things I've read this week." She began as we walked out the door and towards her car. "Prince Henry is stirring up trouble again. It's a shame, really. If he wants to leave the royal family so bad, then I certainly wouldn't mind switching places with him. Princess Fletcher, Duchess of Sussex has quite the ring to it, don't you think?"