I Fall Apart

Nora

           

Dad really sucked sometimes.  I avoided him the rest of the day.  He had grounded me and now he was making me go to therapy.  Mom had always told me therapists weren't to be trusted. I don't know if she'd ever actually been to one.  If she had, it obviously hadn't worked.

I didn't like the idea of talking to some stranger about my problems.  She was just going to judge me and she'd tell Dad and Vanessa all my secrets.  Dad was forcing me to go, but he couldn't force me to talk.

Vanessa called me out to dinner and I stomped out.  I kept my eyes on my food the entire dinner and didn't participate at all in the conversation.  As soon as I'd eaten enough, I asked to me excused and then went straight back to my room.  A little later, there was a knock at my door.  If it was Dad, I was going to scream.

Luckily, it was Vanessa.  She was alright for the most part.

"Hey," she said, smiling a little at me as she came to sit on my bed.

"Hi," I told her.  Dad probably sent her in so he could keep tabs on me.

"I won't ask you how you're feeling," she told me.  "Obviously you're annoyed."

"Dad's making me go to a therapist."

"And you don't think it'll help?"

"No," I told her.  "I don't want to talk to some stranger."

"Well, you see, that's the best part," she told me.  "They don't know you.  They listen and legally can't tell anyone else what you say.  It's completely confidential."

"They can't tell anyone?"

"Nope," she told me.

"Not even...you or Dad?"

She shook her head no.  I hadn't realized that.  I was just used to being a kid and having adults talk about you with each other. Nothing was private.

"Won't it be awkward?"

"Not really," she said.

"Have you been to therapy?"

"Yeah, a couple times," she admitted.  "It really helped me.  And I think it will help you too.  It's not good to keep your feelings inside.  And it's certainly not good to start drinking."

"Dad's overreacting," I told her.

"He's concerned about you," she said.  "So am I."

"I'm fine," I told her, not sure if I was trying to convince her or myself.

She gave my shoulder a squeeze.  "Give it a chance?  For me?"

I sighed, hating how she could somehow always get through to me.  She always came across perfectly reasonable and somehow made whatever point she was trying to make perfectly logical.  She was smooth.

"Fine," I relented.

"Thank you," she said, kissing me on the head.  "Don't stay up too late."

I laid down on my back and stared up the ceiling, thinking.  If I went to therapy, it was like admitting something was wrong.  My mom had died, so of course things wouldn't be right for a while.  But people survived for thousands of years without therapists.  It was something for rich people with too much money.  You could find any old schmuck on the street and talk to them about your problems for an hour.  Why pay hundreds of dollars?

On Monday, I dreaded the end of the day.  Sure, I could skip the therapy session, but I know Dad wouldn't hesitate to meet me after school and drag me there himself.  And he'd embarrass the hell out of me in front my classmates.  Reluctantly, I pulled up the address on my phone and figured out how to get there.  It was only a couple blocks from home.