Mr. Fix It

"Carla, what's wrong?" asked Dr. Dorko from behind his clipboard. I swear, therapists like to doodle and play tic tac toe with themselves because he can't possibly write any of the shit that's going on in my head on his little clip board. Hell, if I were to try, I'd get three random stories. I guess that's why I'm here; I'm fucked up.

They said I had ADHD. They said I was Bi Polar. They said I had depression. They said a lot of stuff that resulted in overdoses and chemical reactions that all went straight to my brain. Did you know that brain cells don't reproduce? I guess after all that work and stuff, I'm stuck like this. So, in that case, remind me again why I'm stuck here in therapy.

"Carla, you need to talk to me. How's school going?" He asked.

"Dude, I can't go back to school for a couple more days. The whole registration and getting past the arresting thing kind of sets me back. But thanks for asking." Yeah, thanks for pretending to be involved in a life you know nothing about. Much love.

"I still don't understand why you did that." He said.

"No one does. If they did, I wouldn't be in this situation, and maybe the world would be a better place because people would've learned their differences." I retorted.

"Maybe you could explain it all. I mean, all I know is what you did, not why." He sounded so understanding.

"It'll take a bit longer than an hour to tell you about it." I said. Does this guy actually listen? Hell, even if he didn't, talking might help me get my thoughts straight.

"Which is why I scheduled you last. I wanted to learn about you, so even if you do go on longer than your allotted time, it's fine. I won't even charge." Hmmm, this guy's nice. It's probably because I'm the only teenage girl who walks in here. Eh, what the heck, he might as well know if he has the potential to perscribe me more "fix it" medicine. I don't want to be mis-diagnosed again.

"Alright. You might want to sit back, Doc, 'cause this is going to be one long story." I began. He took my advice and slouched down in his seat, pushing his glasses up towards his eyes and setting his clipboard in his lap, neatly folding his hands over them as he crossed his ankles. I had his full attention.