Caged Mentality

POV: Khristos Larkin

Seeing a therapist was the stupidest idea my dad had ever come up with. But I had no choice; my father was making me. I was nineteen years old, living in my own apartment, and making my own money to pay the bills, but I still had no choice when it came to the therapist thing.

Sure, I had some anger issues. But was that really something to send someone to a therapist for? Whether I talked to someone about the things that made me angry or not, those things would still be around, they would still anger me and cause the sometimes violent outbursts. It's not like I ever hurt anybody though, just threw things, broke things. Was it really that bad? A lot of guys around my age had anger issues, none of them were forced into therapy.

“This is so stupid...” I muttered as I dragged myself out of bed. My therapy sessions were at ten AM, once a week. Too early for someone that stayed up late working at the bar and doing gigs with the band. But I found myself awake anyway, jumping into the shower, partly to wake myself up a bit. I pulled on my black skinny jeans and Misfits t-shirt, then styled my hair into my usual black fohawk with bright red tips and applied black eyeliner in a ring around my eyes. After throwing on a studded belt, an also studded wrist cuff, a few dozen black, red, and white rubber bracelets, and my black and red DC shoes, I was out the door. I locked my apartment and headed down the steps to my white, piece of shit car, hopping in and starting the car, causing Rage Against the Machine to blare from the speakers.

I had a slightly hard time finding the right building, but I pulled into the driveway eventually, though almost ten minutes late. I entered the building and checked in at the desk, then sat down in one of the chairs to wait to be called back to the room. While I waited, I stared around the boring waiting room, noticing there really wasn't many other people here. The receptionist behind the counter had curly red hair piled on top of her head and way too much red lipstick. She looked slightly irritated, doing something on her computer. The walls were a light brown, the carpet was beige. The chairs in the room made an L-shape along the wall opposite the reception desk and the wall to the left of the desk, in pairs of two with a small, square table in between each pair. A plant rested on each table, and uninteresting magazines were laid out in front of each plant. The chairs were blue and firm, the legs and back were wooden.

On the right side of the reception desk was a door, which now opened to allow a black-haired, young looking man through. His outfit was fairly casual, just a long sleeve, white, button-up shirt with a black tie and dark pants. He had been staring at a clipboard, but his golden hazel eyes lifted to scan the room as he called, “Khristos Larkin?”

“It's just Kris, actually.” I corrected as I stood, staring blankly at the doctor. Neither his voice, nor the general air about him seemed to fit the idea I had in my mind of what a therapist would be like. He seemed professional enough, just not so gentle or caring, but that was good for me. Someone too gentle and understanding would just annoy me. His hairstyle wasn't what I expected from a therapist either, it was thick and sort of emo-looking. “You're doctor... Um... Cardin... Carvin...? What the hell is your name?” I questioned, annoyed that I couldn't remember. I walked over to stand in front of the doctor, noticing even more how young the man looked. I really hadn't expected someone that wasn't in their mid-30s or 40s.

“Nice to meet you, Kris. I'm Doctor Carlin.” He smiled. “I hope you found your way here easily.” He moved aside and held the door open for me. I walked through, then waited for him to lead the way through the hall with multiple doors, then up the stairs at the end of the hall. He entered through a door on the opposite side of the hall from a wall of many windows.

His office was simple and nice, but it wasn't perfectly spotless like most offices. The walls were a soft gray, and there was light wood flooring. The doctor's jacket was draped over the chair behind the large, mahogany desk which was home to a messy stack of books, some pictures that were facing the other way so I couldn't see what they were, and miscellaneous other things. There was a couch in the center of the room with a black circular rug underneath it. I noticed there was a small fridge just to my left as I stood in the doorway, with a bag lying on top of it.

Dr. Carlin sat on his desk. “You may sit wherever you like, Kris.”

“Wherever I like? So I could sit in your chair, or shove things off your desk and sit there, or maybe I'll climb up onto your bookshelf and sit up there.” I shrugged and hopped on the couch, lying down with my knees pulled up toward me so they weren't hanging off the end. I stared up at the ceiling fan, picking one blade to follow around as they all spun. The air blowing on me started drying out my eyes, so I looked away and blinked a few times, then focused on the doctor as he spoke.

“I said sit where you want. That includes anywhere in this office you fit.”

“I'm sure I could fit on top of the bookshelf if I laid down.” I noted, then sighed as I watched him take a pen from a cup on the desk and write something down on a piece of paper, then toss the clipboard on the chair behind the desk. “This is just going to be a waste of your time.”

“Generally I like to start off first appointments with someone by asking if there is anything you want me to know about you, or anything you want to know about me.” He informed. “But you are free to explain to me why you think this will not be worth my time.”

“Because there's nothing wrong with me.” I stated confidently, folding my arms across my chest. “Then again, you get paid for this, so I suppose it's worth your time even if you aren't counseling someone that needs it.” I paused, returning my gaze to the ceiling. “There's nothing I want you to know about me, and I really don't care to know anything about you. I say we sit here and you do whatever you want and I'll just stare at the ceiling, no one will know and you'll still get your paycheck.”

“Like I haven't heard this before.” Dr. Carlin rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. “I couldn't care less about getting a paycheck for this job. I don't do it for that. If I'm not helping you, then it's a waste of my time.” He muttered, then lightly tossed the pen at me. “I can't make you talk to me. But I am sure there is some reason why you're here. You don't have to tell me why today. We can just talk about random things if you like.”

“Yeah, there's a reason, but it's a stupid one.” I told him, taking the pen and beginning to trace over the rose on my hand with the pen. I loved the tattoo, it was the more favored one of the two tattoos I had. It was masterfully drawn, the orange rose splayed across the whole back of my left hand, with thorns cradling it and wrapping around my wrist and a small portion of my arm. It looked so realistic, as if there really was a beautiful, undying rose resting on my hand, it's brilliance forever exposed for everyone to see.

“Can you tell me the 'stupid' reason then?” Dr. Carlin questioned as he leaned back on his desk. He seemed like a very relaxed person. He brought his hand to his tie to loosen it. He gazed at the window a moment before focusing on me. “If you don't trust me enough to talk to me, then like I said, it can wait til you do. We can talk about anything you want.”

“My dad forced me into this because of my anger issues. 'Because it keeps getting worse' is his explanation. It's not even a big deal, it's not like I've really hurt anyone, just inanimate objects. Inexpensive, unimportant things.” I finished tracing over my tattoo with the pen, then began doodling random things on my palm. “I'll admit I lose control more than most people seem to, but I don't think it's that bad, I'll grow out of it.” I paused as I finished drawing the Misfits logo on my skin. “Can I leave now? How long do these things have to last? I want to go back to sleep.”

“You still have another forty-five minutes, Kris.” The doctor laughed, then stood up to stretch before moving over to the window. “If you like, we can always switch the time. Just can't be after eight in the evening. But you're welcome to contact me whenever you need to.” He slowly walked behind the couch, resting his elbow on the top of the couch and laying his chin in his palm. He stared down at me. “So when did you start having these anger-filled outbursts?” He let out another sigh, then went to browse through the fridge.

“I don't know, like a year ago. They weren't bad at first, but gradually I started losing more control over myself whenever I got angry.” I explained, now drawing other band logos up my arm. “You know, I really don't have much time in the day for these sessions. I have a job and I play in a band, so I'm up really late and then I sleep in til the afternoon. So maybe you should just tell my dad that I don't need to be here and then he'll let me stop. That sounds like a great plan.”

“It's only once a week. I think you can manage Kris.” The doctor mumbled as he pulled a bottle of Vault from the fridge. “I guess we should analyze what is making you so angry. Can you give me an example of something that ticked you off and then how you reacted?”

“That's rude you know, getting a drink and not offering one to your guest.” I noted, staring at Dr. Carlin, the tip of the pen poised above my skin where I'd been about to draw. “And no, I can't, because I don't want to tell you anything about my life. It's personal.” I replied, staring down at my arm again, continuing to draw. It was something to occupy my attention so I didn't get restless

“By all means, grab whatever you want to drink, then.” He shrugged, opening the bottle and drinking a bit of the soda. He put the drink on his desk, sitting back down. “Maybe you'd like to talk about something else then? Perhaps this band of yours? Or maybe your job?”

I stood and tossed the pen back at Dr. Carlin. “It's not really that interesting.” I noted as I opened the fridge, scanning the contents and deciding on the same thing the doctor had. “We play punk and alternative rock. I play the drums. It's a lot of fun, but sometimes it feels like we're not getting anywhere. We probably won't make it out of this state, probably not even out of this town and the surrounding area...” I took a few swallows of my drink as I sat down again. “I work at a bar. It's a pretty decent job.”

“Sounds like a lot of fun though. Drums can be a good stress reliever.” He smiled vaguely, then seemed to snap back into the present. I found myself wondering what he'd been thinking about. “Working at a bar must be a lot of fun.”

“I suppose it is sometimes. I feel more at home there than I do alone at my apartment or with my family or anywhere really. I feel like I belong there, as well as when I'm behind the drums or at a concert. But around my family, I just... I always end up pissed at something. It's so fucked up. I mean, aren't families supposed to feel warm and comfortable and happy? Mine is nothing like that. Mine is cold. Sure, my dad's nice and he cares about me and Roman, but his and Mom's marriage is completely fallen apart. They don't love each other anymore. Well, Mom doesn't love Dad, but I think Dad still loves Mom, at least a little. He's disappointed and his heart's broken because of everything she's done and is still doing to herself. And it's not good for Roman to be around his own mother.” My grip on the bottle tightened as my anger rose. I didn't even realize I was telling him these things. “That kid should have been raised in a nice, warm home with an ideal family. But he ended up with a completely fucked up mother!” I threw the bottle across the room as hard as I could, hitting the wall, not realizing I was getting so angry. I always lost quite a bit of self-control when I got angry.

Dr. Carlin stayed calm and didn't move. He seemed to be analyzing me. “It angers you more that it's your brother in the situation rather then yourself.” He noted. “How is your mother 'fucked up'?”

“All she cares about anymore is alcohol!” I slammed my fist into the couch, angry with my mother, hurt that she didn't care about me at all anymore. “She's destroying herself with that shit and none of us can figure out what even made her start. Roman's only thirteen, he shouldn't have to be around all that alcohol and cigarettes and sometimes even drugs, but no one does anything!” I rose to my feet. “All my stupid father does is tell my mom she needs to get back in control of her life, and shit like that, he never does anything that gets anyone anywhere, he needs to actually take charge and do something useful for once in his fucking useless life!”

Dr. Carlin stood, walking over to stand about a foot in front of me. Our eyes locked. His were calm, mine were full of rage. “That's out of your control, Kris. You don't need to waste energy on something you can't solve yourself. Your mother might need to go through rehab or something to get over her addictions. It's wasted energy.” He said, though I really wasn't paying much attention. I was fuming with anger. “Why don't you try and focus on the better things in the situation?” He smiled faintly. “If your parents weren't together at any point, you and Roman wouldn't exist. How about we think of ways to make the situation better? Or maybe some way you could help your family. It's no use being angry over it, you should use the energy for something productive.”

My eyes narrowed, glaring daggers at the doctor, my jaw clenched. “Why does it matter to you what I use my energy for?” I demanded. “You're just the stupid therapist I shouldn't even be seeing right now!” I shoved Dr. Carlin back, unintentionally taking my anger out on him a little. “I don't want to be here, I don't want to talk to you about things, I don't want to hear your fucking reasoning!” I picked up the closest thing to me off the desk and hurled it at the wall. “Just let me leave.” I commanded through gritted teeth, heading over to the door.

“Remember next week, at ten AM.” He said calmly, picking something up and following me. “I look forward to our next meeting. If you need anything, feel free to contact me.”

I wouldn't need anything from him. I wouldn't contact him. I wasn't coming back next week.