I Was Just Looking For A Way Out...
Chapter 22
If I was forced to come up with one positive of being locked up in this place, it would be the lack of responsibility.
I know this, because I was just forced to come up with a positive for being here… In therapy. My therapist, Dr. Crusoe, said it would help me recover. By recover she’s of course insinuating that I’m broken, injured; that me, and everything about me, is some mistake that needs to be whited out. Well that, or I’m just being a touchy overreacting bitch.
“I’d like to do a little exercise.” She says, my therapist that is. “It’s just word association, I’m sure you’ve heard of it. I’ll say a word, and you just have to say the first word that comes to mind.” I quietly resolve to actually play long, I can’t be all resistance. “First,” she says, “love.”
“Impossible. Short. Futile.” I say back.
“Just one word.” She says, “God.” I wait for her to say another word. “The word is god?” she says after a short pause.
“Oh,” I laugh awkwardly, “Stupid.” I reply
“Life.” She says
“Death.” I whisper it back, almost too solemnly.
“Failure.” She keeps up with that same pleasing calm voice, the one that all good therapists are probably trained to learn.
“Impending.” I say.
“Alright, I think that’s enough.” She says with a little cough, “So is there anything you want to talk about?”
“Not really…” I say, trying to hide any contempt in my voice. You know, anything to show my complete and utter disdain at even being here, or how much I really hate this.
“Well have you ever used alcohol or drugs?” she asks, falling back to ever adult’s default question, only she forget about sex.
“Who hasn’t these days? I mean I don’t do anything too hard; I drink, smoke a little weed, and I do pills sometimes.” I say.
“What kind of pills do you mean?”
“Not like ecstasy or anything, just like vicodins, percocets, pretty much whatever is easily available, but still let’s me act normal.” I answer.
“And do you do these things for fun?” She asks in the same calm therapist voice.
“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m with friends and it’s just to kick back and laugh. Other times, I’m just so stressed out about school, and life, and friends… and the future… and all of this other crap; I just get sucked down and everything’s just so black and pitiful, so filled with anger and despair, and I can’t make myself do anything but lay there and wish it was over… and then I pop a pill and it just makes me feel a little lighter. Like I’m not sunk into the bed, I don’t know; it’s just better.”
“Well I’m sorry to say were out of time.” She says, “But I think we did a lot of good today.” And she stands up. She walks over to the door and opens it. She says, “I’ll see you again soon.”
That right there, is proof that she doesn’t care. That no one really cares, that sure somebody may listen to your problems and give you a little bit of advice or something, but that in the end you end up just as desensitized and uncaring as anybody else.
I’m alone.
I know this, because I was just forced to come up with a positive for being here… In therapy. My therapist, Dr. Crusoe, said it would help me recover. By recover she’s of course insinuating that I’m broken, injured; that me, and everything about me, is some mistake that needs to be whited out. Well that, or I’m just being a touchy overreacting bitch.
“I’d like to do a little exercise.” She says, my therapist that is. “It’s just word association, I’m sure you’ve heard of it. I’ll say a word, and you just have to say the first word that comes to mind.” I quietly resolve to actually play long, I can’t be all resistance. “First,” she says, “love.”
“Impossible. Short. Futile.” I say back.
“Just one word.” She says, “God.” I wait for her to say another word. “The word is god?” she says after a short pause.
“Oh,” I laugh awkwardly, “Stupid.” I reply
“Life.” She says
“Death.” I whisper it back, almost too solemnly.
“Failure.” She keeps up with that same pleasing calm voice, the one that all good therapists are probably trained to learn.
“Impending.” I say.
“Alright, I think that’s enough.” She says with a little cough, “So is there anything you want to talk about?”
“Not really…” I say, trying to hide any contempt in my voice. You know, anything to show my complete and utter disdain at even being here, or how much I really hate this.
“Well have you ever used alcohol or drugs?” she asks, falling back to ever adult’s default question, only she forget about sex.
“Who hasn’t these days? I mean I don’t do anything too hard; I drink, smoke a little weed, and I do pills sometimes.” I say.
“What kind of pills do you mean?”
“Not like ecstasy or anything, just like vicodins, percocets, pretty much whatever is easily available, but still let’s me act normal.” I answer.
“And do you do these things for fun?” She asks in the same calm therapist voice.
“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m with friends and it’s just to kick back and laugh. Other times, I’m just so stressed out about school, and life, and friends… and the future… and all of this other crap; I just get sucked down and everything’s just so black and pitiful, so filled with anger and despair, and I can’t make myself do anything but lay there and wish it was over… and then I pop a pill and it just makes me feel a little lighter. Like I’m not sunk into the bed, I don’t know; it’s just better.”
“Well I’m sorry to say were out of time.” She says, “But I think we did a lot of good today.” And she stands up. She walks over to the door and opens it. She says, “I’ll see you again soon.”
That right there, is proof that she doesn’t care. That no one really cares, that sure somebody may listen to your problems and give you a little bit of advice or something, but that in the end you end up just as desensitized and uncaring as anybody else.
I’m alone.