American Royalty

“Tell me how you’re feeling today honey.” Ms. Gibson said so willingly, her hands cupped as if she was keeping something a secret in between.

I felt the same way, hiding more than I should, but telling her was especially dangerous and would probably result in medication or ending up in a mental home. Of course that was an exaggeration but I was desperately afraid of being locked up and having pills shoved down my throat if I didn’t cooperate.

My hands were entwined with each other as I stared at her blankly. My parents must have spent hundreds of dollars on these sessions, and I didn’t blame them, but in reality, we both knew that nothing was going to change. I was still the freak that saw the monsters peering at me. As well as hanging out with a dangerous man like Joseph. But I was dangerous as well, at least to normal people.

“Florence, please tell me at least how your day went.” Ms. Gibson pleaded as she peeled a sticker off her clipboard. The sticker read, don’t do drugs! I hope she wasn’t now assuming that I did it just because I never talked.

“It was good Ms. Gibson. I got a B+ on English essay.” I sneaked a smile just make sure she wasn’t thinking I was secretly thinking of escaping from this hellish room.

Before she could open her mouth, the little monster appeared behind her, hanging onto the branch of a large plant in a pot. Instantly I bit my lip and wished for it to stop snickering at me. I wished to be at home and blast the music in my room and close my eyes, and let the monsters evaporate from my mind. “Florence?” Ms. Gibson asked and I blinked, returning to scary reality.

“Yes?”

“I asked you a question.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.” I spoke truthfully. I tended to block out noises that I didn’t like. The monster proceeded to crawl on the carpeted ground, its dark pits of eyes glaring at me. It whispered such words as, you’re a freak and Ms. Gibson doesn’t care what you say as long as she’s paid. They hurt and tears pierced my eyes.

“Florence how is it with your friends?” She asked, writing down my attitude, which was surprisingly dull today. I wasn’t acting normal, making her now irritated.

“Um they’re good.” I lied. Just a few sessions ago I had made up a fib that I had plenty of friends, which my parents unsuccessfully didn’t agree with, making Ms. Gibson thinking I was more of a liar. Which I was.

“How’s Mary-Jane? Is her mother healthier?”

“Ms. Gibson can we not talk about my friends please?”

Ms. Gibson raised her eyebrows and tucked a strand of her gray hair behind her short cut hair. Her glasses were piercingly shiny which I tried to focus on as two more monsters waved their scrubby arms as if to catch my attention. “Florence, do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because of the accident.” I hushed and she nodded her head, and placed her leg on the other, crossing it over. She was wearing black silky pants, which for some reason disturbed me.

“And there has been a spiraling effect on that accident which has caused to do become self conscious with yourself—“

“Should I still be going to school?” I interrupted, anger building up in my chest. I sunk my fingernails into my thighs, into the jeaned fabric. My hair was feeling especially heavy today, in a bun. I felt uncomfortable now because Ms. Gibson had mentioned precisely what I hated to talk about. All I was curious about was if I was now mentally insane.

“Of course. Do you not want to go to school?” She now seemed interested that I had asked her a question.

“I don’t think it’s safe for others. Also they don’t seem to…”

“Yes?”

“Never mind. The session is over now so I can I go?” I stopped and felt the tears in the corner of my eyes. The monsters weren’t visible anymore but clouding my brain, sinking their claws into my noggin. I was a vulnerable helpless girl that would have to live with this disturbing disease for the rest of my life. I was a freak.

“We still have five more minutes Florence. Please finish your sentence. I’m interested in what you have to say.” She ran her fingers through her hair; her shiny blue nail polish on her fingernails and her brown eyes staring at me. Ms. Gibson was a kind woman who was married and had kids past college. I didn’t hate her but I didn’t necessarily like her. She wanted to get in my brain and sort it out. I would have loved her to do so years ago but now I came to terms with my illness. My self conscious illness.

“It’s nothing. I’m just babbling, ok?” I mumbled nervously.

“Florence it’s not babbling. Just admitting your problems is the first step to recovery.”

“But what if I don’t want to be recovered?” That was a stupid question because it wasn’t true. I wanted to be normal. I just didn’t know how to.

“Do you like yourself?”

Suddenly I felt so uncomfortable and lonely. I realized I had no friends. I realized that Joseph was waiting outside for me to be done with my session. He would tell me to put down the donut and eat a cracker. Though those were horrible aspects of my life, I realized that it was mentally impossible to pull away from it. I was nothing. Nobody cared, not even my parents. They sent me here just to rid of my pulsing cries at night and my nervousness around them. Secretly they were scared of me. I was a crazy girl that was affected by something so horrible, yet so simple to fix after three years. But I would never recover so I looked at Ms. Gibson and thought, No I don’t like myself, actually I rather hate myself and wish I could straighten my hair, take off my hideous clothes, wear no makeup and possibly do a sport. But because of that accident I will never have these hopes, and I have to live with this disease forever. I’m incurable. Don’t you see?

But instead I said, “Yes, I love myself.” And the session was over.