City of Fools

I didn’t need therapy in the first place.
It started in August of my 21st year. I lived on my own, had a steady job, and good friends. I was ok.
Then the woman who birthed me had some kind of false epiphany and told me I had behavioural problems and was at high risk of becoming depressed. At high risk of becoming depressed. As if you can catch it like a cold.
I don’t think there is a real connection between a mother and a child other than maternal instincts. My mum really didn’t get me.
She wanted an outgoing, popular girlish-girl. She wanted shopping day trips, gossiping, friends and boyfriends running in and out of our lives.
Basically, she wanted to raise another of herself.
The concept of a daughter that would rather make music than shop, would rather write than gossip, and preferred a small circle of trust to a pit of popularity?
Even after 20 years, she couldn’t grasp it.
So, because I’m not what she wants, there must be something wrong with me, right? To therapy we go.
“This isn’t going to work, you know. Hours of some patronising blonde women asking me how I feel isn’t going to cause a great personality change. Unless I develop an anger problem.”
Mum rolled her eyes and started up the car.
“I’m just worried about you, Taylor, I-“
“Tay.”
“… I’m worried about you… Tay. I think getting this out in the open will help you to start living a better life.”
“My life is perfectly fine. It’s just not what you want it to be.”
The car fell silent until she gave in and turned on the radio, filling the car with the mind-numbing noise of what sounded like a dying cat with access to auto tune. I zoned out in a desperate bid to keep my brain cells intact.
“You’re doing it again.”
I sighed and rested my head against the window. “Doing what?”
“You just disappear and space out. It feels like I’m losing you.”
“I’m fine.”
The therapists office was bright and misleading, much like that of a children’s doctors office, minus the paintings of giraffes and old toys strewn across the floor. Instead, there was a long blue fish tank along one of the bright blue walls, a cabinet in the centre of the room filled with books and magazines, whilst the other walls were lined with lime green sofas- which were occupied by what was probably the strangest line-up of people I had ever seen. As my mother-confident that she could still mould me into the daughter she wanted even at this age- strolled towards the check-in desk, I looked over these fellow humans.
In their thirties, looks disturbed- ex-soldier come schizophrenic?
Young child and mother, seemingly carefree- nightmares?
I made my verdict on the rest of this cast before reaching the man at the edge.
My age, attractive. Really attractive. Pink and brown haired. Smirking… at me? Shit.
I glanced away momentarily before his eyes caught mine again, and he was now smiling, the kind of amused happy smile that was too big for his face, and patting the empty seat next to him. I rolled my eyes and obliged.
“So whatcha in for?” Were the first words he said to me. I almost questioned the bluntness, before accepting that this was probably the typical therapist waiting room small talk.
“Controlling mother thinks I have behavioural problems and/or depression. Yourself?”
He laughed. “Didn’t expect you to actually tell me. Genuine behavioural problems and bipolar. I’m Alex.”
He extended his hand to me and I shook it, slightly perplexed by his attitude.
“Tay.”
My mum swept back in, announcing that the ‘doctor’ would call us in when he was ready. I thanked her for this completely new information.
“I like you,” Alex smiled. “Wanna be fucked up together?”
“I’m not fucked up!”
“Okay, sure.” He laughed.
“Alex Gaskarth?”
I jumped at the sound of the voice in the overhead speaker that I had somehow failed to notice.
Alex stood up and shifted back and forth in his heels. “That’s me.”
He took a pen from his pocket and scribbled a number on my hand.
“Call me when you figure it out.”