Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
She doesn’t care that I have to participate in group therapy and art therapy and recreational therapy and all kinds of fucking therapy all day when I clearly don’t need to.
So yeah, nope. I’m not talking. Thank you very much.
“I care. I do care, Willow,” she says.
I lick my lips and sit up straight. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
She looks taken aback.
Well, maybe I shouldn’t have been so abrupt. But it’s a valid question.
My therapist is pretty. She’s got straight blonde hair that she keeps tied up in a no-nonsense ponytail. Her light-colored eyes are hidden behind big, black glasses and her lips are usually very lightly painted pink. That’s the only touch of make-up on her beautiful face. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need any.
I bet guys must lose their minds over her. Figuratively.
She twists on her couch and clears her throat. “Um, no. Not right now.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t met anyone interesting in a while.”
“So, what do you do for sex?”
I can’t believe I said that but I’m genuinely curious. I’ve always been curious.
If I’m stuck here with a therapist, I might as well make some use of it. If she wants to talk, we can talk about interesting stuff. Stuff that I’ve always wanted to ask and never got a chance to.
I couldn’t ask my mom. She wouldn’t have liked it. I think according to her, I’m still a pre-teen who hasn’t even gotten her period and thinks kissing could make babies.
Josie laughs. “I’m sorry?”
Not gonna lie. I like that this question is making her a little uncomfortable, if her squirming is anything to go by. This is a complete win-win.
“For sex. What do you do? One-night stands? Masturbation? I’m in the masturbation camp. You know, because I’m stuck here and all.”
She smiles, adjusting her glasses. “Ah, is this your revenge strategy? I asked you questions you didn’t like and you’re trying to make me uncomfortable.”
Yes.
I shrug, innocently. “I’m just making conversation. You said you cared.”
“Well, to answer your question, masturbation is keeping me happy for now, so I think I’m managing,” she says.
I jump topics. “What about my books? There’s not a single Harry Potter book in your library. You guys should do something about it. It’s a travesty.”
Ah, Harry Potter.
The source of everything good and holy in the world.
She smiles. “I’ll talk to someone about that, okay?” She folds her hands in her lap. “Now, are you ready to talk about it?”
I sigh. “Can we just move on from it already? It’s been like, two weeks.”
“Exactly, only two weeks.”
“If I keep talking about it, I’m never gonna forget it. You realize that, don’t you?” I raise my eyebrows.
Josie raises her own eyebrows. “Forgetting is not the goal. The goal is to talk about it and confront it and get help.”
Help.
Pfft.
I can help myself, and the first thing I need to do is forget that The Roof Incident ever happened. Talking about it and rehashing it is not going to make me feel better.
Personally, I think therapists and psychiatrists have a very twisted way of treatment.
Besides, The Incident is not going to happen again, anyway.
I sigh, tired.
So tired.
I’ve got a full day of this. When I leave here, I’ve got community group, process group, education group – all the groups – where all they ever talk about is your illness, your meds, your feelings.
And it’s not as if I can get some sleep at night, either. The meds they have put me on are sleep-stealers. I can’t sleep until the wee hours of the morning and even if I do manage to fall asleep before that, the whimpers and noises of the ward jerk me awake.
Okay, happy thoughts.
All the fucking happy thoughts.
In my most monotonous voice, I tell her, “There’s nothing to talk about. It was an accident. I was very emotional that day. I’m a very happy individual, otherwise. You know, my illness aside. So yeah. Again, for the thousandth time, it was an accident. I’m not crazy. I don’t belong here. You need to pick up your phone and call my mom. You need to tell her that I’m fine and she should come here, break the contract and take me home.”
She sighs, too. Her sigh is patient but long. “Okay. So, not today. All right. I’m not going to force you. That’s not my style. But I do want to tell you that what happened has nothing to do with the circumstances. Your life might be very happy but that has no bearing on it. It’s like an itch, Willow. It’s there. Constantly. You can ignore it but then, one day it becomes so big, so irritating, that you’ll do anything to get relief. Including scratch it.” She smiles, gently. “But then again, I don’t have to tell you that, do I? Because you already know. So I’m here when you want to talk about it.”