Therapy Sessions

Not a smile, not a frown, nah there's no expression.

Wicked acts, callous talk, call it bad intentions.

Mummy cries, Daddy sighs, therapist cracks her knuckles.

Wonder what they're angry for, this is my depression....

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This indicates my thoughts

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I open the door to memory lane. I see a door marked 2012 and enter.

Tic… toc… tic… toc

Friday nights are the worst. The therapist's stupid clock keeps on ticking, doing nothing at all to put my nerves at rest. I look around the white room, careful to avoid her eyes.

Who told her the colour white was calming? It felt like I was staring at the sun!

The room was almost Stark empty, except for the windows, the dying potted plant (isn't that therapeutic*sarcasm* ) and her. So there wasn't much to look at. Yet I didn't want to look at her.

Till today I have looking people in the eye. It feels like they can see through my eyes into my chaotic soul.

"Samuel" she says.

"That's my middle name, no one calls me Samuel" I answered.

"You know I'm not calling you Ozzy, this is a formal setting" she quips.

"Congratulations" I answer sarcastically.

"Why do you make our meetings this stressful?"

I don't know, maybe I'm stressed having to even be here every week

"Can we just do this?" I resign.

She shrugs. Maybe it's the guilt that she receives pay for these sessions when we haven't made any progress, but I'm not concerned. I told Mum and Dad that I needed to be alone, and then they brought her to make sure I wasn't alone.

"So how was your week?"

"More or less the same. My mathematics teacher keeps asking me questions he knows I can't answer. I don't even care about the stupid subj..."

"Language" She says, glaring at me from behind her dark glasses.

"Sorry, I don't even care about the s-t-u-p-i-d subject anyway." I say, raising one eyebrow as if to say 'That good enough for you, Her Royal Highness of Good behavior?'

"I see Mathematics isn't your best subject."

I'm surprised you can't see anything bwith those glasses. Who wears shades inside a room? Well... I would, because the room is so white!

"And my seatmate licks the mucus that's always dripping from his nose. I punched him in the nose on Wednesday because he did it while I was eating lunch. I got sent home for that, and my Mum beat me."

She looks at me like I'm a devil incarnate.

"Why did you punch him?"

I don't know, bit I don't think it has anything to do with the fact that licking mucus is the most disgusting thing ever, Einstein.

"Felt like it."

"Sam, do you ever feel bad when you do these things?"

"He hasn't kicked his catarrh since that day, so why should I feel bad about that?"

"Because hitting another person is wrong."

"So why does my mummy do it?"

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Some memories are too painful, so I leave Memory Lane and walk out. My parents stopped the therapy sessions a few months later, because they saw I wasn't getting any better.

I stopped being antisocial three years later, but up till 2018, I still used to hit my junior brother when he annoyed me.

Because I felt like it.