I couldn't tell where we were going. I didn't know these streets and I didn't like not knowing where I was going. We pulled up outside a nice brick building and walked inside. There wasn't really a way to describe it. It was brick. Bricks aren't interesting or creative. The lobby had a plastic feel to it; it felt like a picture and that sitting on the furniture would ruin the image. It was a therapist's office. I instantly hated it and I knew why we were here. Actually, I knew why my mom was here; to deliver me. I didn't know what I was doing here.
"Why are we here?" I asked hesitantly.
"Just to talk, Sweetie," she smiled. Bullshit. I saw through that smile and I didn't like it. It's like 'just to talk' was code for 'you're weird and I want to know what's wrong with you'. Do people ever think that maybe they have a problem for being a freaking clone like every other person? I like being me and being me means that I'm different. I am my own person and no one can change that, even if they have a PHD in sucking and ruining people's lives.
The appointment was the usual crap. There was the whole 'I'm your friend and you can trust me' shpeel. Then there was the 'How do you feel?' and 'What are some goals you have?' followed by 'So tell me about yourself'. It's all a recipe for disaster. If you can't tell by now, I hate therapists, I hate therapy, and I hate the world for thinking that I need to go. I did tell him a bit about myself, basically everything that wouldn't get me locked up in an insane asylum. To him, my life must sound boring as hell. But apparently Mom told him about my tattoo and he asked why I got it. My response was something along the lines of 'I feel connected with my friends this way' but my facial expression told him to stay out of my business. Then he asked about my boxing. That really took me back. Why did he want to know about my boxing. I can't remember what I said, but I must have struck a chord or something because as soon as I was done he said our time was up and he wanted to speak to Mom again.
I guess while he was droning on about confidentiality, he slipped something in about being able to confer with Mother so they could 'take appropriate measures to change my behavior and stop my anger issues'. And guess who the stupid idiot was that agreed that it was alright? Yours truly.
I guess I deserve that for slacking and not paying attention, but as soon as we were out of the office Mom said, "No more boxing," I reeled back and looked at her like she was the alleged crazy one.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well we think that your anger is in your boxing so we want to see what happens if we take away the thing that causes your anger," she replied. I stared at her and got in the car. The world seemed to be painted in shades of red and grey. Everything was grey, but had an angry red tint to it.
"Why are we here?" I asked hesitantly.
"Just to talk, Sweetie," she smiled. Bullshit. I saw through that smile and I didn't like it. It's like 'just to talk' was code for 'you're weird and I want to know what's wrong with you'. Do people ever think that maybe they have a problem for being a freaking clone like every other person? I like being me and being me means that I'm different. I am my own person and no one can change that, even if they have a PHD in sucking and ruining people's lives.
The appointment was the usual crap. There was the whole 'I'm your friend and you can trust me' shpeel. Then there was the 'How do you feel?' and 'What are some goals you have?' followed by 'So tell me about yourself'. It's all a recipe for disaster. If you can't tell by now, I hate therapists, I hate therapy, and I hate the world for thinking that I need to go. I did tell him a bit about myself, basically everything that wouldn't get me locked up in an insane asylum. To him, my life must sound boring as hell. But apparently Mom told him about my tattoo and he asked why I got it. My response was something along the lines of 'I feel connected with my friends this way' but my facial expression told him to stay out of my business. Then he asked about my boxing. That really took me back. Why did he want to know about my boxing. I can't remember what I said, but I must have struck a chord or something because as soon as I was done he said our time was up and he wanted to speak to Mom again.
I guess while he was droning on about confidentiality, he slipped something in about being able to confer with Mother so they could 'take appropriate measures to change my behavior and stop my anger issues'. And guess who the stupid idiot was that agreed that it was alright? Yours truly.
I guess I deserve that for slacking and not paying attention, but as soon as we were out of the office Mom said, "No more boxing," I reeled back and looked at her like she was the alleged crazy one.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well we think that your anger is in your boxing so we want to see what happens if we take away the thing that causes your anger," she replied. I stared at her and got in the car. The world seemed to be painted in shades of red and grey. Everything was grey, but had an angry red tint to it.
