Therapy 1/?
Dear Pointless Diary,
I’m not attracted to her. I had a moment…years ago, okay? A moment where it felt fucking right kissing someone, where it felt like someone actually wanted me. It probably could have been anyone…anyone looking at me so eager and invested…and all understanding; it was rather disarming, so I can’t exactly be blamed. Trust me, you would have had a moment too, alright? And then you would have kicked yourself for being so desperately pitiable.
Because, I mean, she’s not that great you know…obviously. Seeing her again has only made that fact more abundantly clear. Down to the microscopic level of DNA - god, if her sister is anything to go off of… She’s short, like a hair shy of ‘clinically diagnosed dwarfism’ short. And, God, her voice! I’ve never heard anything so dreadfully bothersome…grates on your nerves and sets you on… I don’t know, pins and needles or whatever, something unpleasant, okay? She follows you everywhere, soundlessly. Creepy, actually. And she has absolutely no backbone. Never met anyone like her. Wish I’d never met her.
Jesus, and the way she looks at you, like she’s some abused and starving Ethiopian child. She could seriously be on those charity commercials and people would be phoning in for hours making donations just to wipe that sorry look off her face. I’d even be arsed to make a donation…because it’s pathetic really… to let her continue on in such a state.
Mum told me today that I should see a therapist. I laughed in her fucking face. Because if anyone needs a therapist…I mean, seriously. What jokes.
As if a therapist could tell me anything I don’t already know. Tough chance. I want some of the shit my mum was smoking. I’ll have to look under her bed.
~~~~~~~~~
SESSION ONE
[Therapist]: Please, take a seat wherever you feel most comfortable.
[Naomi]: Oh, well then…bye.
[Therapist]: I’m sorry?
[Naomi]: Most comfortable would be my room, by leaps and bounds.
[Therapist]: Ah, I see. Well, then please take a seat where you’d feel most comfortable…in this room.
[Naomi]: You’re asking me to find the impossible.
[Therapist]: Humour me.
[Naomi]: …
[Therapist]: Thank you. That’s the chair I would’ve chosen.
[Naomi]: Good for you. I’m sure we have loads in common.
[Therapist]: Let’s find out.
[Naomi]: Oh goodie.
[Therapist]: Have you ever been to therapy before?
[Naomi]: Maybe. But I probably blocked out the horrible experience.
[Therapist]: Your mother was telling me about some of the things that have been going on…perhaps some problems adjusting to college? To new people?
[Naomi]: To new people? Good one. Yeah, well, you can disregard everything the woman says, because she’s an oblivious twat.
[Therapist]: So what does bring you to therapy today?
[Naomi]: A nag of a mum and fifty quid, okay?
[Therapist]: Would you like to talk about your mum?
[Naomi]: “Like” to? No.
[Therapist]: Do you need to?
[Naomi]: She’s a fucking nutter. She knows she’s a fucking nutter. She knows I know she’s a fucking nutter. There really isn’t much else to say, is there?
[Therapist]: Why is she, as you say…a fucking nutter?
[Naomi]: You met the woman. You see any evidence to the contrary?
[Therapist]: Perhaps.
[Naomi]: Okay, fine. She has a new wacky, hippie obsession every six months. I never know what is up or down, what’s mine or not, what anything is, really. The woman is spastic, unreliable, insane, ridiculous, obnoxious, and completely, blindly self-absorbed. Oh and a hypocrite. I often wonder if she actually believes the shit she sells or just thinks it fun to play make-believe for awhile until she finds another post to hitch her knickers on, alright?
[Therapist]: That’s quite the assessment. You’ve thought about this before?
[Naomi]: The only things I know I own are my thoughts.
[Therapist]: So there’s been a lot of instability in your life.
[Naomi]: Obviously.
[Therapist]: Is your father a part of your life?
[Naomi]: Well, technically, he’s not allowed to see me anymore…on account of the horrible, life-altering abuse, the drinking, and the child pornography ring he ran out of our basement.
[Therapist]: Wow, that’s a lot for a child to go through. That must be very difficult for you.
[Naomi]: Yeah…it’s been hard. But you know, those things…they only make you stronger, right?
[Therapist]: That’s very true. Very true. Now, when you say abuse…did your father abuse you or-
[Naomi]: Loads…yeah, yeah. But I still love him because he’s my daddy. He’ll always be my daddy.
[Therapist]: And nothing will change that. I’m sure you love him a lot. But when-
[Naomi]: And it’s cool. I still get to see him every Sunday…secretly.
[Therapist]: By secretly…your mum doesn’t know of these meetings?
[Naomi]: Clearly not. That is, of course, the definition of secretly.
[Therapist]: And what do you do…when you meet?
[Naomi]: We have tea and sausages. I sit in his lap and tell him stories about my week. And then he makes me touch-
[Therapist]: Okay, so you’re joking?
[Naomi]: Clearly.
[Therapist]: How much of that was true?
[Naomi]: I have a father.
[Therapist]: Okay. And is he a part of your life?
[Naomi]: In the sense that I am constantly forced to hear my mum’s vomit-inducing stories about their magical three month affair and her subsequent gut-wrenching heartbreak, yes.
[Therapist]: But not physically in your life?
[Naomi]: No. But trust me, I have plenty of male-figures in my life. Plenty.
[Therapist]: I’ve noticed you use sarcasm as a shield.
[Naomi]: Very observant of you. You deserve a cookie.
[Therapist]: Why do you think that is?
[Naomi]: Uh, because it’s effective?
[Therapist]: What is it effective in doing?
[Naomi]: Keeping people like you from invading the only things I own.
[Therapist]: Your thoughts.
[Naomi]: Bingo. God, is this hour up yet? Seriously this is like the longest hour of my life.
[Therapist]: We only have a few more minutes.
[Naomi]: Let the staring match begin. I bet I win.
[Therapist]: There’s nothing forcing you to stay.
[Naomi]: Oh…really? Well, shit lady, why didn’t you say so sooner?
[Therapist]: I’ll see you next week?
[Naomi]: Ha. Maybe. You were mildly entertaining. I suppose it was worth the fifty quid.