My therapist was a creep. He stank of cigarettes. His floppy mustache and big gut made me think of a walrus in a suit. Not to mention the smirk permanently stuck to his lips after asking me if I was sexually active made me shiver with nausea. Yet my parents gobbled up his every word like it was grandma’s pecan pie.
According to him I had a personality disorder, social anxiety disorder and acute nymphomania. My mom practically fainted and if there had been a gun in the room I would have shot myself in the face. It was all bullshit. The only thing wrong with me was that I had terrible friends and life practically decked me in the face as a result. One person can only take so much before they implode.
But heaven forbid my parents actually listen to me when I tell them I’m drowning. In the beginning I didn’t even do it with razors, or cigarette burns or “acting out”. I used my words. When they fell on deaf ears I had only one alternative…
“I’d like to see Lana once a week starting tomorrow—if she won’t speak willingly then her condition will only be broken by intense therapy sessions.”
Now someone was willing to listen? Now when it was too late?
What a bitter backwards world we live in.