Fridays

This was the part that I hated; Friday sessions with my psychiatrist, Dr. Anna Davidson. She’s a petite woman with curly brown hair that comically bounced when she moved her tiny head. She’s the quirky type, with the high voice to match. She always smiles at every beginning of each session with my file in hand eager to begin another painful hour of our time together. I really hate her. I’ve been seeing her for almost five years now. That’s longer than any of the relationships I’ve been in, longer than the one that ended last week, which was about three months long. I’m sure she’s going to want to talk about it, knowing that I will avoid the subject entirely. Right now she’s reviewing my file to see where we left off from last week. Sitting in my uncomfortable chair I look around the room just out of habit to see if anything changed. Nope.
I hate her room, which is impressively small; cramped with a corkwood desk wedged in the corner that was cluttered with files color coded with shiny tabs. Behind her computer chair was an oversized palm tree its leaves creating sharp, ragged shadows over outdated psychology text books from her old college days randomly stacked on crooked shelves. The walls salmon pink, striped with a yellowing ivory, was cluttered with positive thinking posters that read ‘believe in all possibilities’, ‘you can do it’, and a ‘Love is…’ laminated and thumbtacked, just as crooked as her shelves. The aura of the room was heavy with rose potpourri. The only light source she has is from the wide three panel window. It’s the only thing I liked about the room; from where I’m sitting, I can see blue patches of sky between the branches of trees, little tokens of freedom far away from this pink disaster.
Turning to me Dr. Davidson greets me with a ‘How are we today?’, and I reply with my usual greeting of a deep sigh followed by silence. Now we are deadlocked with building tension and anticipation.
She wants me to say something, anything, probably about my day. What can I say, when I haven’t done anything except watch television, and stuff my face full of Cheetos.
“Well, said Dr. Davidson, “anything new?”
“No, nothing new, just watched TV.” I said.
“What did you watch?”
“Crime shows.”
“Oh,”
“Yes.”
Back to silence. This was getting us nowhere, which is where I’d rather be then here going in circles with pointless small talk. I’m starting to feel bad since she’s only doing her job, but I just want this to end.
“How has work been lately?” asked Dr. Davidson.
“Fine this week, something funny happened; my coworker was fired for failing her drug test.” I said. “They fired him.”
“That’s quite dramatic. I can’t imagine how that could be funny,” said Dr. Davidson.
“He was already in trouble for neglecting his work not to mention was feuding with our manager who issued the drug test. The moment she found out it was bye-bye. I knew she was out for him and would use any reason.
“How do you figure that?” asked Dr. Davidson looking puzzled.
“Because,” I said flatly, I gave her a reason. I gave him some special brownies during a Christmas party. Technically, everybody should be fired. I gave it to everyone, including our manager.
Dr. Davidson closed her eyes and rubbed her temple. Her thin eyebrows furrowed and all her progress went out that three panel window.
Five years ago my mother brought me to see Dr. Davidson to try and help me with my many problems. I didn’t have any reason to; I just did because it was there. I never have any reason to explain the things I’ve done. I just do them because I’m just bad.
“I thought we were making progress with you.” said Dr. Davidson.
“I was bored.” I replied. “Like I said before, I don’t have a reason, or an explanation for my actions, I just do them on a whim.”
“But there has to be a reason, any reason.” urged Dr. Davidson.
“No, there isn’t.” I said. “When are you ever going to realize that maybe I’m just a bad person? I know it, and I know that it can get me into a lot of trouble. I know that my actions have a consequence; do you think I really care about that?
“I know deep down that you care,” she said shaking her curly head “I know somewhere deep within you, you do.
“You have too much faith in me.” I said looking out the window, the patches of clouds turning grey.
“Because you don’t have faith in yourself to know that you can be a good person.” She said.
“Please,” I say rolling my eyes, leaning back in my hard chair, “I know myself well enough to know what kind of a person I am, I’m very well aware of what I am and who I am according to my wrong doings, and faults. I am very self-aware.”
Putting down my file and her note pad on her desk, she leans back in her chair, crosses her arms, and just stares at me with a hard stare. I just look back at her knowing I just brought us back to square one, back to five years ago.
“Are you lying to me?” she asks.
“No.” I say.
“You’re a compulsive liar, how do I know that this isn’t just a fabricated story you just made up?” she asks.
“You don’t, that’s the trick, isn’t it?” I reply, “You don’t know if I’m lying, it’s your job to listen, not to question whether if it’s true or not.”
“Then how can I help you?” Dr. Davidson asks.
“You can’t, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” I say. “When are you going to understand that everything I tell you, everything I do, or don’t do, can never be known to be truth or a lie? I lie because I can do it, and I do it well. I do bad things to others because no one could believe that I could do such a thing. My whole existence is a lie. I fashioned myself to be the person no one could ever believe to be a bad person. I made everyone believe that lie. I am just this character that I wrote to be in this story that you believe is real life. My life is the story and I choose to be the anti-hero, because I can.”
Dr. Davidson sat silently in her chair looking past me and at the salmon pink wall with nothing to say. I knew she was stuck. I started to feel bad for her, but I knew my guilt was me tricking myself, for deep down I knew I didn’t care. I looked up at the clock, my session was almost up and we were nowhere close to being finished. I breathed in the rose potpourri, and shifted in my seat just waiting for her to say something.
After some time she looked at me and said, “How’s school?”
“Humph, getting fed up with me?” I asked
“No, just change of subject.” She replied.
“Okay, fine.” I said leaning back and crossing my arms. “School is just peachy, I’m in a short story class, and right now I’m working on a short story.”
“Stories, you are good at that,” she said writing in her notepad. What’s it about?”
“Not sure yet,” I replied, “I have this idea about writing about our Friday sessions.”
Looking up she said, “Are you sure you want to do that? You’ll be putting all your problems out in the open.”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Davidson. It’s all fiction.”

Author's Note

I hope you like it
Please be kind. I'm doing my best :)