I Don't Need Therapy

  Two months into therapy when I was actually talking to Doctor Evan my therapist, after a s**t ton of psychological tests I was told that I am schizophrenic and that "they" aren't real. Doctors have given me thousands of drug screenings to make sure that I didn't hallucinate from being under the influence, I don't even take Tylenol or cough medicine because I feel like they are drugs. I smoke cigarettes, I started after Max died because I missed the taste of Nicotine I got from kissing him. Dr. Evan tried to tell me I shouldn't smoke, he lets me smoke in his office anyway, maybe he thinks I'll start talking to him. Smoking keeps me close to Max in my own sick way.

            I always hate meeting with Dr. Evan, but today I felt like talking.

Dr. : "How are you doing today E?"

Me: "Well Max is still dead, so...."

Dr. : "My condolences once again, how are your medications?"

Me: "Sometimes I skip the uppers (anti- depressants) but I never skip the schizo meds. I like feeling my feelings, but I f****n hate the idea that I have to take damn pills to make someone who isn't real shut the f**k up and disappear."

Dr. : "You shouldn't skip your anti- depressants E. , you have a bigger risk of having another breakdown if you don't take them regularly."

Me: "I don't want to fade, I don't want to be clouded."

Dr. : "I know it can be diffi-"

Me: "You don't know s**t. You don't know me, you didn't know Max. You know tests and textbooks and prescriptions and assumptions. Take your sympathy and shove it up your PhD Doctorate psychologist a*s." I cross my arms and sit back, biting my lip until I taste blood. He sits stunned for all of five minutes.

Dr. "You don't know me either, you don't have a right to scream at me." He answers calmly, glaring as I light up a cigarette. "That's not good for yourself.

Me: "I know, neither are pills, or depression, or schizo, or losing Max." I roll my eyes and walk over to the open window to blow out a cloud of smoke. "But since I'm dying anyway I'd like to do it properly."

Dr. : "You're not dying, you've got a full life to live." he rolls his eyes.

Me: "What if I have AIDS or cancer? Then I'll die."

Dr. : "In order for you to get AIDS you would have to do something other than eat, sleep, work, write, and complain."

Me: "Are you allowed to talk to me like that?" I tap the ash off the end of my cigarette out the window.

Dr. : "It's my word against yours?" he shrugs fixing his tie.

Me: "You should lose the tie, you look like a d****e."

Dr. : "Who are you to judge? You showed up to therapy wearing a waistcoat and skinny jeans. Who are you trying to impress."

Me: "I theorize that Max can still see me and I want him to see me at my best. I wore a dress with heels and full make up to sit in my house."

Dr. : "Why would Max be able to see you?" I notice him flip to a new page in his notebook.

Me: 'You've been writing stuff down?"

Dr. "Not for anyone but me, it'll help keep track of your moods."

Me: "I can tell you my moods. Pissed, hurt depressed, occasionally happiness when I find little love letters Max left me." I stomp back to sit in the window sill and light another cigarette, taking an angry drag.

Dr. : " When do you get hurt and pissed?" He sets down his notebook and comes to stand beside me.

Me: "As stupid as it sounds, I'm hurt right now. The second I opened up to you, I looked up and you were writing down s**t."

Dr. : "My intention wasn't to hurt you E. I want to be able to analyze the way you feel so that I can work on your medicines to try to help you feel better.' He leans up against the window sill and looks down at me. "Why don't you take your anti- depressants regularly?"

Me: "They make me feel foggy, it's like I'm living but I'm not alive you know? I'm not in control of what I feel and I hate it, I want to be the way I was when Max was here. Everyone keeps telling me that I need to let him go and that he's not coming back. I mean no s**t he's not coming back unless he's a f*****g zombie or something. For the past three months every time I go to sleep I wish I could wake up with him holding me, that he'll wake me up with a kiss and his warm hazel eyes curiously looking down at me. That I'll get his sleepy 'good morning angel' and we'll go have coffee like we normally did."

Dr. : "It's okay to be hurting and it's okay o be angry with the universe because you don't understand why Max Passed-" I cut him off with a glare.

Me: "Dead. D-E-A-D. Not passed, not moved on, not deceased. Dead, damn I hate when adults say s**t like that," I growl, pushing my hair back.

Dr. : "You are an adult too E. You're twenty three years old." He crosses his arms matter of factly.

Me: "As long as people keep telling me what to do, I might as well be seventeen still." I roll my grey eyes back and let smoke drift from my mouth.

Dr. "Maybe if you would act more mature then people would be more willing to treat you like you're twenty three. You've got this wounded and hostile baby animal vibe, it makes people treat you like a fussy infant. They walk on eggshells to keep you from spazzing out." He pushes his fingers through his hair.

Me: "And you do that? Walk on eggshells so that you don't pull my pin and make me explode?"

Dr. : "Why do you think I let you smoke in here?" he smirks and walks back to his chair.

Me: "I'm out, you're a dick. Make sure you call my parole officer," I smirk back, dropping my cigarette on the floor and grinding it out with the toe of my boot. 

Dr. "I'll see you next week," he calls as I walk out the door.

Me: "The hell you will." I flip him off and slam his office door shut.