Never Saw This Coming

Therapy.

TW: mentions of depression, su*cide, and death
Xander

I'm actually disappointed when class ends. This semester, I've been taking a history practicum. So far it's been my most interesting course so I enjoy the times when I'm here. I'm a history major which is as easy as it sounds. Well, that's if you're good at remembering facts and dates that go alongside those facts. History has always been my favorite subject since I was in middle school so when I got to college, I decided to stick with what I knew best.

I don't really know how I'll use my degree once I graduate college though. There is a lot of jobs that I can get but I've kind of always wanted to become a professor. It's extremely fucking difficult to be one when you're younger though. That's ageism in America for you. Albeit, I've already had some practice in becoming a teacher. Whenever I'm able to, I substitute in elementary, middle, and high schools. Most of the time I just sit on my ass and take attendance, but there are some times —the best times for me— when kids will actually ask for help on their assignments.

Even though I'm better at history, I don't mind helping out with math or science. I like when people ask for my help. It weirdly makes me feel needed. Maybe that's just my deeper trauma though.

Anyway, I'd definitely consider working with students of any age if that professor dream doesn't happen. I like teaching in general, about anything. I just like the college setting better, so that's why I've considered being a professor more than anything else. I wait behind a couple of students to search for my test. We've taken three so far and I've gotten A's on all of them, but this one was the most challenging. I tap my foot impatiently and find my test at the end of the table. C+. I fucking knew it.

"What'd you get?" Kendra, a girl from my class, asks me. I show her my worksheet and she frowns. "You did better than me." She shows me hers and a fat, red D- is printed at the top of her paper. "It was hard, huh?" I tell her. She nods her head, "The writing question at the end were so difficult," she says. I don't even want to look at those yet. I'm guessing I did terrible on them since they took me the longest to do. I would've done them first if I knew they were there when I started the damn test.

"I agree." I sigh. "Are you going to the study group Tuesdays and Thursdays?" she asks. I shake my head. "Should I?" I question. She nods, "It's a bunch of students from all of the classes Professor Hoffman has so we all kinda work together and help each other out, it's helped me out a little more. I would've gotten a worse grade than this if I hadn't been attending the group," she explains to me.

We exit the lecture hall, "Yeah, fuck, I might need it. Time and place?" I ask. She pulls out her phone and taps on the screen for a couple of seconds before showing it to me. I pull out my phone and take a picture of hers. My memory is ass and I rather not forget. "Thanks, Ken." I smile. She nods, returning her usual, toothy grin. "See you later, Xan." I throw up a peace sign and make my way to my car.

My mom called me yesterday and told me she'd been worried about me so she reached out to a friend of hers that lives here and asked her if she knew any good therapists. Therapy. For me. It's the last thing I want to do, but I promised her. I don't like being that extra stress in her life. If I go to therapy, then maybe I'll release some of that stress from her.

In all honesty, I was actually considering asking my mom if I could start therapy when I was eighteen, but I didn't. We're not rich, more like middle class, so I didn't want her to be paying for something that we didn't know could help. Plus, my mom doesn't believe in that shit, so I'm shocked that she's even telling me to go now. I think it would've been more helpful three years ago than it would now. I guess it's never too late.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶

I sit on a navy blue couch across a middle-aged man—Dr. Crest—with a notepad and pen in his hand. He told me my mom has told him a bit about my case, but he'd rather hear from me why I decided to come to therapy. I didn't decide shit, but I stay tight-lipped. Therapy is new to me obviously so I'm confused as to how much he wants me to share. I'm sure he'll tell me to shut the fuck up if I ramble right? Fuck it.