Out of My League

Chapter 3 (Izzy)

"How would you rate your past week?" My therapist, Dr. Bennett, looks at me with wide, gray eyes, her hair, equally as gray, is tied back and away from her face.

I quirk an eyebrow, "Like, on a scale of one to ten?"

She nods.

"Three," I reply, honestly, "No, actually, four, maybe five."

She pauses and her eyes are scrutinizing, but not in a bad way; I know she's just trying to figure out what I mean.

"Good luck with that," I want to tell her, "I've been trying to figure myself out for years."

I don't say that, though. I just wait patiently on her to continue.

Conversely, she's waiting the same of me; I can tell when she prompts for me to "please explain."

"It wasn't a great week, but it wasn't terrible."

"Tell me about the best part."

"Okay, um," I slide my shoes off in an attempt to be slightly more comfortable in this chair, tucking my knees against my chest and wrapping my arms around them, "Reagan and I got really dressed up, just for fun, and went to dinner. After that, we went mini-golfing."

Dr. Bennett smiles and, with the gesture, she seems to gain some of her youth back, "Was there any particular reason?"

I shrug, "For fun, I guess. Reagan knew that I had been having a hard time and wanted to make me feel better."

"She seems like a great friend."

"She's my best friend."

"Now," Dr. Bennett turns serious once again, "Why don't you tell me about that hard time you said you've been having?"

Do I have to? I open my mouth to ask.

Because I'd rather not.

But I know that not opening up to how I'm feeling and what I'm going through is only going to make it tougher to heal.

Healing is a slow process, that much I know.

Sighing, I draw my knees up closer to myself before launching into an explanation - about the nightmares, the flashbacks, the overall lack of energy that I'd been feeling.

That takes about forty-five minutes - explaining every, little detail - but I'm not even finished there.

Dr. Bennett should get paid double the normal salary for having to listen to me.

"And how's your appetite?" She asks once I've finished talking about my worst day this week, the one where I had a day off and had wanted to be productive, but had instead lain in bed all day, accomplishing nothing.

"I eat," I say, "I usually don't have trouble with that."

"Good, good," she nods, crossing one leg over the other, "Would you say that you have difficulty sleeping?"

"When my mother doesn't haunt my nightmares? No, not at all. I'm usually tired enough from work that I fall right asleep."

"And work?" She prompts, "How is that going?"

One unique thing that I like about Dr. Bennett is that she doesn't look like a therapist. In the sense, at least, that she doesn't have a clipboard sitting in her lap that she frantically scribbles on every time I open my mouth.

Instead, she chooses to just carry on a 'normal conversation' and, I assume, takes down important notes later. I appreciate it, but I've yet to figure out how she remembers everything we talk about; she must have a terrific memory.