Unicorns On Wheels [Petekey]

1. Sunday.

2016/01/17 Sunday.

If you really want to know about me, this first thing you'd want to read is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and what my parents did in their spare time before they had me, and all that John Green kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you really want to know the truth.

In fact, I'd much rather start of by saying that my name is Mikey Way and I spend at least 16 hours a day of my life sitting in a wheelchair. I'd also like to let everyone here know that they are under no obligation to read my blog but I am under obligation to write it. On account of the fact that my therapist thinks I'm John Watson or some crap.

Regardless, here I am, pretending to have something to say about how my day went even though if anyone asked I would say that I was fine. Because that's just what you're supposed to say instead of saying that it's cold and miserable and if you died you wouldn't really mind. But I'll post this anyway while pretending to think that anyone will read it.

I guess I'd better tell you how this started, really, it was last week Thursday and it had started to snow early that morning, before I'd even gotten out of bed yet and Gerard put 2 socks on each of my feet like he thought I could feel the cold. I usually studied through the day or Mr Bowie, my tutor, came over and helped but Thursdays were reserved for therapy and rereading The Boy in Striped Pajamas.

Anyway, Gerard wheeled me down to the car and, with the help of Frank, we struggled to get me into the car before we drove to the frustratingly boring building that had Dr Nestor's office quarters in it. Stupidly enough, her office was on the second floor and we ended up waiting 10 minutes in the snow for an elevator to open when we could've taken the stairs instead. Well... maybe.

This meant that we were 10 minutes late but, as always, Dr Nestor didn't seem to care. She only smiled lovingly and hugged Gerard like she hadn't seen him in years even though she saw him just the week before. Gerard said good bye and then Dr Nestor wheeled me into her office. Dr Nestor's office walls were filled with certificates and diplomas that weren't hers but the plaque on her desk said Dr J. Nestor. And that seemed to be enough to convince Gerard.

She went on to ask about my week and I went on to tell her what I always told her: that I was ahead of the local high school on my studies, that I couldn't feel anything in my legs, that I'd reread The Boy in Striped Pajamas again and that I'd watched too much Doctor Who than what was really necessary.

She then proceeded to say to me what she always says: that maybe I should try and make some friends, that they have a support group on Thursday afternoons if I wasn't too busy rereading The Boy in Striped Pajamas and that, to some extent, if I was ever feeling lonely she was only a phone call away.

We followed the weekly schedule nicely, having the same conversation we'd had many times before about No, I'd rather not and But it would really be very good for you. And some filthy lies from me like, I'm not ready to talk about the accident in a group and then some filthy lies from her like, I want to help you, Mikey.

We were like actors, rehearsing the same old lines over and over again even though we knew them backwards and forwards and we could even swap roles but she usually did most of the talking and I think if we absolutely had to swap, there would be no conversation at all merely because I wouldn't ask her anything at all about how she was doing or how her week was. Mostly because I really didn't care.

But then Dr Jamia Nestor did the one thing neither of us had ever done before: she changed the fucking script. We were quiet for a long time, in which she stared at me and I stared out of the window while avoiding her gaze. And then she cleared her throat and said, Mikey? Do you keep a diary? Out of nowhere, out of the blue, for no reason.

I said no. Because it was the truth. She then told me that it would be good idea if I started keeping one. I nodded in agreement but I didn't say anything. I just sat deathly still and hoped that by next week, she'd look me in the eye and tell that she was only joking and that the diary was a ridiculous idea. Dr Nestor seemed to be getting irritated.

Mikey, look at me. Her tone was bordering on strict and I hadn't seen my mother in a year but she sounded so much like her that I couldn't help myself but turn and look at her like her face had anything interesting on it. But, alas, her face was as boring as a margarita pizza. I know that you don't want to do this. I know that nothing about this appeals to you but, listen to me, you need to get better.

I scanned her face and then resumed my position of staring at the snow falling on the ground. I didn't need to get better because I wasn't sick. And, even if I was, I'd probably go to a proper doctor with their own certificates and diplomas on the wall instead of somebody else's. And even then, if they were asking me if I wrote in a diary, I'd get up and leave.

Andbutso, the rest of the session was spent trying to convince me to keep a diary or, she added right at the end, run a blog. And just because this was a new suggestion, didn't make it any more appealing than keeping a diary. Mostly because it meant that I couldn't even lie to her and say that I did keep one even if I did.

But I nodded along anyway, pretended to consider the idea of actually running a blog and maybe for a good 3 minutes or so, I actually had an honest to God intention of at least checking out blog ideas before I decided that blogs were stupid, wheelchairs were stupid, blogging about wheelchairs was stupid and therapists with other therapist's diplomas and certificates were stupid.

Even the stages of grieving, which Dr Nestor had explained to me, were stupid. Because what was I supposed to be grieving anyway? Was I supposed to be grieving the loss of my parents or the loss of my legs? Or maybe I was just grieving the loss of all the shits I gave about that sort of thing anyway. Was I even grieving at all? Probably not.

Why do I need therapy anyway? I was uncool with legs and I'm still uncool without them. The wheelchair didn't make me smarter or dumber. I was still the same uncool, antisocial Mikey Way except having lost 2 of the most important figures in my life (my legs). And also my parents.

And then, much to the dismay of everybody reading this in the history of ever, she caught Gerard at the door and told him that I needed to start keeping a diary or even better, running a blog. So that I could deal with emotions in real time and start actually healing. As if she knew anything about healing. She didn't even have her own diplomas or certificates.

Regardless, here I am, praying to a God I've never believed in and hoping that he's got some kind of mercy. Trying to make the word count stipulated by a combination of my older brother, his boyfriend and the shitty therapist forcing me to do this.

And while I admit, it's completely perfect to rant on and on and just completely ruin your reputation, Dr Nestor, I think it would be better for all of us if I was simply excused from this. Because, as you can probably tell, I have a complete disregard for you or your specialized opinion on account of the fact that your opinion is completely shitty.

Regardless, I'll see you Thursday.

Mikey.