Six Months Later

Six Months Later - Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

I’ve read that in a therapy session, everything is analyzed, from the chair you choose to how long you wait to answer a question. So now, instead of actually focusing on real issues, I’m wondering if I’m sitting in a way that says relaxed and healthy or disturbed and potentially sociopathic.

I glance at the clock and realize I’ve already looked at it three times. A possible indicator of obsessive-compulsive disorder. What else could I have? Paranoia? Generalized anxiety disorder? God, I wish she’d just say something so I can stop the diagnosis roulette.

Dr. Kirkpatrick sits back in her chair. She’s got some issues too, I’d bet. I’ve seen her a total of thirteen times, including this session, and in that time, she’s had three drastically different hairstyles. Talk about identity issues.

The last time, she had an auburn pixie cut. Now her hair is jet-black and angled harshly around her chin. She looked friendlier before, like a fairy just a few years past her prime. I can’t help feeling like this version of Dr. Kirkpatrick should slap on some red lipstick and pull a gun on me or something.

“It’s been a while since we’ve talked,” she says. “Would you like to catch me up?”

I glance at the clock again. It’s four minutes after. Just long enough for me to stop looking around the office, but not so long that I’ve had time to get nervous or rehearse answers.

“Um, sure. School is going good.”

Dr. Kirkpatrick nods and watches me. Which means it’s still my turn, I guess.

“My grades are great. My classes are fine. I’m applying at a lot of colleges, I guess.”

“Your grade point average is substantially improved from last year. The study group did good things for you,” she says. Bizarre. Do they keep that in my file? Apparently they do because she glances down at it pointedly. “How do you feel about that change?”

Here we go. How do I feel about my grades? My teachers? The paint in this room? This could go on for days. I’m convinced she could find meaning in the way I feel about a carton of french fries.

I’ve read more than anyone I know about anxiety, and I have a pretty hard time believing that a therapist is going to tie gaping holes in my memory to last year’s anxiety attacks. I tried to explain this to my parents in the car on the way over from the hospital, but my mom only sniffled harder into her tissue.

So here I am.

“Chloe?” she asks.

Crap. That’ll be noted for sure. Excessive pause before answering her question.

“Well, it’s not like I have anything to complain about. I’m going to be able to get into pretty much any college out east. Plus, I’m dating Blake, who’s great.”