Raising a Psychopath

FOURTH

Filling the room was a relentless stream ofwords that seemed to stretch into infinity.
Yada, yada, yada.
I found myself thinking as my pen tapped against the notepad in a rhythmic echo of my growing impatience, the scrawled shorthand on my pad a testament to my attempt at diligence. The page lay half empty, a contrast to the flood of complaints that filled the air.

"And she doesn't stop there. Oh, no, no," the young girl before me lamented, her voice a blend of frustration and exasperation. She was one of my less pressing cases, a fifteen-year-old enveloped in the throes of adolescence, wrestling with the perceived injustices of a world that seemed to misunderstand her at every turn. Her complaints, centred around a mother who misinterpreted her choice of attire as defiance rather than an expression of personal freedom, echoed the privileged bubble in which she existed. Affluence was their passport to my services, the hefty fee of ninety dollars an hour a mere trifle in their world of wealth.

"She's such a bitch," the girl declared, her words heavy with the weight of her grievances as she reclined into the sofa that adorned my consultation room. The room itself was a study in tranquillity, painted in soothing shades of sea-blue, a deliberate choice to foster a sense of calm. A small collection of books, untouched yet carefully selected, adorned a shelf, their presence more decorative than functional, an attempt to fill the void of the spacious room with the illusion of warmth and knowledge.

Across from where the young girl sat, a table stood sentinel beside a mini-fridge stocked with cold water and juice, offerings of comfort for those who sought my counsel. My own seat, a black, oversized leather chair, faced the dark red sofa where my patients shared their stories. The chair, chosen with intention, was more than just a piece of furniture; it was a symbol of authority, its size, texture, and colour asserting a silent dominance over the soft, welcoming and submissive embrace of the sofa.

As the young girl's voice continued to fill the room, her narrative one of many that had unfolded within these walls, I was reminded of the delicate balance between listening and guiding, a waltz as intricate as the stories that brought my patients to me.
I offered a nod, a gesture of reassurance, as I cleared my throat and endeavoured to refocus my attention. Bianca's ceaseless complaints about the perceived injustices of her teenage life echoed through the room, a relentless torrent of grievances that tested the limits of my professional patience. Despite the genuine effort to empathize, I found it increasingly challenging to lend her my undivided attention, caught in the predicament of recognizing that what Bianca truly needed was not the expertise of a therapist but the understanding and acceptance of a less controlling, more open-minded mother.

Yet, Bianca herself was not without her quirks, her persistent whining grating on my nerves. It was a sentiment I dared not voice, not to her or her affluent parents. Instead, I relegated my unspoken frustrations to my notepad, the one corner of the room where my candid thoughts remained shielded from her scrutiny.

"She doesn't let me have anyone over. Boys, I mean," Bianca revealed, breaking the silence that had momentarily claimed the space between us. My response was almost automatic, the inquiry a mere formality in our dialogue. "Did you try talking to her?" I knew well the futility of the question even as it left my lips.

"Sometimes. She should catch a hint," Bianca retorted, her arms crossing over her slender frame, a physical barrier against the world she felt misunderstood by.

The appointment drew to a close with Bianca's mother, a figure of polished elegance, guiding her daughter back to the opulence of their waiting car. Lingering behind, she sought my insights with a whisper, a private inquisition into the progress of her daughter's sessions. "She's getting there. Just try to listen to her more," I advised, the words tasting of duplicity on my tongue. I was acutely aware of the irony of my position, drawing a substantial fee from their coffers under the guise of professional guidance, all the while knowing that Bianca's needs might be better met through familial understanding rather than therapy.