Skinny Boy ✔

Chapter 45: like I need therapy

A couple hours after the endocrinologist left, I was visited by yet another doctor. This time, it was one I was not willing to work with. I tolerated the general doctor because he helped manage me in my weak state, and I appreciated the endocrinologist's attempts to understand--even if the attempts did fall short at times. I even put up with the nurses who poked and prodded and drew blood.

The one doctor I refused to respect, however, was the psychologist. She was a short, gentle looking woman, but I didn't trust her for a second. No matter how kind and caring she came off, I knew it was all a facade.

She's only pretending to care because she wants to slap a label on my medical record.

I was convinced that the moment I let her in, even for a minute, she would pull a random diagnosis from the DSM and print it in my file.

She didn't know I was onto her, though.

"Hi Nathan," she greeted.

A mumbled "Hi" was all I would budge.

She tried to ask me a few things--icebreakers, mostly--all of which I refused to answer with anything more than a shrug, nod, or shake of the head.

This went on for 15, maybe 20 minutes, before she slouched her shoulders, let out a sigh, and laid her cards out on the table. "Nathan, nothing you say to me will leave this room, unless it puts you or someone else in danger." Still nothing. "Is there a specific reason you don't want to talk to me?" 

She looks like she's being real. I rolled my shoulders anyway. Like I'm opening up to some shrink...

She lowered her head into my gaze. "Well...?" 

"I'm not crazy," I blurted out. 

"I never said you were," she smiled. She smiled, because she had accomplished one thing: getting me to talk. That was still one more accomplishment than I had, and I didn't like that. 

If I can't get what I want, why should she? 

"Then why am I here?" I asked. 

"Why do you think you're here?" 

I narrowed my eyes at her. I knew exactly what she was trying to do, and I was not going to sit back and let it happen. "That's just rich, isn't it?" 

"And what is that?" she asked. 

"You think you can just avoid my question and psychoanalyze me?" I crossed my arms and let out a humph. I was done dealing with her.

"I don't mean to make you uncomfortable," she said.

I ignored her.

"It's okay to feel whatever it is that you're feeling."

Still ignored her, and did just that for every question after, until she eventually gave up and said she would be here to talk when I was ready.

I was acting childish, and I knew it. But it was the only tactic I could think of. What else was I supposed to do? Talk to a therapist? 

Like I'm gonna do that. 

~ 

"I can't believe you," mom shook her head. "Why are you so against the idea of talking to somebody?" 

"Because I don't need someone to talk to," I said. I rubbed my hand across my tired eyes. "Do we have to talk about this right now? I'm really tired." 

"Yes, we do. Unless you want to eat your food, instead of picking at it," she said, nodding to the barely eaten spaghetti in front of me. 

I pulled a face, my stomach already stirring at the sight and smell of it. As hungry as I was, each time I ate came with some sort of discomfort--whether that be a stomach ache, nausea, throwing it up, or plenty of bathroom issues. Yeah, not fun. 

"What's even the point?" I thought aloud. 

"Of what?" 

"Of eating! I'm just gonna feel sick." I was already starting to feel sick at the very thought of food. Or maybe that was stress. 

"Do I really have to explain to you why it's important to eat?" she asked, unamused by this whole conversation. 

I shook my head, "No."

"I don't get it," she sighed. "You used to eat so much, and now you're just...not." Her eyes vibrated with tears. "I mean, it's like you've just switched completely as a person." 

I swallowed the guilt bubbling in my throat. "This isn't just about eating, is it?" 

She shook her head, bowing it in attempt to keep me from seeing her wipe away tears. 

"Mom..." I trailed off. What am I even supposed to say? 

"No," she croaked, "I'm fine." 

My heart lurched at the weak attempt of a smile she made. 

"You used to be so kind, and involved, and funny, and...happy," she explained. "And now you don't talk to anyone anymore. You either look angry, or sad." Now she couldn't stop the tears from falling again, and honestly, I couldn't keep them from forming in my eyes. "I can't remember the last time I saw you smile a real, happy smile." 

At this point, I was too infatuated with what she said to notice, or care about the dampness that found its way onto my face. I was too busy wrestling with her words, because I realized that there are some things that are true, and this was one of them. She really hadn't seen me smile in so long, and that wasn't a lie--that was a fact. 

But how is that my fault? 

"Why won't you accept help from anyone?" she asked. 

"Because I don't understand what it is I'm supposed to need help with," I answered. 

"You're telling me that there's nothing, nothing that you're struggling with? Nothing that you're going through? You're not hurting in any way?" 

I blinked the tears away, staring down at the sheets that hid my tender, aching legs. 

I'm hurting in every way, I wanted to say. I hate myself so much. At first it was just the way I looked, but now, it's everything about me. I need help, but I don't know what I need help with. 

I wanted to weep, I wanted to cry and be comforted by my mom while I told her I'm tired, I'm hurting, I'm scared, and I just want it to stop. 

It seems I had put in a filter of some sorts, though, because the only word I found coming out of my mouth, was "No." 

~ 

Sometimes I break my own heart with Nathan's story. 
Or maybe I'm just sensitive because I know my rat is gonna pass away soon. So just a heads up, if I don't update for a while, it's because I'm grieving. 

Thoughts?

Teaser: complications