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3:43 PM
I hate Dr. Edwards, but probably not as much as I hate therapists in general, and I probably don't hate therapists in general as much as I hate my parents right now for making me go to this shit. They've done all the same things that Dr. Edwards has done—tell me that I have some sort of mental issues and that I needed to fix them and then pick at and provoke me enough to make me cry about them—and if that's going to happen every single Thursday, then there is no fucking way that I'm going to my next session, or the one after that, or the one after that.
I knocked a girl over today. I didn't care, and Dr. Edwards would probably say that it was because of my anger issues and my lack of sympathetic emotions. I'm pretty sure, though, that it was the girl I saw in the office last week—the one with the big eyes and the wandering stare, and I immediately felt embarrassed because there was not a doubt in my mind that she had watched me run and run and run with tears in my eyes until I collapsed next to my truck. I didn't want to look at her, but when I stood up and made a beeline for the driver side door, I couldn't help myself and that's when I noticed that she was looking back at me. But it wasn't a judgmental look, and it wasn't creepy to me like it was last week. I don't think she was wondering why I was crying or thinking about how much of a pussy I was.
I think she looked at me like she wanted to get to know me; like I was the night sky and she wanted to get a taste of the stars, even the dead ones.
Maybe I will go back to therapy next week. Maybe just once.
