Thin Ice

chapter three

The next morning, my father drops me off at my therapists office before going two stores down to the gym, where he will train for the next hour as I am forced to relieve every anger-inducing moment of my week to Dr. Shaw, who is too damn smart for her own good. She's a nice woman, and her office is very soothing for someone who has no trouble finding something to piss her off in every place she goes, but I can't help but associate each Saturday morning with heavy, emotional talks that may or may not make everything worse. I've never been one for introspection, but I've grown to rely on picking apart my own thoughts and feelings just to make her stop nagging me.

"What was the hardest part of the week for you?" Dr. Shaw asks curiously. She usually starts out either with this question (which is basically asking what pissed me off the most and if I got physical or mouthy as a result) or one about if I did my homework for the week. I didn't have anything to try and do, or not do, other than to not start any fights, which is a constant, so she is going with the first option.

I release a low, elongated sigh as I relax back into the couch. Yesterday's incident at practice comes to mind first, probably because my hand still hurts and because it was most recent, but I don't really want to start off with such a major step back. I haven't hit anything besides a pillow for weeks before yesterday, and even more than twelve hours later I am still full of shame over it.

Dr. Shaw always gives me the time and space I need to answer knowing full well that I will eventually come out with it. She also is good at not jumping to conclusions or damaging reactions right away, so I don't necessarily mind sharing with her even if its initially difficult. "I swore for seven minutes straight on Wednesday over my chem grade."

The only change to her expression is a raised eyebrow. "Oh? How so?"

"Um, loudly?" What other way to swear is there?

A tiny smile pulls at her mouth. "I mean, were you by yourself or with someone else? Were you swearing at the assignment itself, or the teacher, or yourself?"

"Sheila was there." My dad's girlfriend was in the process of making risotto for dinner, so she didn't really have the option of walking away when I plopped down on the counter and started ranting. Not that she would have left, even if she could've. Even after all the hundreds of rants she's heard, she's still willing to listen to me, which is something I will always be grateful for. Plus, she made shrimp risotto. "And I was mad at my teacher. She gave us a three question mini quiz, and I missed one, which fucked me over and dropped me to a C. If I don't get it up by interims, my dad will skin me alive."

"Did you know there was going to be a quiz?"

How did I know she was going to ask that?

Lifting my chin, I say in as calm a voice as I can, "Yes."

"Did you study?"

"A little." Meaning that morning I panicked, asked a classmate who already took it what I had to study, and crammed during lunch. "Not that it would've made a difference because I suck at chemistry."

Dr. Shaw presses her lips together until they are no more than a thin line. "So why are you angry at your teacher? For giving the quiz, which is an integral part of every course and will be in college as well, or because it was only three questions and therefore harder to do well on?"

I sink deeper into the couch. "I don't know."

"Okay, then think about it." But what she's really thinking is yes you do, dumbass. Or maybe that's just what I'm thinking.

Of all people, I hate lying to Dr. Shaw the most. I don't lie to my friends because I have no reason to, and I only ever lie to my dad or Sheila to keep out of trouble. Coming to therapy, which I switched to because the anger management classes were shit and did nothing to help me, has made me realize I lie to myself more than anyone, which is my own problem to fix, but Dr. Shaw has no reason not to believe me. If I lie to her, she will just go along with it, and that doesn't help either one of us.