Dear Future Me,
Met with the therapist again. We went to a park this time. Not the scary one, but one closer to the other side of town. He had a whole bloody picnic basket and everything in there. There's kids and all that hanging out and having fun. But not me. I mean… I don’t get this therapist guy. He’s dressed all casual like and pretending he’s my friend. Which I get. It’s his job or some shit, and it is the third of July. It’s practically a holiday back home since everyone is getting white-boi wasted.
Well, at least everyone is having fun. Everyone but me. I sat on the picnic bench and ate a shit ton of sandwiches while he read and reread what I had written to you, future me. I can see him eye me from time to time as if debating stopping reading to yell at me or something.
He finally spoke to me, after like a solid hour of reading. Honestly, it doesn’t take that long to read. Even I could read faster than him. And it wasn’t like I wrote, like, ten thousand words or something like that. It’s not like I was writing something real complex, either.
Well, he said it was working. Like hell it was, he said the same thing last time and nothing has changed. He said he wanted me to try and not make stuff up again. Which I just showed him my scars. I mean, they are mostly gone but you can still see tiny, fine lines there if you look hard enough.
He asked me if I cut. I told him no and he doesn’t believe me. I can tell, it’s in his eyes and the way he paused. I can tell with the adults who don’t believe me when I’m telling the truth.
He asked me if I had any smokes on me right then. Of course I did but I told him I didn’t have any.
He asked me if I had tried to go and deal with the rift between my mother and myself. I told him he could go fuck himself.
He also told me to work on my language choices. Well, fuck you, buddy. I do what I want.
He told me to find a creative outlet. I told him that my creative outlet was back home.
He told me sex wasn’t the answer. I told him that he could suck my cock.
He said show me.
I laughed at that one. I wasn’t expecting it from an old guy like him. I think he chuckled, I wasn’t too sure cause I was looking at other people at the time. There’s a large group of teens who were smoking at the edge of the park. I wanted to smoke bad, but I knew I couldn’t do anything with a responsible adult around. Not that I wanted to smoke the weed they were doing, but I wanted to smoke.
At least, I thought that the therapist was responsible before he made that dick joke. Hehe, it was pretty funny. First time he had made anything remotely interesting.
He did say he wanted me to at least give it some thought.
Like he knows anything about me. I’ve done nothing but stew in my own sweat and my own thoughts. Just because I didn’t write it down doesn’t mean that it didn’t happen. I’m not going to put down all of my thoughts down on paper just because he wants me to.
He says that coping with something like this can be good by doing it in different mediums. Writing it down is just another way or some shit. He said that art could help, or something creative could help. Thinking only goes about it so far or some shit. But by doing that art fart shit I could “unlock my mind” or some mystical shit like that.
My eyes wandered from him and around the park when he spoke to me about all that tripe. The group of kids smoking at the edge of the park were gone. There was a family with little kids on the swings. There was a group of kids playing tag while mommy or daddy flirted with someone who definitely wasn’t their spouse. There’s a family gathering, where I can smell alcohol and the earthy smell of weed as some pop hit went over the radio.
They all looked so happy together. Why the hell couldn’t I do that too? I mean, be happy? I’ve been stripped of everything that I had been or everything that I was. I mean, not literally, but figuratively, you know? I’m in a town that ain’t mine, with a “family member” whom I don’t know, practically cut off from all of those that I care about. No one texts or calls me or anything. Not that my mother would. But I expected Julie or my father would.
Well, after that wonderful time I went back to the store. The old fart had given me some more money to buy more groceries. I mean, couldn’t he do it himself? Of course not. I bought more food and went back on my bike. The bus had a bike rack on the front of it so I took it with me when I went to see the therapist, but I biked back. I wasn’t bout to lift those heavy bags any more than I absolutely had to. And the thought of walking up the steep stairs of the bus wasn’t exactly a good time.
And now I’m here. It’s been over three weeks now that I’ve been here. I don’t like it one bit. There’s not much for me to do and I’m still writing by candlelight and the forest still scares me and I wish that Julie would text me back.
Man, this sucks.
Robin
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