“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” I don’t.
Sarah leans back in her chair and taps the butt of a ballpoint pen against her clipboard. How very stereotypical for a shrink.
“There must be some things you need to get off your chest?” Her voice is sappy and thick, as if she actually cares. She doesn’t. This is the same act that the therapist at the hospital put on, just before he discharged me to be another person’s problem.
“No.”
She sighs. “You know, Addison, that this is so much easier for both of us if you just talk to me. It doesn’t even have to be about this… this ‘crash.’” She waves her first two fingers in the air to indicate that it is my word, not hers. She prefers the terms ‘incident’ or ‘happening.’
Apparently, attempted suicide is too strong of a phrase.
I shift my weight in my chair and allow my eyes to wander about the room in order to avoid speaking. It is not what I expected a psychiatrist’s office to be. There was no leather sofa for me to lie upon and spill my tragic guts, no large, scenic view of a manicured courtyard. It is more like an overgrown cubicle, with gray walls and a skinny window shoved into a corner. It bears striking resemblance to a prison cell I once saw on TV.
Yeah, that's it : /
I'd really like to know what you think
***and sorry for the repost, but I just haven't really been getting the critiques that I need. I really want you to tear it apart, tell me everything you see wrong***
Thanks so much
“No.” I don’t.
Sarah leans back in her chair and taps the butt of a ballpoint pen against her clipboard. How very stereotypical for a shrink.
“There must be some things you need to get off your chest?” Her voice is sappy and thick, as if she actually cares. She doesn’t. This is the same act that the therapist at the hospital put on, just before he discharged me to be another person’s problem.
“No.”
She sighs. “You know, Addison, that this is so much easier for both of us if you just talk to me. It doesn’t even have to be about this… this ‘crash.’” She waves her first two fingers in the air to indicate that it is my word, not hers. She prefers the terms ‘incident’ or ‘happening.’
Apparently, attempted suicide is too strong of a phrase.
I shift my weight in my chair and allow my eyes to wander about the room in order to avoid speaking. It is not what I expected a psychiatrist’s office to be. There was no leather sofa for me to lie upon and spill my tragic guts, no large, scenic view of a manicured courtyard. It is more like an overgrown cubicle, with gray walls and a skinny window shoved into a corner. It bears striking resemblance to a prison cell I once saw on TV.
Yeah, that's it : /
I'd really like to know what you think
***and sorry for the repost, but I just haven't really been getting the critiques that I need. I really want you to tear it apart, tell me everything you see wrong***
Thanks so much