Page 120 of Alexander: Alexander's Story

THIRTY

Alex

After lunch, Max drops me off for therapy. I wasn’t even allowed to drive myself, like I was a fucking flight risk. To be fair, I am.

The office is close to the Scala house, and I wonder if Connie chose her based on distance alone.

Her office is in an older building that has a courtyard with fig trees growing in the center. The smell in late July is almost off-putting.

But the inside is nice enough. It looks like most generic waiting rooms. Magazines on the coffee table. A small fridge filled with water bottles and several sound machines, all whirring at the same time.

It sucks here.

Therapy fucking sucks. I’ll have to tell my story all over again. And talk about how I have attachment issues. Maybe even a smidge of PTSD. And it’ll be the same shit as every other therapist for the last twenty years.

Just give it time. It’ll get better.Newsflash: shit never got better.

I’ve seen so many therapists in my life, chances are slim that this will be the one to stick. And yet, I’m here because Connie told me to be.

“Alexander?” An older woman with long gray hair and purple glasses asks.

“Yeah,” I stand, and she extends a hand to me. When I take her hand, her shake is firm. It’s strong.

“I’m Maureen. Why don’t you come on back?” Like I have any choice not to.

She closes the door to her office. The space centered around a large window, offering a floor-to-ceiling view of the fig trees. She motions for me to sit on a couch that looks like it’s from the seventies but still pristine condition.

She pulls out a notebook, sits cross-legged in an egg chair, and looks at me.

“So Alexander, is that what you go by?” I nod. She makes a note. “So, let’s start at the beginning.”

“Which beginning?”The beginning of my problems? The beginning of my relationship with Emma?

“Yours. I want to know everything about you.”

“That doesn’t seem relevant. Would hate to waste your time.”

“Not to me,” she says, staring at me with hands clasped together, resting on the notebook.

“Fuck, I don’t want to do this,” I say, pushing a hand through my hair.

“What would you rather be doing? In the realm of reality, what would you rather be doing?” Yoga? Fuck no. Sleeping? Maybe.

“Probably sleeping,” I give her an honest answer.

“Is that something you do a lot?”

“Lately.”

“What’s lately? Last month? Last six months? Last couple of days.”

“Last couple of months.” She nods at my answer, making a note.

“What’s something else you do a lot of?”Drink, self-loathing, fighting.She gives me a closed-mouthed smile when I don’t respond. “Listen, my job is to help. But I can only be as helpful as you allow me.”

“So let’s just say, you’re bleeding out, but instead of telling me that, you tell me you have a scratch. So…I give you a bandaid when you need a tourniquet. I don’t know what I don’t know. And I can’t know unless you tell me.” She’s no-nonsense about it. Why waste her time when it’s wasting my time as well.

Fine.“Well, lately, I’ve been drinking a lot, getting into fights. I spend a lot of time just thinking about how much I hate myself.”