Ana's therapist

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

“Tell me about yourself, Ana?” Mr. Wilson asked.

“I’m 17 years old, I go to West-High School, last year and—” I stopped when I had nothing else to say. I wasn’t used to describing my life to people and there was nothing really special about me.

“What do you like? Your hobbies?” He asked.

“Nothing,” I replied.

“Nothing? There is must be something you like doing in your free time,”

“No, I don’t, nothing, just drugs and maybe self-harming but that isn’t a hobby,” I said.

“Do you like studying?” He asked and I shook my head. I hated studying the most, and there was a point in my life where I wanted to fire up the school and get rid of everyone.

“How is your school?” He asked.

“It’s boring,”

“Boring? Do you like going there? Or not?” He asked.

“Nope, I don’t. I hate everyone there, and I just want to leave school but my parents don’t let me.” I replied.

“How often do you go to meet your friends?” He ventured and I sat back. Was I supposed to say everything?

“I only one friend so I meet him every day,” I replied.

“Chase?” He asked and I nodded my head. My parents knew he was a drug dealer long before the incident but they never kept me away from him until now.

“Do you have a partner?” He asked and I furrowed my brows together. “Boyfriend, relationship?” He continued and I shook my head.

“How are your sleeping habits? Do you get enough sleep?” He asked.

“No, I sleep sometimes for really long hours and sometimes I sleep for a few hours. It depends on what I have taken that day and also my emotional state has an effect on my sleep. If I’m happy, I’ll sleep otherwise I won’t,” I explained.

“Tell me about your relationship with parents?”

“It’s not really nice,” I sighed. “I don’t like my mother and sometimes my father,”

“Why?” He inquired.

I shuffled around the couch in hesitation and then replied, “I just don’t, it’s all because of my mother,”

“Is she abusive towards you?” It wasn’t like that, it was different, what she did to me harmed me more than she could even think of. She knew it all along but she didn’t tell my father.

“No, not like that,” I said.

“Okay, what do you see as your biggest problem?” He asked and now this therapy session was getting boring and there was just too much talking.

“I don’t know, maybe drugs, I can’t seem to leave them,” I replied.

Mr. Wilson nodded his head and continued to ask more questions. He was really into this conversation like every psychologist would but I wasn’t.

I was more into him.

“Have you tried leaving them before?”

I nodded my head and replied, “I did but then I can’t survive without it. I have to be addicted to something in order to live and if it isn’t drugs then I’m going to keep harming myself in other ways,”

“What makes you feel happier or better?” He asked.

I looked down for the ground and thought of all the times I was happy. There weren’t many but there were some.

“I love going to parks and playing there. Swings really make me happy and also amusement parks. And maybe watching movies,” I smiled as I continued. I really loved being high in amusement parks and going on all those dangerous rides. The thrill and excitement is something I can never get from anything else.

“That’s nice to hear! Do you have a history of having gone to counseling or therapy?” He further inquired.

“No, not like this but I was sent a few times to the school’s counseling,” I replied.

“If you feel comfortable sharing, I want to know if there is a history of s****l, physical, verbal or emotional abuse or neglect that you can remember from day one?” He asked and I gulped down the lump in my throat.

That’s something I can’t answer.

I looked away into something else and ignored whatever he asked. He noticed my silence and he continued.

“Do you have any suicide/homicide thoughts?” He asked.

“Not now, I used too,” I replied.

“Do you see or hear things that aren’t there when you are sober?” He asked and I nodded my head.

“Sometimes I hear a voice that isn’t there, and I always believe there is someone behind me,” I whispered while fiddling with my shirt.

“What kind of voices?”

“I don’t want to say that...” I stuttered.

“That’s okay. Do you ever feel like you’re trapped in a closed space?”

“Yeah, I feel that, a lot. I like to keep myself close to myself — at nights mostly — because I feel like someone will come and do something,” I shivered as I thought about those things.

————————

That was the end of the therapy session and Mr. Wilson allowed me to go meet my father. After 10-minutes he required us both inside. We both sat outside in the waiting room and now my father began to inquire me.

I was just scared whether Mr. Wilson would tell everything to my father or not.

“How was he?” My father asked.

I smiled and nodded my head, “He was nice,”

“You may go in Mr. Barnes and Miss. Ana,” The woman who we had met outside came to us and said. She motioned us towards the door and we went inside. I was nervous about the outcome of this session. I didn’t know how therapy worked and how this could benefit me. It was just a lot of questions, nothing else.

“Please have a seat,” Mr. Wilson said to us. He was seated on his desk and we sat in front of it.

The man turned his attention towards my father and handed him a paper with a lot of things written on it.

“These are two medications that can Miss. Ana can take. I have diagnosed her with severe depression with psychotic symptoms and generalized anxiety disorder. She has a few symptoms of PTSD — which I believe is the most effective but I cannot diagnose her with that until it’s for sure. The medications I have written down are depression and anxiety, they’ll also help her with her addictions. It’s very important to not take any kind of other drugs during the time of taking these medications,” Mr. Wilson explained.

“She can come in continually twice a week for the next twelve weeks and I can assure you, she’ll be perfectly fine by the end.” The way Mr. Wilson said that I would be perfectly fine bought shivers down my spine.

Why would he say it like that way?

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson, I was worried about her so much. You have eased my tension,” my father to him. I rolled my eyes and sat back.

I hated sympathy and especially when my parents showed it.