Chapter Three: Lies

I don’t believe I have a problem.

I think this is simply an extraordinary situation, never to happen before. I understand how it could be misinterpreted, but this all has an explanation. I’m not insane.
But then again, any crazy man probably thinks he’s the only sane one in a wrecked world.

I wonder if the people in that waiting room knew they had a problem?

If it wasn’t for my damned teacher I wouldn’t even be attending this accursed therapy. Trust is a tricky thing, and I am now somewhat known for my tight-lipped behavior. But I was once such a trusting child and I suppose that is what happens when one begins to get a little too chatty with one’s math teacher. At first she laughed it off but once she saw me through new lenses, she noticed how I often would mutter under my breath, how I have a hard time concentrating and sometimes need to cover my ears in futile attempts to make her shut up for a moment.

Most of these things seem normal on their own, but once you hear a word like “Schizophrenia” attached to anything it will suddenly appear more like a sign,

an illness,

a disease,

a symptom.
Fortunately, she was kind enough to not start blabbing to my boss or even other teachers. She was a social and welcoming woman, but not a gossiper. One day she approached me after class: a short, thin woman with short, dark bob-cut hair and narrow, perceiving glasses. She said that she couldn't simply keep quiet about it for too long, especially if I wanted to work for respectable people one day. She gave me a deal; go into therapy until I am deemed ‘fit for society’ and she will not only pay for the first session- but never mention it to another living being as long as we live. Even if I ask her to write a letter of recommendation.

It certainly required some thought--but after a week of heavy contemplation, writing lists, doing research, talking to Lenore, long baths, walks--it was quite the process. But I eventually came to a conclusion;

The deal seemed sweet enough and it’s not as if I haven’t lied my way through therapy before. But the first time was much worse. Years ago, I was so young. It was useless and terrifying.

It took an entire year of pointless drugs, pseudo tears, and lying through my teeth, but then I was free.

Five years after, I graduated and moved out at 17. Desperate to escape my god-awful home and parents. I got a simple job, started going to college... now, two years later, I’m upgraded to a dull desk-job and I’m working towards becoming a lawyer.
Even with this “illness” I’m better off than most any other nineteen year old boy.
So what if my home situation wasn’t good? So what If I never really had that much of a childhood? So what if I’m deemed “insane” by some person locked away in a grey office? I’m like a savant. Brilliant, misunderstood, but I sure as hell can take care of myself and I don’t need anyone telling me what to do with the things inside my own damn mind and body.
And I just need to prove that to this “Camilla” woman.

Reviews

[Ras Fish]

This chapter is a bit short, but gives me a better look into Lionel and how he sees the whole situation. Keep up the great work.

[Ivy Navillus]

Yeah my only rule for chapters are "write until there isn't anything left to say." So some are awfully short. This one only had one main point, really.