Why she needs therapy

"I'm late, late, late, late...late..I suck, I am such an idiot...", she repeated to herself, assuring herself of her mistakes.  She really was late.  Extremely late, actually.  Her iPod read nine o' clock as she cursed herself for taking the regular 7 train instead of the 7 Express.  It was just another f**k up, something she could blame on years of an inability to focus, organize and prioritize.  As she stepped off the subway train a wave of anxiety flooded her entire body.  "Well, I'm getting what I paid for...", she thought as she fought to control the sickness that overcame her emotional state of well being.  She was on her way, albiet very late, to her first therapy appointment in Manhattan.  She took pride in her ability to control her willpower when it came to the three mainstream vices: alcohol, nicotine and drugs.  It has been a few years since she first decided that her lifestyle was not something that she should be proud of, that she should strive for something completely different.

 

"Fifty f*****g minutes.  I'm fifty f*****g minutes late for my first therapy session, which IS SUPPOSED TO BE ONE HOUR LONG", she thought.  She replayed this in her head as she did with all sorts of different phrases and thoughts, which coincidentially were only in her head to damage her and try to destroy what sgood he was trying to create for herself.  Not only was it a sweltering seventy five degrees in the city, but she was also anxious, which of course spiked the temperature to compare more to a one hundred degree temperature.  Her armpits were sweaty.  Her back was sweaty.  Her mind was sweaty, knowing that this is what she had been waiting for.  A shot at salvaging her sanity, her well being and her future.

 

She walked into the office, embarassed and sweaty.  She surveyed the room, which was more like the size of a hotel bathroom.  The rugs were of a Victorian print, and so was all of the furniture that adorned the walls and floors of the place.  "I didn't come here to play critique, I came here to get help".  "Lauren?", spoke a voice questioning an identity.  She looked up at the face of an angel.  "They always end up being really sweet..."

 

She spent the next WHOLE ten minutes getting a run through on the therapy sessions and giving an overview of her main problems.  Of course, the time she would dread was not the admittance of such problems.  She knew that there would be no sound reaction from her new therapist, as they were trained to be neutral.  She was dreading the bill.  "If I have to pay fifty f*****g dollars for ten minutes, I am going to f*****g kill someone......Woah.......Easy there, speed racer.  This is why you're in therapy to begin with." 

 

The bill.  The bill.  The bill.

Fifty dollars.  "Ten whole, glorious minutes of nitpicking my brain and I shell out fifty dollars.  It's OK, I need it, I am risking my entire state of existing in reality by putting this off any longer..."

 

She steps out of her new home away from home, into the nonexistant shade that the high rise buildings should be offering on a day like this.

 

 

 

 

 

"................Fifty f*****g dollars." she replays over and over and over and over and......