Author's Note: There is an excess of bad language in here! So sorry!
"And I just miss him so much!" my new patient, Karesa, cried. I took a deep breath and rubbed her back. She collapsed on me. "Oh God!" Even though I was quite used to being around people sobbing, her constant moaning and hyperventilating made me wince. I rubbed her back soothingly. "Sweetie, how many siblings do you have?"
Karesa slowly sat up, sniffing and wiping her nose and eyes on the back of her hand. She wiped it on her pants. I just didn't get it. A Kleenex box was sitting not even a foot away, but she still used her hand. Her eyes blinked at me a few times. "Eleven. Five brothers and six sisters," she wiped her nose again, "and I'm the fifth child."
"So you never got much attention, did you?"
"No," she scowled. "My parents were always too busy with my other siblings. My youngest sister got the most attention. They were always praising her and giving her every fucking thing on God's green earth that she wanted. They make me sick. My whole fucking family. They make me sick."
I took in another deep breath and nodded. "Neglected," I jotted down.
"Have you talked to them at all about this?"
"Are you joking? I would never talk to them. I can't talk to them. And if I tried to talk they'd just make some lame-ass excuse or deny it. But I know they know how I feel."
"Did any of your other siblings do drugs?"
Karesa frowned suspiciously. "Why are you asking me these questions?"
"I'm just curious. To help you I need to get your background."
"Oh. Well," Karesa sighed. Suddenly her nails became the most interesting thing in the world. "One of my brothers died from overdosing. He was the oldest. He hated our parents more than I do."
The door opened and Dawn stuck her head in. "Your next patient is ready for you in room 2."
I smiled at her and nodded. Dawn left and I turned back to Karesa. "We will finish this next week, 'kay?"
"Okay."
We both got up and strode over to the door. I opened it for her and bid farewell to her in the hallway.
"He won't talk."
I was so startled by the voice that came behind me that I jumped and squealed. I heard Dawn laughing and swatted her as she came up next to me. "What?" I asked, laughing.
"This guy. He won't talk to anyone."
"He's mute?"
"Yup."
"Great. So today I have a three wailing, depressed, and neglected teens and a mute adult. Fabulous."
"Hey, you asked for this job."
"Oh, whatever. Anyway," I sighed as I stopped at room 2. "Come get me in an hour."
I tugged on the silver door handle and the wood door swung open. My eyes focused on a man, standing at about six feet or six foot one, with dirty blonde hair. He was facing the window, staring out at the rainy afternoon, so his back was to me. His hands were clasped behind his back. A dark blue shirt hung on his skinny frame and khakis outlined his legs.
"Started raining?" I asked, as I tossed his folder onto the table. The room was fairly small, but had enough room for a couch by the window and a chair sitting across from it with tables next to both the chair and the couch and a coffee table in between. At the far left corner of the room, next to the door, was a tall table with a coffee maker and supplies. I set to making myself a cup of coffee. "Any coffee for you?" I asked the man. He still did not respond to me. For a minute I wasn't even sure if he had heard me. Even though I had no response from him, I made two cups of coffee and set one on the coffee table and carried one with me over to the window where he still stood. I put a hand on his shoulder lightly. "Sir?" I had not looked at his name, as I never do with patients. I always thought that it would make the patient more comfortable if they could introduce themselves to me.
The patient finally turned towards me. I looked into his eyes and upon realizing who he was, dropped my hand and stepped back from him. It was Taylor. Taylor Hanson. The Taylor who had broken my heart by cheating on me. I immediately wanted to slap him, but I held back. He was my patient now. Not my ex-boyfriend.
"Um, um," I fumbled. I watched him as he stepped closer to me, eyes wide with guilt, passion, sorrow, and amazement. My breathing quickened and I was overcome by indecision. I stuck my hand out at him. "Hi, I'm Dr. Becker. But you can call me Corrine. All of my patients do." ,p>He looked at my hand with disgust. "Don't treat me like I'm just another patient, Corrine. What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I work here and since you would not cooperate with any of the other counselors, you were assigned to me," I took a deep breath, "So unless you can start cooperating with someone else, you're stuck with me." I watched as a frown covered his face. "Why don't you sit down?"
Taylor slowly walked over to the couched and plopped himself down. I sat in the chair, sighing. Looking at his chart I noticed the name. "J. Taylor Hanson", it read. How stupid of me. In my mind, I immediately erased my policy of not looking at the names first. Suddenly it seemed like a dumb idea.
"Why don't you tell me why you're here?" I uncapped my pen and held it poised at the paper.
"I don't know why I'm here. My family put me here."
"Okay. Why don't you tell me why you think they put you here?"
"God damn it, Corrine! Stop playing psychologist!"
"But I'm not playing… I am a psychologist."
Taylor glared at me. "Well stop doing that, that thing that you're doing. It's patronizing and I refuse to be treated that way."
"Taylor, I can't help you unless you answer my God damn questions! I am stuck in this position and so are you. So let's just try to make the best out of it. Now why did your family put you here?"
Taylor sucked in a breath and glared at me. "I'm depressed. And apparently I drink too much."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Yes, why?"
Taylor sighed again. "Because… I don't know! I'm just depressed and I just drink too much. That's all there is to it."
"There can't be, Taylor. Every alcoholic has a reason to drink. Every depressed person has a reason to be depressed."
"It's called a chemical imbalance, Dr. Becker," he smirked.
I tensed and took in a deep breath. "Okay. Well when did you start drinking?"
"That's none of your business."
"Yes it is. Your family made it my business. When did you start drinking?"
"I don't care what the hell my family says is your business, but I'm telling you it's not."
"Was it right after Miranda dumped your ass?"
"Fuck you!"
"Fuck yourself. Now answer my question."
"No."
"Okay, then I'll just go call your mother."
I started getting up but Taylor's voice stopped me. "After we broke up."
"What?"
"I was depressed after we broke up. When we were in a hotel, one of our friends came to hang with us and dared me to drink one of the little bottles of Jack Daniels. So I did… but then I ended up drinking mostly all of the little bottles that were in the refrigerator. And then it just kind of got worse. About three months ago I was drunk out of my mind. Zac tried to stop me, but I got my keys away from him and I tried to drive home. But it didn't work. I ran my car off the road and almost got killed," Taylor sighed.
I finished jotting Taylor's story down and looked back up at him. He had his head hung and was examining his fingernails like they were breasts or something. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to decide what to say next.
"So why are you depressed?"
"I already told you, damn it. It's a fucking imbalance."
"No need to swear, Taylor, I'm trying to help you here."
"Yeah, great job."
"You know, I can see why the other psychologists dumped you off. You are being impossible, Taylor."
"Well what else do you want me to say?" Taylor yelled, looking me steadily in the eye.
"I want you to tell me what the hell is wrong with you! There is not a God damned thing you can say but I won't believe that all you have is a chemical imbalance! And you can't say that you just liked drinking. What the hell happened, Taylor? What happened?"
I watched as Taylor's chin started to quiver. "I don't know! God, I don't know! Why won't you people just leave me alone?"
"Fine, Taylor," I said, getting up. "Go back to being a depressed drunk. When you die of a fucking drunk driving accident, you won't see me at your funeral." I went over to the door, opened it, and slammed it behind me. I leaned against the wall for a minute, my arms folded against my chest. If only I wasn't the only other psychologist at the firm.