Dear Diary, My therapist is a f*****g idiot …
I studied the mostly blank page in front of me, the congealed ink from that erased expletive now smeared across my fingertips and making a sticky mess. I considered rubbing the excess across the front of my school jersey but knew that Mum would chuck a mental come laundry day.
That would serve her right, though. Seeing a therapist was her stupid idea, one encouraged wholeheartedly by my
father, who was certain that I had more issues than the weekly gossip rag. They were blindly led by the misconception that my nail-picking, nostril-flaring therapist was a superhero with a prescription pad, destined to protect my precarious mental health, but they were wrong.
Dr Chalmers is a flame-haired geek, fixated on tinkering with my mind, like a toddler preoccupied with the possibilities of their bellybutton hidey-hole. She’d been the one to suggest this diary writing campaign, that I should probe at my thoughts and feelings, bring forth my innermost demons, and capture them in messy italic. What I suspected really fascinated the good doctor was my reluctance to talk at all.
Oh, yes. Dr Chalmers could poke and prod all she liked and try to uncover my secret—my condition—but that was
something I could never allow. You see, people who discover my secret tend to get dead pretty quick.