Twelve Sessions, 1/? (2017-01-20)

Mandatory therapy.

And that’s just.

Well that’s just fucking peachy, isn’t it? After the absolute clusterfuck that this entire month has been.

Eating like an asshole college student, living off of cheap ramen and energy drinks. Sleeping only when the sheer weight of exhaustion threatens to smother me to death.

At one point I literally forgot how to count to ten, but that was fine considering all you need to keep the beat is an eight count and there are only five people on my team.

Were.

But it’s all fine.

Now I get to waste an hour every week talking to a stranger who’s just doing this to fill some bullshit quota from the court.

Mandatory therapy.

Like any amount of therapy can fucking help.

“Wow,” says what’s-her-face, I don’t need to know her name, just the time and place of these damn meetings, “You look fucking exhausted.”

“No shit, dumbass,” I spit back, before the words catch up to me. Fuck. Is that going to get back to the judge?

… wait a second. Is she even allowed to talk to me like that?

“Today’s meeting clearly isn’t going to do fuck-all for anyone,” she says, calm, and maybe this past month has altered my brain to the point where I can’t even hear normal sentences without cussing being sprinkled in. Auditory hallucinations. That’s a thing, I think?

“Take a nap,” she says, waving over at the deflated, lumpy turd of a couch. It looks like she scavenged it from the curb, or ransacked some color-blind old lady’s dumpster.

It doesn’t smell like it, which is something at least; I check before taking a seat directly in the middle.

“What, really?” I ask, before tipping over to lay across the couch.

“Well I’m pretty sure you’re not going to tell me shit, so you might as well,” she says with a shrug. And, well, yeah. She does have a point.

Another wave, this one dismissing, “I’ll wake you up in fifty minutes.”

Normally, I can’t sleep around strangers–definitely not without my team to watch my back–but it’s as if now every time I get anywhere near horizontal my brain just switches off. The quiet and, admittedly, soothing sounds of paperwork don’t help much either.

I try to stay awake–pretty sure I even manage to do so for ten minutes–but it’s as if I just blinked and suddenly what’s-her-face is calling my name and waking me up. Good instincts, to not touch me. I don’t know what would’ve happened.

“Nap time’s over, Mister Ives,” she says, and there’s something about it that just.

“Don’t,” I cough out, throat clogged and gritty with even that little amount of sleep, “Don’t call me that.”

She sends me a look, unimpressed and annoyed, “I’m not fucking calling you Apex.”

She may as well have slapped me. “Not that either,” because I don’t need that shit right now, “Just call me Curtis, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Well that’s not my name,” she says, and that’s… is that a fucking joke?

“I’m Simone Tallis. For when you get sick of calling me what’s-her-face in your head.”

Lucky guess.

“Now get the fuck out of my room. This session’s up.”

~

A/N: This is a highly fictionalized example of counseling. This does not reflect on anyone in real life. This is not an appropriate way for a therapist to speak to their patient. Nor is it polite for a patient to speak to their therapist this way.

Basically the equivalent of “do not do this at home,” except for therapy.

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