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Part 1: Hooked
I hate rain. Not for reasons most people would expect. Not because if you focus hard enough, you can smell the sulfurous residue it leaves behind, or because it only makes it about a million times harder to get to school on time, or even because of the sickly sweet aroma that seems to fill your lungs after it’s gone, and leaves the air so thick you almost feel as if you’re suffocating. No, I don’t consider myself so shallow a person to hate rain for such petty and trivial reasons. I hate rain because it is beautiful. Because it reminds me of everything in the world that’s good and pure and right. Everything I’m not.
Of course Dr. Fink is the last person I would ever share this bit of information with so I end up shrugging indifferently, hoping to appear apathetic towards his question.
Dr. Fink smiles back at me from across his desk, jotting down some insignificant observation he’s supposed to pretend is important and note it in his journal. He seemed to write down every spare detail of our sessions in that precious little book of his and I wondered if it was more to keep himself occupied during our oh-so-stimulating discussions or to actually help me. If I was the gambling type, my money would be on the first. But I’m not the gambling type. I only wish my problem was that simple.
“Come now Jocelyn, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.” Dr. Fink tries to appear genuinely concerned for my welfare, but the charade is wasted on me. If there is one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s knowing when a person was lying to me.
And Dr. Fink was lying.
“Is that what you really want to know Doc?” I ask curiously, leaning over the edge of my seat. “Or are you trying to use some of that medical school bull crap they teach you about appearing to care what your patient actually thinks about things as random as the weather, which have no relevant meaning to their actual therapy?”
Dr. Fink seems taken aback for a moment, then seeming to remember who he is talking to, continues. “Yes, I want to know. I want to get to know you, Jocelyn.”
Again with the lying. “You know what I think you really want to know Doc? I think you want to know how much time is left before my hour is up, because in exactly fifteen minutes the Mets game starts and that’s all you’ve been thinking about this entire session. You’ve been staring at that clock on the wall like a junkie stares at a fresh joint.” For a moment I’m left stunned at the words I’ve just spoken. It was a stupid, reckless statement and I curse myself for having let my guard down so easily. I register a look of satisfaction on Dr. Fink’s face and it only take me a second to realize why.
“That’s good Jocelyn, you’re finally getting comfortable with your problem.” Dr. Fink jots down his observations. It takes all my willpower not to jump from my seat and rip his book into shreds. As hard as I was trying not to get angry, I can already feel the blood rushing through my veins as my heart beats a million miles an hour.
“I don’t have a problem.” I reply evenly. I have several.
“Acceptance is the first step in recovery.”
“Did you get that from a shrink book? Are you going to solve all my problems with a five easy step formula?” I ask sarcastically.
“My methods are –”
“Your methods are crap.” I cut in angrily. “You sit behind a desk and listen to people’s problems, all the while glad they’re not your own, and you pretend to understand them because under no circumstances could you ever really understand them. Then you tell people not what they should do, not even what you would do, but what society has ordered as what they have to do to be considered “acceptable” again.”
Dr. Fink seems to have lost all means of producing speech, probably shocked that I have managed to say more than three words to him in a single session. But probably more shocked at the fact I am right. Because I had knack for knowing people, even better than themselves.
“I’m not stupid.” I say, getting up from my chair. “You people seem to think crack heads are pretty much dead weight to this world, worthless. We’re not, I assure you.”
“Is that what you think of all this, Jocelyn? That therapy is useless? That I really don’t care about you?” Dr. Fink asks. There is real concern in his voice.
“I think if you call me Jocelyn one more time your eyes will be so swollen shut you’ll have to hope the game is playing again tomorrow.” I reply moving towards the door. “Maybe you weren’t listening the first fifty times I told you, but my name is Jay.”
“So that’s it then, Jocelyn? You think I’m a waste of your time? That I prefer baseball to helping you recover because of your paranoia over my keeping track of time?”
I smile, more to myself than to Dr. Fink. “Well, that and the fact you’ve doodled a picture of at least half the players on the Mets team in that precious book of yours.”
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