I was never abused physically, sexually, emotionally, or anything like that. I’ve lived like a goddamn princess for most of my life with a good, stable, and happy family. My parents never divorced nor have they had any problems. I practically lived in fucking Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood.
I turn into a sick little game for most of the doctors I’ve seen. The human version of a Rubik’s cube. They want to be the one to solve the puzzle that is Flynn Amelia Fletcher. My life is like the Olympics where everyone is competing for a gold medal in psychoanalysis. They don’t actually care about me or why I am this way. They just want the satisfaction of the win.
The longer my list of doctors gets, the worse it gets. My first therapist was a man who looked like Freud and seemed to follow his practices as well. Barf. After him, I saw a woman doctor because my parents thought I might open up to someone I could relate to more: i.e. a person with a vagina. She wasn’t the worst of the bunch, but she was frustrated as hell with me.
How could a privileged white girl have this many problems with no real damage? Then she couldn’t handle my sarcastic retorts to her offensive questions. I thought dealing with people’s problems was, like, her job, but whatever. Thank you, next.
Each successive doctor had their own set of issues I couldn’t get past. Number three smelled like cottage cheese. Number six was a straight up Chester the Molester. Number ten didn’t even study adolescent psychology and I’m still unsure how I ended up in her office to begin with.
That brings us to lucky number eleven.
I’ve become even more skeptical as time goes on. If any of the previous ten prestigious doctors can’t figure me out, why bother? My parents should give up already.
Except Christopher and Alice Fletcher would sooner die than give up on one of their kids. I respect them for it; for being one of the few sets of stable parents in a world of deadbeats today.
Carson was the perfect first child. Meek and pliable from day one. Dark brown hair and light blue eyes. The perfect girl next door. A straight-A student without even getting a single detention.
Well, she was perfect until college when she got knocked up her first year. But my parents got over that when they met their granddaughter.
Then came Lucas. They were ready to stop there; one girl, one boy – the American dream, the perfect family. He was a troublemaker compared to Carson, but even he still got into a good college and got a good job with the perfect cookie cutter fiancée. The fun loving prankster hardly got in trouble, but I think he’s merely more clever and never got caught.
Then came me.
A vasectomy gone wrong plus nine months equals child number three.
My sophomore year of high school, I was expelled for punching Becca Smith in the eye during homecoming weekend because Sarah Miller told me Becca was sleeping with my boyfriend. Let’s just say that wasn’t my first offense. My parents sent me to Catholic school, which was the worst thing they could’ve done. Do you know how much sex and weed Catholic school kids have?
Then there was the time the cops caught me and my friends with said pot on a local park’s soccer field. We were underage and the cop was cool, but he still called our parents to pick us up. I didn’t bother lying – my parents knew I was smoking it. Hell, they even assumed I was the one to supply it.
They weren’t wrong.
That wasn’t my last run-in with the cops either. There was the public indecency incident, but to be fair, I was at the beach. I thought skinny dipping sounded fun, and it was. The cops didn’t agree with my choice to do it in the middle of the day on a family friendly beach, however.
There have been so many incidents over the course of my teenage years that I can’t even keep track of them all anymore. Yet, despite my rap sheet of events, my parents are most offended by the fact that I’ve forgone college. They think I’m throwing my life away, as if I’ve ever had a great track record with school.
And yet, here I am, hoping this new Dr. Whitmore will cure me. Not only from the drugs and fights, but Christopher and Alice are hoping he’ll persuade me to go back to school too. Sometimes they’re so delusional.
“Dr. Whitmore’s office is on the tenth floor. Please, try to take this seriously and give the man a chance. You don’t know what we’ve done to get you here today. At the very least, be nice to the man.” I turn my head to roll my eyes to prevent her from catching the action. “I’ll be back for you in an hour.”
The skyscraper before me is glass and full of various offices. The people employed here probably have dickhead bosses who wear Prada suits and have personal drivers. Doesn’t sound like a bad place to pick up a guy, actually.
I stroll through the front doors with purpose. Maybe I’ll finally meet the rich man I’m going to trick into settling down. I shiver at the thought. My parents would be ecstatic for one aspect of my life to have some normalcy. Not to mention, they’ve never been thrilled by my relationships in the past, but a rich man with a career would do the trick.
But marriage? Barf.
It’s not like I’m against marriage and monogamy, per se. It’s just that I get bored easily. No one’s been able to keep my interest or attention longer than one night. Damon came close, but even he’s
