A Slightly Sarcastic Saturday

                    

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It's one thing when parents take sides and unite against you. But when your own mother sides with the enemy(that being Dr. Elliot), she's practically saying "hey, I know you're my daughter and all, but fuck you!". Come on, mom! I know what you're thinking, I'm on a constant downward spiral. You don't even know the half of it.

Today I had a visit with my therapist. I have a visit with this woman who has the most annoyingdelusions of grandeur, every week. In lamer terms, it means she talks a whole bunch of shit that she really isn't familiar with. Dr. Elliot is basically a fake Dr. Know-it-all. Sure, she has a degree, but lumping me with all of the other troubled teens she has dealt with doesn't seem to be doing much for me. And the most it's doing for her is lining her pockets with oodles of cash.

Okay, so I'm sitting in this vacant waiting area. So vacant in fact, that I swear I saw a tumble weed roll by; tumbling to the tune of a whistling wind. My arms are sprouting goosebumps because whomever controls the thermostat must be a 45 year old divorcee with menopause. Just before hypothermia sets in, Dr. Elliot steps out to let me know she's ready for me. Oh really, Dr. Elliot? It took you this long to "get ready" for me? What were you doing, stuffing illegal narcotics up your arsehole? Because I've been ready for over an hour!

Once I'm inside her dull and lifeless office, I realize it's quite warm and toasty. God forbid the doctor gets cold. She might not be able to perform her therapeutic duties correctly. Therefore leading her to prescribe some Schizophrenic psychopath Flintstones vitamins instead of his usual medication. Which in my opinion they probably need to change up anyway, because I've never seen a schizo act remotely sane.

"How's the diary coming, Abygail?" Dr. Elliot droned, which made me raise an eyebrow. "Haven't we discussed this, Patricia?" I said with a scowl on my face. "Abygail, I'm your doctor. You can call me Dr. Elliot." Patricia scolded. Who the hell does she think she is? "Well, I'm your patient, Patricia. Shouldn't you have some obligation to adhere to my demands, if you will." I scolded back in a mockery of her voice. "What might those demands be, Abygail?" she said curiously, as if she didn't already know. Is this woman trying to admit me to the loony bin!? "Dammit! Don't call me Abygail!" I shrieked. It's not like me to lose my temper. Most days I'm cool, calm, and collected. Even when I have a piece of shit therapist spiting me. "There is no need to shout." she says calmly, leaving outAbygail this time. I simply shake my head as if I'm disappointed with her and hold up a finger. "Let's count." I say. "How many times can you remember.." I count to three on my fingers. "..me asking you to call me Abyie?" I find it amusing that she doesn't respond. Instead she refers back to the "diary". Maybe I should yell at her again for not calling it a journal.

"Well I'm wasting a good portion of my limited free time, writing...if that's what you're asking." I said as if I has already decided I wasn't going to let this conversation go anywhere. Usually, If Dr. Elliot thought she wasn't going to make progress that day, she'd let me leave early. Let's just say I pushed for an early release every week. "I was actually wondering if it might have been helping you." Dr. Elliot pushed. Okay, she's lost it. The first time she proposed this preposterous idea, I told her it wasn't going to help. It honestly doesn't take a doctor to see that. "Quite the contrary, actually." I say while crossing my legs and resting the palms of my hands on my knee. I knew my annoying mannerisms got to her, so I tried to sneak in as many as possible. "Well let's discuss the issues you're having with the diary assignment. Maybe I can help get you on track." she says politely.

"Get me on track? I'm not a fucking train, you moron! It's not like your fucking "diary assignment" derailed me!" I shout, throwing my hands into the air. She simply sighs and adjusts her glasses, fiddles with her notepad and then looks at me. "I think that will be all for today, Abyie." she murmurs, squinting at the notepad, now. Without a word I walk out, not caring if she had anything further to say.

On the way home I saw Declan. Since I refuse to drive anywhere, I spend a lot of time walking, which often times results in my being a creepy observer. He was with a group of friends at this ice cream parlor near Dr. Elliot's office. I love that ice cream parlor, but I hated the ice cream he was eating. It was actually the only bad flavor combination they had. Chocolate and strawberry cheesecake. Yes, chocolate cheesecake is delicious, but transform it into ice cream and it's the most disgusting thing, next to childbirth. For some reason the sight of him eating this monstrosity made me want to walk right over to him and shove the pointy end of the waffle cone down his throat. 

Instead of getting arrested for attempted murder, I entered the ice cream parlor and ordered a mint Oreo cone. Aside from Delcan, there was no one I knew in the parlor. Lucky for me, I never had an aversion to sitting alone in public. So after my cone was ready I sat down and silently thanked him for tempting me to come in. Because mint Oreo ice cream cones are delicious! While I was ordering, I felt his eyes on me. But not the whole time; just briefly. About five minutes into my cone, him and his friends were finishing up, leaving me to my sweet solitude. With the exception of the always silent ice cream scooper, of course. "Is that any good?" I heard someone say. and when I looked up, it wasDeclan standing at the edge of my round table. "Yep, you should try it sometime." I managed with a mouthful of mint Oreo. "I was just asking because it looks kind of disgusting." he giggled, clearly not trying to be a jerk. "Well it's a lot better than that chocolate cheesecake shit you were eating." I said in the bitchiest tone I could muster. He laughed. It was obvious that it took a lot to offend him, not that I was trying. "How did you know what flavor I had?" he asked. 

"Because I'm a fucking rocket scientist." I said flatly. "What does rocket science have to do with ice cream?" he asked with a raised brow. "Not a goddamn thing." I said, as I left the ice cream parlor.

As I walked through my front door, I was feeling pretty great, with a belly full of mint Oreo ice cream. However, I guess my mother decided that it wasn't a good day for me to be feeling triumphant. "Abygail Elise Saturday!" she yelled in that motherly tone. Usage of the middle name assured me that I was in some sort of trouble. Was she mad that I didn't offer to get her any ice cream? "Oh hey, mom." I said, trying to play coy. "I just got a call from Dr. Elliot." she said, super pissed off. I simply pretended to vomit. "This is not funny, Abyie!" she yelled. "You cannot keep doing this! I don't pay for therapy just so you can undermine your therapist!" her face was turning red now. That always happened when she was contemplating ringing my neck.

"Well then stop paying her to play doctor. It's quite evident that I don't need her." I shrugged. "She is a doctor, Abyie! And either you start paying her some respect and taking those sessions seriously or I'll have to side with your father on sending you to a rehabilitation facility where you can get some serious help." she sighed. My father is such a fucking numb-skull. Who sends their kid to rehab because her brother died. How come I was the only one in the house who needed help coping with his death? "Real classy, mom." I said as I threw my bag down and stomped up the stairs, slamming my door for effect.

I'm Abyie Saturday, and I approve this message.