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But though we may share the same gene pool, I am nothing like my grandmother.
NOTHING.
Friday, April 28, the limo home from
Dr. Knutz’s office
Dr. K, as usual, was less than sympathetic to my problems. He seems to feel I’ve brought them all down upon myself.
Why can’t I have a nice, normal therapist, who asks me, “And how do you feel about that?” and hands me anti-anxiety medication, like everyone else I go to school with?
Oh, no. I have to have the one therapist in all of Manhattan who doesn’t believe in psychopharmaceuticals. And who thinks every crummy thing that happens to me (lately, anyway) is my own fault for not being emotionally honest with myself.
“How is my boyfriend not asking me to our senior prom my fault for not being honest with my emotions?” I asked him at one point.
“When he asks you,” Dr. Knutz said, countering my question with another question, in classic psychotherapist style, “are you going to say yes?”
“Well,” I said, feeling uncomfortable. (Yes! I am honest enough with myself to admit I felt uncomfortable at that question!) “I really don’t want to go to the prom.”
“I think you’ve answered your own question,” he said, a self-satisfied gleam shining behind the lenses of his glasses.
What is that even supposed to mean? How does that help me?
I’ll tell you: It doesn’t.
And you know what else? I’m just going to say it:
Therapy doesn’t help me anymore.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. There was a time when it did, when Dr. K’s long rambling stories about the many horses he’d owned really helped me through my depression and what was going on with my dad and Genovia and the rumors about him and our family having known about Princess Amelie’s declaration all along—not to mention getting me through the SATs and the college application process and losing Michael and Lilly and all of that.
Maybe since I’m not depressed anymore and the pressure’s off (somewhat) and he’s a child psychologist and I’m not really a kid anymore—or won’t be after Monday—I’m just ready to cut the cord now. Which is why our last therapy session is next week.
Anyway.
I tried to ask him what I should do about choosing a college, and the thing Grandmère had brought up, about getting Michael to sell one of his CardioArms to Genovia in time for Dad’s election, and if I should just tell people the truth about Ransom My Heart.
Instead of offering constructive advice, Dr. K started telling me this long story about a mare he’d once had named Sugar, this thoroughbred he’d bought from a dealer who everyone said was such a great horse, and he knew was a great horse, too.
On paper.
Even though on paper Sugar was this fantastic horse, Dr. Knutz could just never find his place in the saddle with her, and their rides were totally uncomfortable, and eventually he had to sell her, because it wasn’t fair to Sugar, as he’d started avoiding her, and riding all his other horses instead.
Seriously. What does this story have to do with me?
Plus, I’m so sick of horse stories I could scream.
And I still don’t know where I’m going to go to college, what I’m going to do about J.P. (or Michael), or how I’m going to stop lying to everyone.
Maybe I should just tell people I want to be a romance writer? I mean, I know everyone laughs at romance writers (until they actually read a romance). But what do I care? Everyone laughs at princesses, too. I’m pretty much used to it by now.
But…what if people read my book and think it’s about…I don’t know.
Me?
Because it’s so not. I don’t even know how to shoot a bow and arrow (despite the erroneous movies made of my life).
Who would even name a horse Sugar? That’s a little bit cliché, right?
