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And his response was to ask me if I’d given any thought to the story he’d told me last week about his horse, Sugar.
“Because as I was explaining, Mia,” Dr. Knutz went on, “sometimes a relationship that seems perfect on paper doesn’t always work out in reality, just like Sugar looked like a perfect horse on paper, but in real life, we just didn’t click.”
SUGAR! I pour my heart out about my romantic travails (and pain-in-the-butt grandmother), and Dr. Knutz still can’t talk about anything but his stupid horses.
“Dr. K,” I said. “Can we talk about something else besides horses for a minute?”
“Of course, Mia,” he said.
“Well,” I said. “My parents have told me I have to pick out a college to go to by Dad’s election—and my prom. And I can’t decide. I mean, it seems as if every school that let me in only did so because I’m a princess—”
“But you don’t know that to be true,” Dr. Knutz said.
“No, but with my SAT score
s, it’s pretty obvious—”
“We’ve discussed this before, Mia,” Dr. Knutz said. “You know you’re supposed to be concentrating on not obsessing over things you have no control over. What, in fact, are you supposed to do instead?”
I raised my gaze to the painting behind his head, of a herd of stampeding mustangs. How many hours have I gazed at that painting over the past twenty-one months, wishing it would fall on his head? Not enough to hurt him. Just enough to startle him.
“Accept the things I cannot change,” I said. “And pray for the courage to change the things I can, as well as the wisdom to know the difference.”
The thing is…I know this is good advice. It’s called the Serenity Prayer, and it really does put things in perspective (it’s supposed to be for recovering alcoholics, but it helps recovering freakoutaholics, like me, as well).
But honestly, it’s something I could have told myself.
What’s becoming more clear to me every day now is that I’ve graduated. Not just from high school and princess lessons, but from therapy, too. Not that I’m self-actualized or anything, because Lord knows, I’m not…I don’t believe anyone can ever achieve self-actualization anymore. Not and still be a thinking, learning human being.
I’ve just realized the truth, which is: No one can help me. My problems are just too weird. Where am I going to find a therapist with experience helping an American girl who finds out she is, in fact, a princess of a small European country, who also has a mother who married her Algebra teacher, a father who can’t commit to romantic relationships at all, a best friend who won’t speak to her, an ex-boyfriend she can’t stop kissing in a Central Park carriage, a boyfriend who wrote a play revealing intimate details about them, and a grandmother who is certifiably insane?
Nowhere. That’s where.
I have to solve my own problems from now on. And you know what? I’m pretty sure I’m ready.
But I didn’t want Dr. Knutz to feel bad, because he had helped me a lot, in the past. So I said, “Dr. Knutz. Would you mind looking at a text message with me?”
“Not at all,” he said.
So we opened Michael’s message together.
It said:
Mia,
I’m not sorry.
And I’ll wait.
Love,
Michael
Wow.
Also…wow.
Even Dr. Knutz agreed. Although I doubt Michael’s note made his heart pound faster—Mi-chael, Mi-chael, Mi-chael—the way it did mine.
