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“There’s nothing else.”
I hear Dr. Marsh sigh, “I won’t push you, Lucy, but I just really feel . . .”
“Everyone thinks they know what’s best for me,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry?”
“Everyone thinks they know what’s best for me,” I repeat. “Everyone else figured out I was unhappy before I did, because apparently I was stressingmyselfout. I was givingmyselfpanic attacks. Turns out I’ve been broken long before my dad died, that’s just what did me in.”
“You’re not broken, Lucy.”
I open my eyes and the tears fall. “I am, though. I put all this stress on myself to be as perfect as possible all the time. I thought my dad would be proud of me if I followed in his footsteps and that’s why I should go into the medical field. That’s what I told myself anyway, that I was doing it for him. But I wasn’t. I was doing it because I was scared.”
“And what were you scared of?” Dr. Marsh asks gently.
“I’ve always known I wanted to be an author. But I treated writing as just a hobby, and I told myself that it wasn’t a practical career path to pursue. That I couldn’t make a living off it. Ironically, pursuing a career as a surgeon seemed like the safer choice.”
“You didn’t want to fail.”
“What?”
“You wanted to pursue writing, but you didn’t want to fail, so you claimed you were doing everything, making all these decisions, based on what you thought your father expected from you.”
“Y-yeah. I guess so.”
Dr. Marsh leans back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. She tilts her head a little to the side and I sniff.
“Can I have a tissue?” I ask.
She smiles and hands me the box. “You’re writing again, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
I blow my nose loudly and she cringes slightly.
“And you’re going to go to the beach this weekend no matter what my suggestion is.”
“Yes.”
“Then take your notebooks, or your laptop, or whatever you write on, and write. If you insist on taking Wyatt with you, fine. But please, Lucy, don’t use him as another excuse to not pursue the one thing you really want. Okay?”
“I’m not . . . I don’t . . .”
“You’ve spent too long coming up with excuses. Your dad was right, you need to figure out what makes you happy and chase it. And I think writing is what makes you happy, so go after it, honey.”
“You’re a little scary sometimes, did you know that?”
Dr. Marsh laughs and shakes her head. She reaches behind her again and opens up her notebook, scribbling some things down while I blow my nose again.
“So, do you want to talk about your mother now?”
“Absolutely not. I think we’ve done enough ground breaking for one day, don’t you?”
Dr. Marsh smirks and shakes her head at me. “Whatever you say, Lucy. I’m sure we’ll have a lot to discuss next week. Have a good long weekend.”
And on that ominous note, I ended our session.
Chapter Twenty-Two
