Chapter 9
Aston
“I Touch Myself” by the Divinyls
came on the radio today.
[song lyrics redacted due to copyright laws]
I’ve never felt so seen.
So understood.
So validated.
PRESENT DAY
OCTOBER
“I’ve gotta say, this is quite an impressive rap sheet for someone so young.”
Sprawled out in a leather armchair, I pop the bubblegum left over from my Blow Pop and give Dr. Benson, Grady Prep’s school psychologist, a winning smile. “Yeah, I’ve been told I’m kind of a lot.”
From behind his mahogany desk, he flips through my file that finally arrived, as if he hasn’t spent however long he’s had it, scouring and memorizing everything there is to know about lil ol’ me.
Come on, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know he’s been chomping at the bit to get my life story. Seeing as I’m not the most reliable of narrators… making our first two sessions all but pointless.
“Let’s see…” he begins reading out loud. “Complex PTSD on account of prolonged abuse with a comorbid psychotic disorder not otherwise specified.”
My brows flare lightly. I’m surprised. Usually, my therapists aren’t so…forthcoming. Last time I asked to see what was written—you know, as should be my right—I was told they didn’t want to “trigger an episode.”
In other words, they were worried I’d flip my shit and claw their faces off.
As if.
It’s gonna take a little bit more than telling me what’s wrong with me to set me off.
Dr. Benson is still going, reading my chart aloud like he’s telling me a bedtime story. “Including but not limited to the presentation of delusions of grandeur—”
I roll my eyes. I’m not delulu, I’m fabulous. It’s called having confidence. Sorry not sorry.
“—paranoid and disorganized thought and behavior patterns,” he goes on. “High, unpredictable emotional lability that can lead to unprovoked violent outbursts…” He drags off with a pointed tone, flicking me a glance at me over his thin-wired frames.
Unprovoked, my ass.
He clicks his tongue, turning his attention back to my file.
His eyes dart all over the page, eating it up.
“Attachment disorder…with RADA scores indicating high disinhibition, and an inability to form meaningful, lasting relationships with others, on account of severe emotional neglect during his formative years.”
Groaning, I throw my head back to stare at the ceiling.
“A history of depression and anxiety. Panic attacks when confined to small, enclosed spaces…” His voice trails off so he can take a breath, before continuing.
“There’s also evidence of an underlying personality disorder,” he goes on, ticking off his fingers as he recites: “Narcissism. Obsessive tendencies. Promiscuity.”
I gasp. Rude!
Don’t they know slut shaming is so not fetch?
“A general lack of regard for his own health and safety, as indicated by past instances of self-ha—”
“UGH,” I explode. “Can we not?”
Scratch what I said. Maybe I don’t want to hear all this.
I throw up my hands, barking out a harsh laugh. “You’re a glorified guidance counselor, not Dr. Phil.”
Unfazed by my outburst, he cuts me a pointed look from under his lashes.
“And a seemingly selective lack of remorse for his actions,” he goes on, slapping the folder closed.
Straightening, he leans back and cocks his head, folding his arms across his chest. “Not to mention a history of significant dissociation resulting in lost periods of time and gaps in memory.”
Staring dead into his judgy eyes, my lips twitch, and I shrug as if to say, What can you do?
He arches a brow. “And here I thought this job would be boring.”
And there it is.
Despite his best efforts to appear more mature with his gold-wired glasses, sweater vest, and slicked back dark hair, thanks to Chatty Cathy, the guidance office secretary, I know he’s only twenty-six.
And this is his first job in the field. He’d only received his Ph.
D last spring, from UPenn, and just so happened to be lucky enough to stumble upon an opening here thanks to the previous school psychologist starting her own practice.
My smile edges into something dangerous as I lower my chin to my chest, peering up at him through my lashes. “You won’t fix me.”
“Who said I wanted to?”
“So, I’m a lab rat then?”
“Never said that either.”
I shake my head. “You’re all the same.”
“Therapists? Or men?”
I tense at that. “Careful,” I whisper, meeting his gaze, this time not bothering to hide how annoyed I’m getting.
My smile remains as I tilt my head. “You don’t want to…
say the wrong thing.” I widen my eyes, chomping hard on my gum, ensuring I look as insane as my file implies.
“I might go…boom.” I mouth the final word, bugging my eyes.
Dr. Dickwad’s lips twist like he’s fighting a sneer, or maybe a smile of his own.
Is he laughing at me?
Well, fuck me, that’s new.
Sitting back, I gulp down my gum and clench my jaw, gripping the arms of my chair, my shoulder and neck muscles tensing.
Yeah, I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.
He’s supposed to monitor me, as per the conditions of my enrollment.
I.E. weekly check-ins every Monday in lieu of my first period.
That’s it. I already have a therapist and psychiatrist I check in with, who oversee my treatment.
But I could tell from the moment I walked into this drafty office that Dr. Leopold Benson was going to be a problem.
The young, green ones always are—they just can’t help themselves.
They take one look at someone like me, with a history like mine, and suddenly they’re an expert, determined to prove themselves and do what was never done before.
Cure the incurable.
Removing his glasses, he sets them on a stack of papers, and leans forward, clasping his hands atop my closed file. “Look, Aston. I’m going to be perfectly honest with you here. I don’t care about your past.”
I cough to mask my snort. Bullshit. Everyone cares. It’s all anyone fucking cares about.
It doesn’t matter that I was a minor when I killed someone, or that it happened because I was pushed to my breaking point. For whatever reason, no one can just let it go. My past. What I did. The why of it all…
They just keep pushing and prodding and poking.
Dr. Benson must see the skepticism written all over my face, because he’s quick to reiterate, “I don’t. From what I’ve read, I actually…pity you.”
I flinch.
Wow. Okay.
“The system failed you.”
I clutch my chest and gasp. “It did?”
“Big time,” he goes on as if I didn’t say anything. “But that’s no excuse for your behavior going forward. That’s where I come in. That is my job. To understand your needs and your triggers, and to see how we can best accommodate them in order to ensure the safety of our student body and faculty.”
I let my hands thump to my lap, and glance away, jaw tightening. Right…
“Does that bother you?”
“What?”
“That it’s not your safety I’m concerned with.”
I turn a narrowed look on him. He says it casually enough. Yet, I can’t help but feel like I’m being tested.
Slowly, I shake my head.
He hums, eyes flashing with some kind of awareness. “Interesting.”
“What?” I bite out, sneering. “Does it surprise you that I don’t actually want to fuck this all up?”
His brows spike, and I scowl through a wince, silently berating myself for walking into his trap.
Shake it off. He’s trying to evoke a reaction. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Don't give him anything more than what can be obtained from that file. Let him draw his own conclusions.
“It says a month prior to your release, they lowered your Zyprexa dosage. And upped your Ambien and Zoloft.”
Not expecting him to change the subject so abruptly, it takes me a moment to respond, “Yeah, and?”
“Why?”
I shrug. “Apparently, I was getting a little you know.” And I stick my arms out in front of me, let my head droop, and groan.
He arches a brow, clearly not very impressed by my impersonation of a zombie.
I spread my hands. “Antidepressants be like that sometimes.”
“Zyprexa is an antipsychotic.”
I cock my head, with a scrunch of my face. “Really?”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
I click my tongue. “The world may never know.”
Obviously, I know what fucking Zyprexa is, douchebag.
I’ve only sampled just about every crazy med on the market before finding one that worked for my brand of crazy. And with minimal side-effects to boot.
You know, before it stopped working.
Talk about finding a needle in a needle stack. If it’s not weight gain, it’s weight loss. If it’s not insomnia, it’s sedation. If it’s not anxiety, it’s euphoria (I’m a fan of this one, if I must say myself). If you don’t want to kill yourself, it will find a way to kill you…and so on and so forth.
You get the picture.
And to be honest, unless I’m throwing my guts up or rocking in a corner trying to claw my way out of my skin, I’ve more or less gotten to the point where I hardly even notice when the meds are fucking me up more than helping me. Much less notice when the docs change things up.
It’s not like I’ve ever had any say about what’s being pumped into my body, so why bother worrying about it? It was happening whether I liked it or not.
Heck, if I do notice, it’s usually only after the fact. When I suddenly wake up one day, feeling like me again. After having never even realized I’d lost myself to begin with.
“I wonder…” Dr. Benson starts to say, pulling me from my thoughts.
When he doesn’t elaborate, I roll my eyes and look away, seeking out the clock on the wall.
“Look, Doc. I’m well aware of what’s at stake here, and why I have to keep seeing you, and taking my meds, and blah blah blah.
” My voice is strained, my smile even more so when I turn my focus back on him.
“You have nothing to worry about, ’kay? I’ll be God’s perfect little angel. Scout’s honor.”
And with that, I grab my bag from the floor and jump up.
“Aston, we’re not fin—”
The bell rings, and he closes his eyes.