This choice: Your mom wants you to see a psychiatrist • Go Back...Chapter #3Your mom wants you to see a psychiatrist by: chaos   The next couple days were spent in deep contemplation, or at least that’s what you told your parents as you stayed home from school and played video games. Life had kind of moved to a standstill for you as you waited to shrink to nothing. You hadn’t told your friends, unwilling to explain your bizarre medical condition to them. The whole idea of spending time with your family wasn’t happening as when they weren’t working they were calling up doctors and medical experts for some kind of miracle cure, which you considered was a waste of time. They had never been another case like yours in history, it wasn’t an epidemic, and so no one was rushing to find a cure. You were happy to stay right at home and wait for your fate, no reason to get over emotional.
A knock to your door woke you from your afternoon nap and you turned to see your mom walking. If she was hear to take you for more experiments you would tell her to forget it, but she wanted you to do something much worse.
“Peter, I’ve been talking with your father and we think you need to talk to someone about what you’re going through. I know how hard this is and you need someone to help you out of this terrible depression.”
“I’m not depressed,” you tell her. Sure, you weren’t exactly happy with your current situation, but you weren’t crying yourself to sleep or rocking back and forth denying what was happening. All things considered, you thought you were doing pretty well for yourself. Of course, what you felt didn’t matter when your mom thought differently.
“I know you’re just being strong for me and your father, but you need help dealing with all your pain. That’s why you’re going to see a specialist in helping you deal with the emotional problems you’re having.”
Mom! I’m not going to see some shrink!”
“She’s a psychiatrist, honey,” Your mother reassures you, but it doesn’t matter, she thinks you are having problems dealing with the situation and now she’s sending you to see someone that’s going to make you sit on her couch and talk about your dreams. You have nothing against psychiatrist, you sure as hell think your parents would be well suited to talk to one, but you don’t need this or want it. You’re happy with the way things are and don’t need to talk through anything that’s going on. You certainly don’t want to tell people about your condition, the less people that know the better in your mind. You're not so much embarrassed by it as you are worried about being seen as a freak.
“I’m not going and that’s final,” you tell your mom and cross your arms over your chest. You know you’re acting childish, but you can’t help it. You’ll let doctors poke and prod you, but you draw the line at this
“No video games or television then,” your mom counters, knowing how to play this game. You stare hard at her, trying to will her to change with your mind, but she stays strong. Once she gets an idea in her head no force was going to change her mind. Running your fingers through your hair, you sigh loudly and grumble, “When are we going?”
The next morning you're standing in front of a dinky looking building as your mom sits in her car behind you. “Julie... I mean Dr. Winters is on the top floor. She’s an old friend of mine from college and I think she has a degree in child psychiatry or something. I’m sure she’ll help you with all your personal demons.”
Under your breath you mutter, “The only demon I have is you.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” you quickly tell your mom, not wanting to piss her off. All you had to do was make it through one session and tell your parents this was pointless. You’ll be done in an hour and back home, away from prying, stupid shrinks.
“Have a good session, I’ll be back to pick you up at the end of your appointment at the end of the day. Have fun.” Before you could complain about your mom leaving you here for the entire day, she drove off, leaving you at the door of your own personal Hell. Groaning, you enter the building and head into the elevator, pushing the bottom for the top floor. You briefly consider just ditching this and taking a bus home, but that would just get you into trouble. Steadying yourself, you get off at your floor and head towards the only door you see, the one with ‘Doctor Winters’ in large, faded letters. Unenthusiastically, you knock.
“Come in.”
She sounds young, maybe in her late twenties or early thirties, can’t say for sure. At least you won’t be explaining your life to some old lady, which makes it better, kinda. Opening the door, you pause as you see Dr. Winters for the first time, your mind processing the strange, new person your mom has sent you to discus your innermost secrets.
“You must be Peter, take a seat.”
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