Young Writers Society

“Well, have a seat,” Dr. Hopper invited, gesturing for Bridget to sit on the sofa. The room was cozy and welcoming, with bookshelves lining the green-and-gold striped walls and a desk in one corner. A brown leather sofa and a few matching comfy chairs surrounded a small coffee table. Everything was simply and tastefully decorated.

Still quite unsure of herself, Bridget sat on the edge of the sofa, straight-backed, with her hands folded in her lap. Dr. Hopper sat in a chair that was facing the door, at a right angle to her. “So you’re Bridget Maxwell,” he said.

Bridget opened her mouth to reply, “And you’re Dr. Hopper,” but it sounded so silly in her head that she feared it would be intolerably silly aloud. Instead, she lowered her eyes and nodded.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from the Sisters,” Dr. Hopper went on, “But I want to know this from you: Why are you here? What do you want out of this?”

Oh, they’ve probably told him all about how clumsy and ridiculous I am, Bridget thought in embarrassment, How much I trouble I cause. That’s why they sent me to a psychologist. “I can’t do anything right,” she replied.

“And…you would like to be able to do things…‘right’?” Dr. Hopper presumed.

Bridget giggled a bit because there was something funny about the way he put it. “Well, I’m clumsy,” she tried to explain, “And terribly nervous, so every time I try to do something, I mess it up…” she faltered, wondering if this really was her problem. “Well, I don’t know…” she added, “I’m just confused about everything. And I always expect to mess things up.”

“Why be so sure you’ll mess up?”

“Well, because I always do.” Even as she said this, Bridget felt a stab of regret for forgetting her appointment that day and making Mother Superior have to come out and find her. It was the sort of thing that seemed to happen all the time with her. She almost described the incident, but she was so embarrassed about it she couldn’t bring herself to mention it. “And I feel so guilty about every one of my mistakes,” she went on, “I don’t know which ones really matter and which ones don’t. Even if they might not matter, I’ve still been troublesome. I’m always so troublesome—I’m sure the Sisters told you about that.”

Dr. Hopper seemed to narrowly avoid chuckling at this, but he was instantly serious. “The Sisters have said nothing of the sort, but let’s not worry about what they’ve said anyway,” he told her, “I want to know what you want out of this.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Bridget admitted, “Unless I could stop failing at everything.”

Dr. Hopper leaned forward suddenly with a frown. “You—think you fail at everything?”

“Well, I do,” Bridget mumbled, lowering her eyes. She hated it, but it was true.

“Don’t say that!” Dr. Hopper exclaimed abruptly, “I’m grateful to you!”

Bridget met his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Dr. Hopper hesitated, looking surprised. Then he glanced down with a little shake of his head. “I don’t know—” he muttered, “I don’t know why I said that.”

“We’ve never met before, have we?”

“No, I’m sure we haven’t. I suppose I meant that, I’m sure you’ve done things that have helped others, so you can’t call yourself a failure.”

“But what if I failed at what was most important to me?” Bridget asked before she could stop herself. Oh no, she thought. She hadn’t meant to bring this up.

“What do you mean?” Dr. Hopper said.

Bridget sighed and glanced away. “You know, the nuns have been taking care of me because my mother’s gone,” she replied, “I don’t even know, or…remember what happened to her. But sometimes I dream that she died, and it was my fault.”

“Well, I’m…sure that’s not true,” Dr. Hopper said, knitting his brows together in concern, “I don’t think you could be at fault for that.”

“It’s possible…and I always feel like I am.”

“Do you think this could be contributing to your lack of confidence?” he suggested.

“Is that it? Confidence?” Bridget let out a short laugh and glanced down at her hands, blinking away tears. “I lack confidence because I mess up on everything I try to do.”

“If you do make mistakes more often than most people—and I don’t even know for sure that you do—you should consider the possibility that it’s because of a lack of confidence and not the other way around.”

“Or it might be because my head’s always in the clouds,” Bridget returned scornfully, “All I think about is those dreams.” She had intended not to tell him about this either, but then, when was she ever able to do what she intended to do?

“You mean the dreams in which you feel like you’re responsible for your mother’s death?”

“No, there are other ones—nice ones,” Bridget explained, half-slipping into her imagination and beginning to describe them in spite of herself: “There’s a lovely horse sometimes, and fairies…a watermill, a big fish…Sometimes I’m trying to climb a rainbow, and sometimes I’m with a talking cricket.”

Dr. Hopper laughed.

“What?” Bridget exclaimed, but she laughed too. They’re dreams; of course they’re silly, she thought.

“I’m sorry; I wasn’t laughing at you,” Dr. Hopper told her hurriedly, “I was just thinking about one of my other patients who says I’m Jiminy Cricket. So when you mentioned the talking cricket, I thought, ‘Ah, it’s me!’ That’s what made me laugh.”

Bridget giggled again. “No, don’t worry; it’s not you. Though you are sort of like him, I suppose,” she said, “But, uh…what was I saying?” She paused, somewhat embarrassed, trying to collect her thoughts. “Oh. It’s just that, I think of my dreams so much, I’m always distracted by them. But please—” she became suddenly distressed, “—don’t tell me to try to stop thinking about them. I don’t want to do that.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t,” Dr. Hopper said, “In fact, I think your dreams might actually help us. We should talk about them more in future sessions.”

“Thank you,” Bridget said warmly, smiling, “I was afraid you would…try to take them away from me, or something. I hadn’t even planned to mention them.”

“Bridget,” Dr. Hopper addressed her solemnly, “I promise I will not try to take anything away from you. I’m only here to help you. You can tell me anything. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Usually, Bridget wouldn’t have taken words like these to heart, but over the course of their conversation, she had surprisingly begun to feel like she actually could tell Dr. Hopper anything.

“I would like you to start keeping a dream journal,” Dr. Hopper went on, “Can you do that for me? You don’t have to remember your dreams perfectly. When you wake up, just write down everything you can remember. Bring your dream journal with you to our future sessions. Your dreams could say a lot about you, Bridget. I think it’s worth a look at them.”

“All right,” Bridget said.

“In the meantime, consider this: you’re not any less valuable than anyone else. Everyone has their own distractions and situations th-that make them anxious. Everyone makes mistakes. I want to understand more about why you feel you’re somehow worse than others, or why you feel your mistakes are somehow worse.”

“J-just look at me; I’m so awkward and nervous,” Bridget stammered with a disbelieving laugh, “I don’t know what I need to do to change that, but there some things I don’t want to give up. If...if I have to give them up to change, then I don’t want to change.”

“I haven’t found you to be any more awkward and nervous than I am,” Dr. Hopper pointed out.

Bridget grinned suddenly. “And look at you—you’re a psychologist!” she remarked. This actually encouraged her a bit. “But, of course…you haven’t seen me in other situations,” she added.

“Well, we’ll have to find out more about those other situations, then,” Dr. Hopper said, “In the time before our next session, I want you to think about some specific situations in which you feel you’ve failed. Maybe even write them down if you feel like doing so. You don’t have feel any embarrassment about telling them to me—I’m only here to help.”

Bridget nodded. Just then, there came a knock at the door.

“Ah, your ride’s here,” Dr. Hopper observed, “So, Bridget, just…think about what I’ve said, and think about what you want to say to me next time. I’ll see you next week.”

Unable to hold back a smile, Bridget replied, “All right, sir. See you next week.”