The therapist’s office smells like stale coffee and looks like he designed it after a 60’s movie. God, I wish it was the 60’s. Freedom, drugs, rock and roll. Everyone was okay. There was no Borderline Personality Disorder. There were no scars to hide. Unfortunately, it’s not the 60’s. It is the god damned 21st century, and here I am, sitting on this ancient sofa, staring at the clock. Tick. I don’t want to be here. Tick. This is my fourth appointment and I still haven’t said a word to this guy. Tick. I don’t want help. Tick. But my mom says I need it. Says I’m sick. Sick. The doctors tell me they don’t have medicine to fix me. Sick. They expect a therapist to help. I don’t want help. Sick. I just want someone to care about me. Someone who isn’t obliged by family to care. Or someone who is being paid ridiculous amounts of money to care. Tick. I want someone to look me in the eye and tell me I’ll be okay. Tick. That would be enough help. DING. It’s 4 o’clock. DING. Time to go. DING. He stares at me a second longer, DING. then uncrossed his legs, shut his notebook and got up to open the door. You’ll talk to me one day. Don’t count on it, doc. Next week, I’ll be here again, hearing nothing but my awful thoughts and the Tick of that god damn clock.