THERAPY

I had therapy when I lived at Fairfields. It was a waste of time. My therapist was this idiot woman called Helen who kept asking me questions like, “How did you feel about that?” or “Why did you do that, then?”

I used to turn it into a game. I would pretend to be this sweet little orphan and blink at her and tell her how sad I was because the other kids used to pick on me. I’d tell her everything mean the other kids did, and everything mean the workers did, and hope she’d leave me alone.

She was pretty stupid though. She kept asking me stupid questions, about Liz, and my old adoptive parents, Grumpy Annabel and Dopey Graham, and all sorts of things I’d made it perfectly clear I didn’t want to talk about.

“How do you feel about not living with Liz any more?” she’d say, and I’d shrug.

“Fine.”

“Really?” she’d say. “How did you feel when she told you?” And I’d shrug again.

“Still fine.”

Sometimes she’d just sit there and not say anything and wait for me to talk. I hated that even more. I used to make stuff up. I’d tell her I was afraid of ghosts, or monsters under the bed, or some other rubbish. I’d start fights with her.

“Why are you telling me off when you’re the fat, ugly one? Why don’t you lose some weight and get some plastic surgery before you start picking on me?”

Disagreeing with whatever she said was also good.

“You sound very angry.”

“No, I’m not.”

“How do you feel then?”

“Fine.”

“What would you like to happen now?”

“Doughnuts. Jam doughnuts. And laser death rays.”

“Does acting like this make you feel safe?”

“Not as much as laser death rays would.”

She wouldn’t shut up though.

If she’d really wanted to help, she could at least have given me the doughnuts.

 

I thought I’d get out of going to therapy once I came to live with the Iveys, but no such luck. Some lunatic was paying for a taxi to take me there every Monday after school.

“But it’s pointless!” I wailed, when Liz told me.

“Of course it’s pointless if you never do anything!” said Liz. “Honestly. How exactly do you think Helen is going to help you if you just sit there and glare at her? Get working, kid. You’re not stopping until you do.”

This was just another example of bonkers grown-up logic. Something doesn’t work, so you keep doing it until it starts to. If Liz really wanted me to be happy, there were loads of things she could do about it. Doughnuts would be a good start, but I wouldn’t say no to lasers.