back to Layla, back to Spain, and back to the team. Back to my life, which feels like it’s been suspended in limbo for five long weeks. It feels good to feel hopeful.
That is, I felt hopeful. Right up until my final evaluation with Dr. Sanderson.
“So, Landen. This is your last week here. How do you feel about that?” She leans back in her chair and eyes me passively. Like she couldn’t care less about my answer.
“Well, no offense, Doc, but I’m ready to get the hell out of here.”
A small smile teases at her lips. “That so?”
I shrug. “I mean, no disrespect or anything. It’s a nice place and I appreciate the fact that I’m not the only one with issues. I actually enjoyed group therapy a lot more than I thought I would. But yeah, I have a life to get back to.”
“Understood,” she says, leaning forward. “Let’s talk about that life for a moment.”
“Okay.” I fold my arms because I feel like I’ve done nothing but talk about my life for the past thirty-five days. What the hell else is there to say?
“Tell me a little about what you’re going back to.”
I frown, unsure of what her game is. She already knows all of this. “You know. My job, my team, my girlfriend.”
She nods. “Your pregnant girlfriend, right? The one with the brain tumor?”
“Hematoma,” I correct her through clenched teeth. “Your point?”
She sighs and leans back in her chair. “My point is,” she begins, aiming the pen she holds at my hands gripping the arms of my chair, “that your life still contains difficult situations that remain out of your control. True or false?”
“True,” I relent.
“So I’ve got good news and bad news, Landen. Which would you like to hear first?”
“Whichever.”
She stares at me for a moment. “Landen, your father…he was abusive. You’ve come to terms with that somewhat in the past few weeks. Yes?”
Fucking hell, I am over rehashing this shit. “Yeah. My mom had an affair when he was deployed. With a soccer player on a traveling team. Guy died of cancer a few years ago. It’s all out in the open now. Why my dad hated me so much.”
“Right. Well, can I be honest?”
“Please do,” I answer.
“I think there’s more to it than that. More to why you are the way you are and why he is the way he is. Would you like to hear my theory?”
“Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?” Well, what the club is paying her for, but no need to split hairs at this point.
“I suppose. Okay, well…bear with me for a second.” I don’t say anything so she continues. “Landen, did you ever hear about the road rage guy a few years ago? He got out of his car and had a confrontation with a woman in which he grabbed the small dog from her car and flung it into oncoming traffic.”
“Yeah, I guess. Sounds vaguely familiar. You think I have road rage?”
“No. And I don’t think he did either. I think that what he had was actually something called Intermittent Explosive Disorder. He didn’t have a criminal record or a history of violence. He did have a sudden outburst, which caused him to do something hurtful that most people wouldn’t have done.”
“I’m guessing this is the bad news portion of our session?”
She folds her hands in her lap. “It is. This is the part where I tell you that I’m pretty certain your father, or the man who raised you, has IED. And I’m fairly certain you have it as well. Childhood abuse is one of the leading causes.”
“IED.” I test it out in my mouth. It tastes like shit.
“Yes. Intermittent Explosive Disorder. I can give you some pamphlets or you can google it. Up to you.”
I feel like a neon sign flashing the bright red words FUCKED UP is hanging over my head. “Okay. So how do we cure it? I mean, how do I make it go away before I toss Fido into traffic?”
She tilts her head and gives me an apologetic smile. The full weight of what she’s saying settles onto my chest.
Shit. “There’s no cure, is there?
That is, I felt hopeful. Right up until my final evaluation with Dr. Sanderson.
“So, Landen. This is your last week here. How do you feel about that?” She leans back in her chair and eyes me passively. Like she couldn’t care less about my answer.
“Well, no offense, Doc, but I’m ready to get the hell out of here.”
A small smile teases at her lips. “That so?”
I shrug. “I mean, no disrespect or anything. It’s a nice place and I appreciate the fact that I’m not the only one with issues. I actually enjoyed group therapy a lot more than I thought I would. But yeah, I have a life to get back to.”
“Understood,” she says, leaning forward. “Let’s talk about that life for a moment.”
“Okay.” I fold my arms because I feel like I’ve done nothing but talk about my life for the past thirty-five days. What the hell else is there to say?
“Tell me a little about what you’re going back to.”
I frown, unsure of what her game is. She already knows all of this. “You know. My job, my team, my girlfriend.”
She nods. “Your pregnant girlfriend, right? The one with the brain tumor?”
“Hematoma,” I correct her through clenched teeth. “Your point?”
She sighs and leans back in her chair. “My point is,” she begins, aiming the pen she holds at my hands gripping the arms of my chair, “that your life still contains difficult situations that remain out of your control. True or false?”
“True,” I relent.
“So I’ve got good news and bad news, Landen. Which would you like to hear first?”
“Whichever.”
She stares at me for a moment. “Landen, your father…he was abusive. You’ve come to terms with that somewhat in the past few weeks. Yes?”
Fucking hell, I am over rehashing this shit. “Yeah. My mom had an affair when he was deployed. With a soccer player on a traveling team. Guy died of cancer a few years ago. It’s all out in the open now. Why my dad hated me so much.”
“Right. Well, can I be honest?”
“Please do,” I answer.
“I think there’s more to it than that. More to why you are the way you are and why he is the way he is. Would you like to hear my theory?”
“Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?” Well, what the club is paying her for, but no need to split hairs at this point.
“I suppose. Okay, well…bear with me for a second.” I don’t say anything so she continues. “Landen, did you ever hear about the road rage guy a few years ago? He got out of his car and had a confrontation with a woman in which he grabbed the small dog from her car and flung it into oncoming traffic.”
“Yeah, I guess. Sounds vaguely familiar. You think I have road rage?”
“No. And I don’t think he did either. I think that what he had was actually something called Intermittent Explosive Disorder. He didn’t have a criminal record or a history of violence. He did have a sudden outburst, which caused him to do something hurtful that most people wouldn’t have done.”
“I’m guessing this is the bad news portion of our session?”
She folds her hands in her lap. “It is. This is the part where I tell you that I’m pretty certain your father, or the man who raised you, has IED. And I’m fairly certain you have it as well. Childhood abuse is one of the leading causes.”
“IED.” I test it out in my mouth. It tastes like shit.
“Yes. Intermittent Explosive Disorder. I can give you some pamphlets or you can google it. Up to you.”
I feel like a neon sign flashing the bright red words FUCKED UP is hanging over my head. “Okay. So how do we cure it? I mean, how do I make it go away before I toss Fido into traffic?”
She tilts her head and gives me an apologetic smile. The full weight of what she’s saying settles onto my chest.
Shit. “There’s no cure, is there?
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