The Darker Side of Trey Grey by Tara Spears Page A

pajama bottoms and my maroon robe with my back against the wall, sipping a cup of coffee, when he came in. He was dressed in brown tweed and a bowtie, ghost white hair and gold rimmed spectacles. When you think therapist, a vision of this man would come sweeping into your mind. However, in reality, most therapists looked nothing like what you envisioned. They were rather an odd lot of quirky characters that all had one thing in common; they knew what was best for you .
    “Mr. Grey, nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Tolstay.” I shook his proffered hand. Gale had managed to secure another chair, on loan , from Tom and I indicated it to the Doc.
    “I am only here to assess you,” he said, dragging the chair closer. “If it is deemed you need a therapist, it probably won’t be me. Understand?” he asked, looking over his glasses. I nodded and he sat, withdrawing a pen from under his blazer. “I’m going to ask you some questions. I need you to answer them truthfully. Understand?”  
    I nodded again.
    “What is your full name?”
    “Trey Grey.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Twenty.”
    “What do you do for a living?”
    “Student.” His eyebrows rose at this, and he lifted his pen from the pad of paper he was scribbling on.
    “Very well. What do you do for money?” he rephrased.
    “I have a full scholarship. When I need money I do odd jobs.”
    “What kind of jobs?”
    “Whatever anyone needs me to do.”  
    His eyes closed, and he let out a small annoyed sigh. He was good. He knew I was skirting the question.
    “Doc, do you mind if I shorten this from two hours to a few minutes?” 
    He tried to hide his smirk as he gestured to me with his hand. “By all means, Mr. Grey.”
    I nestled my coffee into my lap and launched off.
    “I’m a prostitute, I have been for... let’s just say awhile. Was I sexually abused as a child; yes. Do I want to talk about it; no. Was I physically abused as a child; yes. Do I want to talk about it; no. Was I mentally abused as a child; well, that goes without saying when the answer to the prior two questions is yes. Am I suicidal; not at the moment. Have I ever been suicidal; yes. Have I ever tried to take my own life; not intentionally. Am I happy; is anyone?”   I lifted my cup to my lips and took a sip as I waited for him to finish his frantic scribbling. He leaned back and took off his glasses.
    “I take it you have been through this before?”
    “A few times.”
    “You’re not currently seeing a therapist?”
    “No.”
    “May I ask why?”
    “They all say the same thing then put me on medication.”
    “Are you taking medications now?”
    “No.”
    “May I ask why not?”  
    I smiled at this. He knew I should be. “I don’t like them.”
    “That is beside the point, Mr. Grey. They are prescribed for a reason.”
    “I know. To help me cope. All they do is subdue me though. I feel like I’m no longer here.”  
    He sighed heavily at this, having probably heard it a hundred times.
    “Do you engage in recreational drug use?”
    “No.” My answer had him raising an eyebrow. “Never,” I added. He hummed, and scrolled down a piece of paper with his finger.
    “The EMT commented you might be obsessive-compulsive. Are you?”
    “Yes.” I pulled my knee s up.
    “What triggers the behavior?”
    “I’d rather not say.” I caught his eyes and held them. “If I don’t alter my routine I can control it.”
    “Obviously not or I wouldn’t be here, Trey.”  
    First name, I had become a patient.
    “My last episode like this was four years ago, Doc. I think I have been doing quite well, honestly.” 
    His brow furrowed at this. “Four years ago?”
    “Yes.” 
    His eyebrows rose. “That is impressive. It still doesn’t mean you don’t need help.” He smiled at me. “At least for awhile.” He returned his glasses to his face and went back to writing on his pad for a minute while I took another sip of coffee.
    “All right, Trey,” he began as he put