Paterson stares at me. She sits in her pompous, high-back black leather chair, her legs crossed and her hands folded over the pad where she writes down all her notes and judgments. Her staring makes me want to punch her. I hate these sessions. I’ve been sitting here week after week, listening to her prattle on about this and that and asking me about my feelings. How does that make you feel? Why do you think you feel that way? What can we do to change that? Hell if I know! Isn’t that what she makes two hundred an hour for? Leaning forward, Dr. Paterson sets her precious pad on the glass table. Sitting back again, she levels me with a hard stare. “Tell me, Ashley, what do you hope to get out of therapy? We set goals when you first started, but based on your limited participation, I don’t think you actually want to be here. It’s been six weeks, and the only real progress you’ve made was visiting Daniel’s grave, and that was by force. Two things have to happen in order for therapy to be effective: one, you have to want to get better, and two, you have to be willing to do the work.
