Happiness I Find In My Attic

I know this room. It's a room I have been in countless times since they left. The tacky green wallpaper and the small bamboo plants that seem to slowly be dying. The multiple Harvard degrees on the left wall above his desk, which is littered with small Chinese fountains and wooden sticks in pools of heavily scented perfume. The whole room is supposed to convey a sort of, "calm" feeling that just ends up looking tacky and out of place. I mean, I can't really blame the guy for not having a good taste in scenery. He spends his life listening to men going through divorces, women with self-confidence issues, and children with parents whom can't seem to understand what to do with "little Timmy's" unique mind, or "silly Sue's" tom-boyish ways. I feel bad for those children, I really do. I mean, imagine being a small child, doing only what you know seems right, and then having your over concerned and overbearing parents tell you it's not socially correct. Even worse is the fact that, once they have told you once or twice and you continue, they believe you're broken and then send you to a strange man to fix you, rather than taking the time themselves and investing in you. I know the feeling, I guess. Although, I guess don't have the excuse of not knowing any better. I'm seventeen and I need to "act my age." I should be able to tell my self that certain things aren't socially acceptable. Yet, here I am, sitting in an ill-upholstered chair trying to ignore the "person fixer" in front of me.

"...Wouldn't you agree Keneth?"  I snap out of my thoughts and quickly look up to see the man hired to "fix" me, glaring.

"Uh... yes." I say, hoping it's an answer he's looking for. He looks at me unamused.

"You do realize your mother is footing the bill for all of this, correct? You might as well learn something, rather than sitting there and admiring the scenery." He glares at me as he speaks. I have never liked this man. His glasses are too big for his face, his cheek bone is week, and his jaw doesn't align with the rest of his face. His black stringy hair doesn't help matters either. He much resembles an old man with a wig; doing all he can to look young, yet falling oh so short. The bags under his eyes show that he doesn't sleep well and to top it all off, he acts like he is so much better and far above his patients. I find him to be worse than ninety percent of the people he is supposed to "fix."

"I do. I think the fact that I am wasting her money is nice. It makes me feel like I am getting back at her for being the worst mother in the world." I say, matter-of-factly. I know he can't say anything against that, because it's true. My biological mother is the kind of person I hate. For one, she is a very dishonest Realtor. She always over-sells a house, and then goes to the house and hides certain problems and issues. She then tells new home buyers that having a man come and inspect the house is a very large waist of money and that they can "trust her." Another thing I hate about her is that she treats me like I'm some unknown kid who happens to live in her house. She has never once given me any affection or love. She feeds me, provides me a home, and that's it. She won't talk to me, she won't listen to me, she won't even let me make friends outside of school. "You have your books Keneth, you don't need friends" is a common phrase that comes from her mouth. I guess it really isn't all her fault. My Dad used her to get information when she used to work as a professional investment consultant. He said he loved her, married her, made me, and when she was the most vulnerable, he stole all of her hard investment work and left. She must see a lot of him inside of me and that's why she seems to do nothing more than the basics of parenting. I still hold a lot of disdain towards her however. I don't even call her mother or mom anymore. To me, she is simply Karen.

"True, but you also realize this means that there is less money for Emily, don't you?" The sentence makes me uncomfortable and uneasy. I shuffle slightly and clear my throat.

"Yeah, I thought so." He chuckles silently to himself as he shakes his head. He knows i would never do anything to hurt or take anything away from my step mother, Emily. After what my dad did to Karen, she never wanted to date a guy again. So, she went to girls. The first one she went out on a date with was a huge jerk named Elise. The girl was arguably more scummy than my mother, and she had twice the brains. Elise intimidated my mom greatly and after a short month, she ended up breaking things off. I was very young at the time, but i have an aching feeling that didn't go down well. Soon after is when Emily came along. Emily is the sweetest, funniest, nicest women alive and more than makes up for what Karen doesn't give me. They have been together since I was two years old. I don't know what Emily sees in Karen or why she sees it, but they make it work and I'm more than happy to keep Emily around. It's actually quite funny, I feel more for my brown haired, dorky, silly step mother than my real one. I know why, but it still seems to bother me that I can feel so little for someone who should be so close, and so much for someone I should feel nothing. I'm not sure if Karen knows how much I love Emily or how much she means to me, and I'm pretty sure she wouldn't care. It's so funny how she can act one way with Emily, and so different with me. Karen seems like such a great woman, and sometimes i wish she was, but she isn't and it bothers me knowing that I came from her, making me no better.

"I might as well ask, before I continue on." He says to himself. "What have you actually taken from our sessions over the past month and a half?" He flips his notebook to one of the last pages. He tends to take a lot of notes when we have our sessions. Whether they are real notes or just doodles is a mystery to me.

"That Emily is the only person who has believed anything I have said about what happened to me." I say sharply. He stands up and slowly walks in a half circle until he is just a few inches away from me.

"You know what, lets try this again. It's the first day we met. Nothing to be bias towards one another, no need for contempt, lets just start over." He gives me a look as he speaks, a look that says "just do it, I don't want to be here any longer than you do."

"OK" I say flatly. He walks back to his chair, tearing out the notes he has taken thus far and opens to a blank page.

"Name?"

"Keneth."

"Parents?"

"Emily and Karen."

"Occu-"

"Can we just get to what really matters?" I say, looking up at him as I ask.

"OK then." He says, almost sounding shocked. "Now, why are you here?" He looks at me, this time differently than before. Rather than hiding behind his notepad or tapping his watch as if it will speed the time up, he looks at me with hope. I think before I answer, choosing the perfect words I want to use.

"Because Karen thinks I'm crazy." I say, continuing to stare right back at him.

"And, why is that?" He holds his glare for a few more seconds, and then cowers back to his notepad. There's one more thing to add to the list of things i hate about him, he is weak.

"Because I had something, six somethings, that made me happy. Six somethings that changed my life for the better and made me realize that maybe, the world is a lot better than how i see it, and she doesn't believe me." I can feel my self starting to tear up at the thought of them. I attempt to clear my throat and wipe my eyes before he sees. He sees anyway.

"You know, I would think you were crazy too if I came home one day to find out you were playing with six colorful po-"

"I WASN'T PLAYING WITH THEM." I take a deep breath before continuing. "They... they understood me and they were my friends. They made me feel something real. They weren't a set of toys, they were real, true friends." More tears try and make their way out. I choke them back.

"They weren't real." He says, un-fazed by my outburst.

"They were." I say back, staring daggers into his eyes. My wavering voice, however, reveals my true emotions.

"You know what, we aren't going to go anywhere like this. Lets do this; explain to me everything about the 3 weeks they were "here." I'm no therapist, and I'm not being paid to be here. I'm just a buddy who you're talking to. Explain it all from the beginning."

"I don't have any buddies."

"You do now."

I look at him for a few seconds, thinking it over.

"From the beginning?"

"From the beginning."