The week before I decided that I would try seeing a therapist before exerting myself to do something that I probably shouldn't do. The therapist's name was Dr. Sidney Friedman. He was a calm, cool, and collected man who treated me well. Maybe a little too well, but that's a story for later on.
Three hours a day for a week I went to his office to speak to him about things I was feeling. Every TV show always told me that those therapists were bullshitters who didn't know what you felt, didn't know how you saw the world, and didn't understand, so I went in with low expectations.
I think there is some truth to that, but my therapist seemed to care so I was able to look past all the stereotypes. Dr. Friedman gave me some examples of past patients problems that he had encountered. These people shared a lot of the same qualities and experiences that I'm having right now. But sadly, they didn't make it.They got caught up in all their emotions and let their depression get the best of them.
I didn't want to do that so I kept going and i told him 90% of everything. I tried to push down a lot of my past, forgetting about the darker stuff, trying to move on and act like it never happened, as all teenagers do. But, I accidentally let one thing slip out through all the tears and sweat that I was carrying throughout our sessions. I brought up my father. and just like the movies and just like the television shows, Dr. Friedman jumped right on that. He start questioning my childhood, he start questioning my parents relationship, and he questioned my relationship with my parents. And again–like before–I told him 90% of it.
After that, most of our sessions were about my parents. Even though I only said 90% of it, that 90% affected me growing up. I didn't have the best childhood. It was kind of shaky; moving from house to house all the time. I learned what real parent-child relationships were like through my friends that had good parents. I learned that saying I love you to your parents wasn't just a tool to make people less suspicious. I learned that running from the police isn't supposed to be a daily routine. I learned that you're supposed to get endless support and happiness from your parents, not abuse and hate. I also learned that I'd rather get grounded and punished for real acts of dishonesty then be ignored for months on end and be allowed to do whatever you damn well pleased as long as you didn't get caught.
My therapist had to call his parents, letting them know how he was thankful for how they raised him, after listening to my rants of horror and pain. Did I mention that he hadn't talked to his parents in 16 years? We covered a lot in these sessions. I let go of a lot of pain I had built up inside over these 17 years of torment. Although, it wasn't enough as you probably can tell by the title. My anger and sorrow went a lot deeper than these stories. And the 10% of the stories I didn't share would get my parents arrested. Since they abandoned me 3 years ago, nobody knows where they are. So the police would have to track them down, bring them back, have me identify them; which I've had to do many times; and frankly, I don't want to see them again.
I think my life has improved a lot since they left. My only regret–I guess–is that since they just left me in the middle of the night, I got no closure for the ways they've treated me.