The One Without Words

❀ chapter eleven | psychologist #5 ❀

"What you're saying is that you don't experience love," said Psychologist #5, peering at me from behind her large, round glasses.

I leaned back on the pink sofa. After several moments of silence, she folded her hands over her clipboard and stared at me with those huge, magnified eyes.

"What about your family?" she asked.

No psychologist had asked me that before. They automatically assumed I loved my family and took me helping out with the flower shop as some sign of daughterly devotion. 

I plucked a split end off the end of my hair. "Are you supposed to love your family?"

"It depends. Some abusive families take advantage of that love."

"I don't think my family is abusive."

"What do you think they are?"

"Hypocritical and avoidant. Clueless."

"Do you feel loved by them?"

I stared at the clock. Counted down the minutes until I got out of this place. Psychologist #5 wasn't as blatantly obnoxious and stuck-up as the others—bland rich people who'd lived here their whole lives and couldn't fathom why I didn't fit in. Psychologist #5 was from India, and although the massive country probably had little in common with speck-in-the-middle-of-the-Pacific Hawai'i, I did think she understood a little more than the others had. 

"No," I said, reminding myself of her question. "I don't feel loved by my parents."

She jotted down a note. "Would you like to tell me why?"

What I'd really like is to get out of here and not have to come back next week, I thought, but I also didn't have the energy to deal with whoever Psychologist #6 would be.

"I guess I just don't relate to them," I admitted. "I always thought my dad was kind of an idiot. When I was little I liked my mom. I liked my grandpa. You could even say he loved me."

My sudden honesty threw both me and the psychologist off—after an hour of prying questions, I'd finally given her a nugget of truth. And somehow, I didn't feel like gagging when I said it.

"Is that the grandpa from Hawai'i?" she asked. "You mentioned he passed away?"

"Supposedly."

"It must be difficult to lose someone you connected with during childhood. How do you feel about it?"

"I'm pissed I haven't seen a cent of his inheritance."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that all?"

"Yeah."

"You don't feel... sadness? Grief?"

"I feel nothing."

"Is that common for you?"

"Sure. That's what they say makes me a sociopath."

She adjusted her glasses over her nose. "Let's move away from that word for now. It only gives a negative stigma for those diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder. I would strongly disagree with that diagnosis for you anyway since you are not yet an adult."

"That's a first," I said.

She glanced at the clock. Five minutes left to go. "We can talk about it a lot more next week. For now, I want you to think about something: when was the last time you felt loved?"

Okay, now that was gag-worthy. I made a face. "Um, loved feels like a bit of a stretch for me."

"Fair enough. When was the last time you felt... cared about?"