SITTING in my car in the silence, I glance at the time on the dashboard. Thirty-two seconds until I have to get out of my comfortable vehicle and walk inside the building where my new shrink’s office is located.
I don’t want to dredge up old feelings, old memories. Can’t we all just move on and forget about the past? Why dig up old wounds?
Freaking therapy. I scoff to myself. “What a waste of time,” I mutter under my breath, opening the door of my car and stepping out.
A few cold drops of wetness hit the top of my head. Of course, it’s raining today. Winter rain, the worst kind. A warm rainy day in the heat of summer is always a welcomed break from the heat, but cold rain in the middle of winter? Ugh.
I duck my head and rush inside the brick building. It’s one of those that has a sign in front telling you which offices are on which floor. I pull up the email on my phone with my therapist’s information on it. “Dr. Curtis, right.”
Following the sign, I walk up the steps to the third floor, dread heightening in my gut with every step I take. Dr. Curtis’s name is on a plaque on the first door I come to and I take a deep breath before knocking.
The doctor opens the door, his smile is warm. “Mitch Anderson, welcome.” He steps aside so I can come in. I see a coat rack and remove my now damp coat and hang it there.
“Have a seat wherever you feel the most comfortable,” he tells me, walking toward a large desk in the back corner of the spacious room. Aside from his desk, there’s a couch in the center of the room, and two arm chairs. Everything is in calm, cool colors. The sofas are grey, the rug is light blue. Even the pictures on the walls are of misty ocean views. I’m surprised he’s not playing some stupid harp music to really top off the calming experience.
The couch looks comfy enough, so I take a seat there. Dr. Curtis rummages through some papers on his desk, then grabs a tablet and crosses the room, sitting in one of the arm chairs across from me.
“How are you today?” he asks, his voice is unnervingly calm and collected.
“Fine.” Not fine. I’m annoyed, pissed actually. I could be at the gym lifting weights, using this time off to get stronger. Or at the rink, practicing drills from our coaches. But no. I’m here, in this stupid blue office, talking to a shrink.
One corner of his mouth twitches, like he can read my thoughts and is suppressing a laugh. “Tell me a little about yourself. Something I can’t learn by googling you.”
I sink back into the couch. “That’s difficult, seeing as Google will tell you pretty much everything about me.”
He chuckles. “It might tell me your height, weight and birth date. But it won’t tell me what’s inside.”
“It kind of will. It’ll tell you I’m an angry hockey player who’s always in the penalty box and taking punches.”
“True. But that’s the public’s perception of you. How do you perceive yourself? What are your interests and hobbies? Who are your friends? Do you have a good relationship with your parents? Why do you get angry?” He pauses. “Those are the things I want to know. The real you.”
“Okay,” I start, getting even more irritated now than I was five minutes ago. This guy’s just jumping right into it then. “My interest is hockey, my hobby is hockey, I don’t like most people.” I grunt. “I guess Bruce is okay, our goalie. I don’t speak to my parents. At all. End of story.”
He types a few notes on his iPad. “When was the last time you spoke to your parents?”
I clench my teeth, a familiar headache starting to take root in my temples. I might as well answer his asinine questions and get this over with. “My mom left when I was a boy. I didn’t hear from her again until I signed a contract with the NHL. She asked me for money and I never answered another call from her after that.”
He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry your mom wasn’t there for you, Mitch.”
I shrug. “I barely remember her.”
“And what about your father?”
“He’s been in prison since I was ten. I used to talk to him on the phone once a month or so, when I was in highschool. My granddad told me he wasn’t worth my time, but I was stupid enough to think he was wrong. Dear old dad started asking me to pay his bail once I had the money to do so. So yeah, my grandad was right after all.”
Dr. Curtis nods. “It must’ve been hard to grow up without your mom or your dad.”
“I had my grandad, I owe everything to him,” I admit. Hockey isn’t a cheap sport, but he scrimped and saved to keep me in it, knowing how important it was to me.
Dr. Curtis smiles, his eyes warm. “Are you still close to him?”
“He died the summer after I graduated highschool.” I drag a hand down my beard. I don’t understand how telling a therapist things that happened long ago could help me now. “There you have it, my whole sob story. Happy now?”
His eyebrows draw together. “Of course not, Mitch. I’m very sorry that you’ve been so alone, and that you’ve lost so much. That’s more than anyone should ever have to experience. Especially with little to no support.”
“Well, doc. I’m all grown up. I eat my wheaties. I’ll be fine.”
His eyes, full of sympathy, look at me intently. The pity on his face makes the anger inside of me double. The last thing I need is someone’s pity. I’m a professional hockey player, not a kitten stuffed in a bag and thrown in a river. I’m fine, damn it!
“Are we done here?” I stand up, unable to be in this room any longer. The anger and frustration is practically rolling off of me now. And if the shrink doesn’t want to be in the line of fire, he better do what’s smart, and let me go.
Dr. Curtis, his eyebrows still furrowed, looks from me to the clock on the wall. “We still have thirty minutes.”
I want to rip the stupid clock off the wall. Leaning my head to the side, I crack my neck.
“Talking about the past can bring up a lot of difficult emotions, if you need to end the session here, we can.” he says, walking toward me with an outstretched hand. I realize he’s handing me a business card and I take it from him. “That has my cell number on it. If you decide you want to talk more, or need anything, you’re welcome to use it.”
I nod my head in response, grab my coat, and high-tail it out of there.
