Creative Therapy

“I wish you would understand how badly you need this.”

I didn’t roll my eyes. The woman across from me meant well, all of the people here did. It’s what made them so hard to deal with, which probably says more about me than them. In my defense, theirs was an intrusive brand of compassion. I threw an apologetic smile towards the therapist. “Sorry.”

Dr. Summers frowned above her delicate glasses. She was good enough at her job to know I didn’t mean it.  “However, we don’t lock our patients in. To be honest I am curious why you haven’t left. You’ve made it clear over the past weeks you don’t think we can help you ”

That wasn’t entirely true. “I think it will help. Just not with the whole …you know, addiction thing.”

Another frown.  “Aiden. This is a rehabilitation facility.”

I knew that. It had the warm wooden walls, rounded scissors and enough group therapy to turn you off people forever. It also had those lovely front doors that I’d walked through two weeks ago after promising my sister I’d deal. I didn’t say that though. The many flavors of therapy here were pretty clear on one thing. You were supposed to be here for yourself.

She sighed and I wondered if I was her most frustrating patient. “So what are you hoping to get out of this exactly, if not treatment for your drug abuse? You came here of your own volition, no one checked you in.”

Another admirable attempt to bring up the topic of personal relationships. But weeks of aforementioned interrogation passed off as therapy hadn’t cracked me on that subject. My sister wouldn’t appreciate me talking about her and I’ve never been the sharing type. “I want the piece of paper. The one that says I completed a session, or whatever you call it here. When I get that I’ll stop taking up your time.” Sometimes the tantalizing prospect of not being bothered by me was enough to get people to comply.

The doctor blinked at me. “That is not how this facility operates.”

“Isn’t it? A month or two of arts and crafts, some self discovery, better habits formed, newly clean. Then I’m all better.” That was not even even remotely true. Another month here might help with the constant pressurized cravings in my skull. They might even be able to fix all my current dependencies, but an addictive personality like mine was above their pay grade. Not that I am bragging or anything. No amount of early rising, journaling and positive thinking was going to prevent me from falling for the next bad decision when it strutted across my path. Depressing perhaps, but I knew my own historical precedent. Addiction is a symptom, not a disease. I hadn’t needed these well meaning people to tell me that.

She ignored my joke about the extensive amount of creative therapy they scheduled here. “That piece of paper only happens once you acknowledge that you need help and commit to getting it.”

Elbow on the chair’s arm, I leaned to the side and rubbed my temple. “Then I need help.”

“Let’s talk then.”

I couldn’t resist rolling my eyes this time.





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