He nodded. “You’re right. We’re not. We’re discussing your list of coping mechanisms that I’ve been trying to pull out of you since our first session two days ago. We already have running on the list. And yes, fighting is your number one mechanism, aside from work and surgery, but considering your current state …” his eyes lowered to the cast on my right hand, “it’s imperative to come up with some other strategies.”
Pushing out an impatient breath, I laid my head back against the wall behind me. “Getting drunk.”
A chuckle came from across the room, but I didn’t take my eyes off the ceiling. None of this opening up shit was easy, and we hadn’t even gotten to the hard stuff yet.
“How about writing?”
I lifted my head and narrowed my gaze when I saw Dr. Kearns holding a black journal in his right hand. Leaning forward, he held it out to me.
I didn’t take it.
“Why would I need one of those?”
He shrugged, still holding the book out to me. “You might want to write something in it. You were an English minor in college, after all.”
I raised my gaze to him.
“You told me that during your initial in-patient interview.”
I remembered that conversation. I had told him that.
“I suspect writing would be a good coping mechanism for you. You can either use this journal or write on your laptop.”
“You guys don’t allow laptops here.”
He smiled. “No, we don’t. But once you leave here, you can use it. For now, you’ll have to stick to writing. Good thing you write with your left hand.”
I snorted and glanced down at my fucked up right hand. Yeah, it was a good thing I was left-handed. Finally, I leaned over and took the journal from Dr. Kearns.
“What the hell am I supposed to write in here?” I flipped it over and over as if it were a foreign object.
“Whatever you want. No one’s going to see it besides you.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You won’t try to read it?”
He shook his head. “Only if you want me to.”
“I won’t,” I insisted immediately, not even sure I was going to use the damn thing. I continued to flip it over in my hand, staring at it, and I flinched at a memory that came to mind.
“What just happened there?”
“What?”
“You flinched while staring at the journal. Want to talk about that? Was it a memory?”
I shook my head. “Must’ve been the omelet I had for breakfast.” I tossed the journal to the couch cushion beside me and lifted my right arm to rest against the back of the loveseat.
Dr. Kearns stared at me, tenting his fingers.
“Why’d you become a head shrink?”
His busy eyebrows rose. “Head shrink?”
“Yeah, why would you go through undergrad and then four years of medical school and come out the other side and settle for being a damn psychiatrist instead of a real doctor?” I cocked my head to the side, awaiting his answer.
“Is that what you think? That the onlyrealdoctors are the ones who work in the emergency department, cut people open, or treat wounds?”
I shrugged. “If the shoe fits. You had to learn all of the biology and anatomy in undergrad and med school, plus rotations which incorporates working in a hospital and getting your hands dirty. And now, you what? Sit and talk to crazy fucks all day?”
