# The devil is your therapist



## Jule (Mar 3, 2017)

I am studying psychology and ... I think I don't need to say more :nevreness::nevreness::nevreness: :alien:
Maybe only one thing: I would REALLY appreciate your help in terms of correctness of my english - because I am german and I surely made tons of mistakes in this short story. I hope you will still enjoy it :grin:



*The devil is your therapist*

On friday, the third of march 2017, I was convinced I would never be able to forgive my dad. On that day, in the cold streets of Harlem, at four in the afternoon, I hated him with a burning passion that didn’t even come close to the anger I had felt before for him. No – this time, I thought, it was serious. This time I wanted to make sure his behavior would have consequences.
While angrily clenching my teeth I counted the house numbers in the street until I arrived at number eleven, the office of Doctor Frances Bennet. It didn’t seem as promising as it was presented on the website, but that didn’t bother me. I took out my phone, made some photos of the dirty doormat, the skew sign on which I read the name of the doctor and the bulges in the old entry door. With a strange satisfaction I typed the words „at the doorstep of the devil“ into my phone and sent my dad the photos. Just to make sure he knew what he had done to me.
The moment I wanted to ring the bell, the door suddenly opened and I stood there, surprised, irritated and face to face with Doctor Frances Bennet.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t even reach out his hand so I could shake it. He just nodded at me and asked: „Olivia Cooper?“
I stared at him. He – a man in his mid-forties – looked more like a drug addict than a therapist.  He wore glasses and clothes that didn’t fit his meager figure. The dark circles under his eyes revealed how tired he was, but his glance would have been enough to know he was seriously sleep deprived. And maybe even annoyed.
What kind of doctor was this guy?
I crossed my arms. „Yes? How did you know I was in front of your door?“
Now it was his turn to stare at me, but I instantly knew he was better at it than me. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze but tried hard not to avert his eyes.
„I am a psychologist, I observe people, this is literally what I do“, Frances Bennet finally answered. „I heard you coming and then I watched you from my window. I am glad you documented my entrance for research purposes.“ He turned around to walk into his office. I hastily shoved my phone back into my pocket and followed him.
The lighting in the narrow corridor was weak. We headed straight to the door at the end of it and I found myself hoping that it was brighter where the therapy would take place. I noticed that I didn’t have any room for anger left in me because I was too busy processing my confusion.
As soon as we went through the doorway I thought I was about to begin a therapy session packed with clichés. Two royal blue armchairs stood in the middle of the room, abstract drawings were hanging from the walls and on the tiny table that stood right beside the armchairs I saw a bowl with a couple of worry stones in it. I even spotted a box with tissues and had to restrain myself from laughing.
Instead I just said: „I can’t believe I am here.“
Frances Bennet moved towards one armchair and sat down. Then he stared at me without saying a word – apparently this guy seemed to like doing that – but after a couple of seconds he responded: „It’s been ten years now and I still can’t believe I am doing this. Why don’t you join me? I paid a lot for these chairs, they are extremely comfortable.“
I blinked and tilted my head but decided to say nothing. Feeling like a clumsy person on a boat who was in constant danger of falling into the water I did what he suggested and sat down.
The chair was indeed extremely comfortable.
„So why are you here, Olivia?“, Frances Bennet asked me while managing to sound as disinterested as possible. At this point I was beginning to wonder if my dad was somehow involved in this. Was he trying to play a trick on me?
„You know why I am here“, I said and took off my scarf. „My father probably already told you about every detail of my mental illnesses.“
„What your father said doesn’t matter.“ Frances Bennet put his hands on the arm rests of the chair and crossed his legs. „I want to hear it from you.“
I hadn’t expected something as reasonable as this from Frances Bennet and stared at him in surprise. But then I shrugged my shoulders and said: „Alright. The truth is that I absolutely detest being here. My dad forced me to come to your office even though I don’t believe in therapy and was always annoyed by the psychology students at my university. But he won’t pay my rent if I don’t give this shit a try, so ... here we are.“
Frances Bennet nodded and said nothing. He didn’t seem to be offended and this provoked me somehow. I wanted to shake this man up, I wanted to sweep the box with tissues off the table and throw a tantrum. Surprised by my own emotions I bit my tongue and sat still.
„My father thinks I need help because he doesn’t know me“, I continued to tell this stranger about my life. Thinking back, I guess I only wanted to fill the silence with words. I am pretty sure now all therapists use silence to squeeze anything out of anybody.
„And he doesn’t want to listen when I tell him I am okay on my own. He is always convinced that he knows exactly what I need. It has been this way since I came out of my moms vagina. And only because her death traumatized him this doesn’t mean that I will suffer from it my whole life time as well.“
There, I said it. Five minutes into the therapy and it was out. The biggest problem of them all.
Frances Bennet still sat there without moving. The only reaction I got from him was a change in his facial expressions – but I couldn’t pin down what this change meant.
Something in my mind changed, too. At the split of a second, I decided to use Frances Bennet as the garbage can for my stories.
The next thirty minutes I was the only one who talked. I talked and talked without any regret even though I had contemplated before to just keep quiet during the session as a type of revenge on my father since he paid for this therapy. But I ended up explaining this strange guy in front of me that after my mother had died fiffteen years ago my dad wouldn’t stop searching for signs of illnesses in me. He thought I wasn’t mourning her enough and that this had a reason.
My only reason for not being sad all the time was that I had forgotten her face. I had forgotten how she used to smell, how she used to kiss my forehead, how her laugh had sounded. Because I had only four years with her. And you cannot miss someone you have forgotten.
After half an hour, Frances Bennet suddenly stood up. Baffled I stopped talking in the middle of the sentence and watched him walk to the white cupboard near the door. He opened it, took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. With an astonishing tranquility he strolled back to his armchair, put the glasses on the table and poured whiskey into both of them. He handed me one glass and sat down, looking very pleased with himself.
„What the fuck?“, was the only phrase I could think of in this moment.
„Let’s be honest“, he said and smiled for the first time since I got to know him, „we both don’t want to be here. I hate my job and you don’t need therapy, you need something else.“
I leaned forward and put the glass on the carpet. „And what is it that I need?“, I asked him, now convinced that this could not be a real therapist. That this had to be a joke.
„You, my dear“, he said and leaned forward as well, „need to get your fucking shit together. And you need some alcohol. Because, and that won’t change, even with some therapy sessions, this life is one big pile of shit. And what we do our whole life is basically trying to make our way through this big pile of shit. That is all of the wisdom I have to give.“
He grabbed his own glass and took a big gulp of the whiskey. „Do you think, by the way, that Frances is also a girls name? My wife was so kind to draw attention to this issue during our last ... disagreement.“
For a while I sat there in complete shock, but something inside of me clicked and I made the choice to just go with it. Not only because it was entertaining but because I wanted to really discuss with Doctor Bennet if Frances was also a girls name.

Some minutes later we were both lying on the carpet and stared at the ceiling. I think my therapist was already a little drunk. Probably he had been drinking before my session had even started.
„I thought being a therapist would be different, you know? More exicting, for example.“ In the corner of my eye I could see him crossing his arms. „But the really mad ones don’t come to my damn office! Do you think I ever talked to a sociopath that regulary fantasizes about murdering his girlfriend? Do you think someone ever sat in my chair who believes the walls are made out of sugar and that fairies sit on the floor? No way! The only patients I get are narcissists that pay someone so that they can talk about themselves for a solid hour - or the ones that can’t cope with daily life. The ones that wallow in self-pity and that worry about things like the size of their nose. They read something in the internet and are convinced that they have an anxiety disorder or – the most popular concern – that they are depressed. No, Steven, you aren’t depressed, you are just fucking lazy. No, Deborah, I can’t diagnose you with Borderline, you are just a terribly annoying person and your friends wanted to find a nice way of confronting you with the truth. And you“, he turned to me, and his breath smelled of alcohol, „you are just an indecisive, spoiled brat that needs to change her way of living. No offense.“ He took another sip from his bottle of whiskey and finally he kept quiet.
It was silent for a while in Frances Bennets office – also because I couldn’t think of anything to say – until he cleared his throat, sat up and asked me: „You wanna smoke a joint? We have fifteen minutes left.“
To which I sat up as well and responded: „Does your salary suffice for your drug consumption?“
Thoughtfully Frances Bennet looked out of the window. After some time he nodded. „Yes, yes, it does. Somehow. But I just cannot seem to find any money to renew these utterly ugly curtains.“
I laughed – which scared the shit out of me – and then I smoked a joint with my therapist.

All I can remember from the rest of the day is that Frances Bennets next patient was ringing the bell at least ten times until they gave up and that we both couldn’t stop laughing about the color of his utterly ugly curtains. And I remember that while we were not able to stand up from the carpet because we were too high, Frances and I made a deal in a cloud of smoke. This deal consists of me going to his office once a week so he gets his salary and him telling my father about all kinds of satisfying diagnoses and treatments. Miraculously – to this day – dad never spoke of my mental state again.
In that sense, to darken the door of Doctor Frances Bennet wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be. I don’t think anybody ever made such a good deal with the devil.


----------



## Phil Istine (Mar 3, 2017)

You are a glutton for punishment.  Are you sure you want this?  (I'm still here but having to ration my internet time at the moment).



> *The Devil is Your Therapist *(capitalise significant words in titles ('your' is possibly optional))
> 
> On *F*riday* [comma removed]* the third of *M*arch*,* 2017, I was convinced I would never be  able to forgive my dad. On that day, in the cold streets of Harlem, at  four in the afternoon, I hated him with a burning passion that didn’t  even come close to the anger I had felt before for him. No – this time, I  thought, it was serious. This time I wanted to make sure his behavior  would have consequences.   ***Saying that 'it didn't even come close' implies a lesser degree of anger, but you want to imply a greater degree of anger.  You may wish to say that the more recent anger 'surpassed' the previous anger - or maybe try other wording?***
> While angrily clenching my teeth I counted the house numbers in the  street until I arrived at number eleven, the office of Doctor Frances  Bennet. It didn’t seem as promising as it was presented on the website,  but that didn’t bother me. I took out my phone, made some photos of the  dirty doormat, the skew*ed* sign on which I read the name of the doctor and  the bulges in the old entry door. With a strange satisfaction I typed  the words *[remove this „]"*at the doorstep of the devil“ into my phone and sent my dad  the photos *[instead of full stop, I suggest comma or hyphen here with lower-case j in just - unless you wish to emphasise this as a sentence on its own (it isn't grammatically correct but may be OK as a style choice.)]* Just to make sure he knew what he had done to me.
> ...



This was thoroughly entertaining to read and I really enjoyed it (I had to re-read without editing to appreciate it fully  )
I was going to mention that I think Frances is the female spelling of Francis, but then saw that it was incorporated into the story.
I once had a therapist who smoked sometimes, but he only did it occasionally and not while working 
Don't concern yourself too much about editing in places where you seemed to be making a style choice.  As the story unfolded, I could see that the choice was fairly consistent.  However, a few sentences are very unwieldy and may need to be broken down into shorter ones - or maybe find some other way of re-wording.
Also, the opening speech marks need to be at the top of the line and there are a number of misplaced commas.
Even with my editing, a few places don't sound quite like a natural English speaker, so maybe do some editing and re-post for another look? 

Thank you for an entertaining read.


----------



## jenthepen (Mar 3, 2017)

Hi Jule, Phil is doing a great job with the edit so I was able to sit back and enjoy the story.  When the therapist suddenly turned into a jaded hippie who hated his patients I laughed out loud. You have captured the humour of this situation brilliantly. I thoroughly enjoyed it, thanks for giving me a good chuckle.

Incidentally, you should check out the writing challenges. I think you would be good at it. 

jen


----------



## Phil Istine (Mar 4, 2017)

In addition to my proofread/edit, I would like to make a suggestion  about your title.  There is nothing wrong with your title and it does  catch the eye.  However, I wonder if you might consider "Devil May  Care".  This is an English idiom and I would expect most non-native  English speakers to be unaware of it.  It is catchy because it includes  the "care" that one would expect from a therapist but also includes his  "devil may care" attitude.  Devil may care is defined here.  This is only a suggestion that you may wish to use or discard as you please.

EDIT:  I ought to mention that posts containing swear words need to have a warning at the top or near the title in case anyone is offended. (I think it's really so that people can find the best posts more easily, but don't tell anyone I said that).  These are forum rules, I believe.


----------



## bdcharles (Mar 6, 2017)

Hi Jule,

First - I think this is great. Irreverent, well-written, and very cool. I'm getting girl-interrupted vibes here (inspired, not derived) and, hell, I'll even chuck a little Bell Jar in there too just for the subject matter. I don't want to comment on the voice because I think it's good as-is.

Couple of comments:

The opening line



> On friday, the third of march 2017, I was convinced I would never be able to forgive my dad.



It is OK but it's not 100%, in my view. I think you could add gravitas by swapping out "dad" with "father" but the sentimentality there remains. Does it foreshadow the rest of the book? Is it a spoiler or a hint? Is the plot Olivia's reconciliation with her dad? That could work I guess but - I dunno, it doesn't hugely grab me as a thing to care about because at this moment I know neither her nor her pops. Is there some other hook line you could grab us with using that voice of yours?

With this:


> On that day, in the cold streets of Harlem, at four in the afternoon, I  hated him with a burning passion that didn’t even come close to the  anger I had felt before for him. No – this time, I thought, it was  serious. This time I wanted to make sure his behavior would have  consequences.
> 
> While angrily clenching my teeth I counted the house numbers in the  street until I arrived at number eleven, the office of Doctor Frances  Bennet.



anger/angrily is repeated, perhaps unnecessarily so. You could probably rework the second occurrence:



> Teeth clenched in a white fury, I counted the house numbers in the  street until I arrived at number eleven, the office of Doctor Frances  Bennet.



for example. Just something to ponder.

This:


> As soon as we went through the doorway I thought I was about to begin a  therapy session packed with clichés. Two royal blue armchairs stood in  the middle of the room, abstract drawings were hanging from the walls  and on the tiny table that stood right beside the armchairs I saw a bowl  with a couple of worry stones in it. I even spotted a box with tissues  and had to restrain myself from laughing.


is a great example of how I think scene setting should be done. Invoke things in among bits of character, mood, movement and so on. Many writers list off a room inventory: "there was a box next to a thingy. Behind it rested a whatnot." But this is more "I smiled at the box standing next to the thingy" which is great 

Here:


> It was silent for a while in Frances Bennets office


 and here:


> All I can remember from the rest of the day is that Frances Bennets next patient was ringing the bell


Don't forget your apostrophes denoting possession -> should be "Bennet's" _[EDIT - I see Phil Istine got those]_


With this:


> At the split of a second


What a great way to refresh an overused phrase! I would say keep it. It's nice and precise, familiar yet perfect.

Apart from that, and the many points that P.I. raised, I cannot fault this. Love it. Great work!


----------



## Jule (Mar 6, 2017)

Hey you all! 
Sorry for answering so late, my life is an absolute chaos at the moment O_O

@Phil Istine: You are so awesome, man!!! Thanks a lot for correcting my work so detailed again!! What would I do without you?! As soon as will have some time I'll get into the editing! I'll post the updated version here then! 
No, I didn't know the phrase "Devil May Care" and it was interesting to read about. I'll think about that suggestion! Oh, and I will change the title!  
Again, thank you SO much, I am very glad you found the story entertaining!

Edit: I am just seeing now that I can't change the title or don't know how to, sorry, haha.

@jenthepen: Hey, you! Wow, I was SO happy when I read your comment, really. It is so great to know that someone even laughed while reading what I wrote, what a beautiful reaction. I normally write drama, so this is a new experience for me. Thank you a lot!!!
And as soon as I have the time I'll check the writing challenges out!  

@bdcharles: Hello! And thank you so much for your kind words and corrections! They help me a ton! Since I am not a native speaker I unfortunately did not understand what you meant by "I'm getting girl-interrupted vibes here (inspired, not derived) and, hell, I'll even chuck a little Bell Jar in there too just for the subject matter"?  But I guess it's something funny?
As I wrote Phil already, I will have to wait until I'll have time to edit the story, but then I will let you know!

THANK YOU! :chuncky:


----------



## Phil Istine (Mar 6, 2017)

Jule said:


> Edit: I am just seeing now that I can't change the title or don't know how to, sorry, haha.



I think that changing the title can only be carried out by a moderator.  If you wish this to happen, you will need to send a  moderator a private message (PM).  It looks like Sleepwriter and kilroy214 are the mods for this section.  You can still change the title within the main body of text though if you wish.


----------

