The Problem with Lena

Chapter 1

"Awesome, Lena," I muttered to myself with a hint of irony. "You need therapy just to handle therapy."

That's the conclusion I came to while standing in front of the school psychologist's office. Not lurking near the entrance to catch him in action with his last patient, but strategically positioning myself six feet away, my back pressed against the fire escape door. It hit me like a ton of bricks—I was scared to death of going to therapy. Sitting face-to-face with a complete stranger, baring my soul while they analyzed every broken piece of me. Just thinking about it made me queasy.

I walked in there with a solid determination to fix my insecurities, but as soon as I stepped into the waiting room, doubts crept in. What would he think of me when he noticed my quivering voice and nerves? He'd probably peg me as a weirdo, someone with serious issues, but isn't that the whole point of seeking therapy? Everyone else talking to their shrink seemed like a walk in the park, just like going to the doctor for a common cold. But when it came to me, I felt like there was something fundamentally flawed in my core. What if it was true? What if the therapist pointed a finger and said something along the lines of, "You're a lost cause, Lena. No fixing you"? That would shatter any fantasy of being normal.

Way too much to handle.

I slipped away, retreating to the fire escape landing, and let the door click shut behind me.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I made a promise—I'd face it later. When I felt stronger. Clinging to that notion like a lifeline, it comforted me. It wasn't all that bad, right? I didn't suffer from anorexia or carve my legs like those girls in the movies. Sure, I was insecure, but who wasn't in the chaotic realm of adolescence?

As I descended the stairs, Alex's image flickered in my mind. It'd be incredible to conquer my insecurities and emerge bolder, a side effect of therapy. Maybe then I'd know how to captivate the new guy. Oh, Alex had been the "new guy" last year, fresh off the plane from Brazil, setting the entire school's hormones on fire. But now, we couldn't simply call him "new" anymore. We needed a nickname, like "the heartthrob," "the hunk," or "the smoldering Brazilian"... any of those would fit him like a glove.

"Perfect, Lena," I muttered to myself with a hint of sarcasm. "You need therapy just to handle therapy."

That's the conclusion I reached while standing outside the school psychologist's office. Not lurking near the entrance to catch him sneaking out with his last patient, but strategically positioning myself six feet away, back pressed against the fire escape door. It hit me like a ton of bricks—I was scared to death of going to therapy. Sitting face-to-face with a total stranger, spilling my guts while they analyzed every broken piece of me. Just the thought made my stomach churn.

I went in there with a rock-solid determination to work on my insecurities, but the moment I stepped into the waiting room, doubt flooded in. What would he think of me when he noticed my trembling voice and nerves? He'd probably peg me as a weirdo, someone with serious issues, but isn't that the whole point of seeking therapy, right? Everyone else talking to their shrink seemed like a piece of cake, as simple as going to the doctor for a common cold. But when it came to me, I felt like there was something fundamentally flawed in my core. What if it was true? What if the therapist pointed a finger and said something like, "You're a lost cause, Lena. There's no fixing you"? That would shatter any fantasy of being normal.

Way too much to handle.

I slipped away, retreating to the fire escape landing, and let the door click shut behind me.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I made a promise—I'd face it later. When I felt stronger. Clinging to that notion like a lifeline, it comforted me. It wasn't all that bad, right? I didn't have anorexia or self-harm like those girls in the movies. Sure, I was insecure, but who wasn't in the tumultuous realm of adolescence?