CHAPTER 1

The room is… bland. White walls, generic paintings, flower vases (though I'm not sure if the flowers are real; I'm not a flower expert), and the smell of a burning candle. Oh, and awkward silence. A lot of awkward silence as I sit across from my new therapist, waiting for her to say something.

But no. I apparently have to be the one to speak first, which I hate. (I'm not much of a people person, which you'll come to learn.)

"Um… can you ask me some questions?" I ask, trying to spark some conversation to pass time.

My therapist, Agatha Harris (which sounds a lot like a crazy woman's name, though that is being overly judgemental), proceeds to ask the most generic questions a therapist could conceivably come up with.

"How have you been feeling since last week?"

I get that question a lot. And it's not a question I can answer with one word. "I… don't know."

"Have you been taking yout medication?"

"Yes."

"Do you take it by yourself? Or does Alfred have to remind you?"

"I usually take it by myself."

Medication has always been something I've had a shady feeling about. It's not that I'm against it generally, but I think too many people expect it to work miracles and suddenly make you happy. Let me tell you something: it doesn't work like that. And I can't even tell you if it works at all. (That said, if you can't notice anything, that could be a sign that it is working.)

"How are things going between you and Alfred?" Agatha asks.

If I had the energy to answer this question thoughtfully, I would probably spend about an hour talking about it. But I'm just wiped out now. Then again, for some reason I'm always wiped out when I'm talking with my therapist. Even when I was younger this was an issue.

"It's been… fine, I guess." I say, grossly oversimplifying it.

"No major conflicts between you two recently?"

"Not that I can recall." Once again, an oversimplification.

"Have you had any major mood swings lately?"

I struggle to answer this. To be honest, I can't even tell you what my mood has been like, as I'd rather not think about it. To put a long story short, I have trouble expressing myself and my feelings. Partially because I don't want to have to think about it, and partially because I was not born with the best social skills. Depending on how I'm feeling, I can be rude, snarky, overly blunt, awkward, or anti-social. No, I don't take pride in any of these things, and quite frankly I feel bad for the people who have to put up with it, like my therapist.

Quick history with therapists: I had been visiting the same therapist for about six years, and while I had trouble expressing my feelings toward him, at least I grew comfortable sitting across from him. He retired for unknown reasons, though I theorize that it was probably because he wanted to get away from me. (That's mostly a joke, but I still consider it a possibility. He might've just wanted to spend time with his family.)

He recommended I start seeing Agatha as my new therapist, who is a bit younger and less experienced than he was. While I often dislike her occasional incompetence in human psychology, she is quite thoughtful, and I envy her ability to put up with someone like me.

I just realized she had asked me something almost two minutes ago. I feel embarrassed as I'm unable to remember the question.

"Um… what was the question?" I ask.

"How has your mood been?"

"...I don't really know."

"Good? Bad?" Agatha really wants an answer.

"Average." That's the simplest answer I can give.

"No angry outbursts?" she asks.

"No."

"So you seem to be feeling pretty well?"

I hesitate. Like I said earlier, I cannot tell you how I'm feeling; human psychology isn't that simple, at least for me.

"Yeah," I answer.

She nods, and jots some notes down. I often wonder what she (or any other therapist, for that matter) writes down. It kind of makes me feel paranoid that they're writing stuff like "he's crazy" to show to the other psychologists.

She smiles at me, and proceeds to talk in a formal manner. "Bruce, there's something I want to ask you about."

I always dread when people say they're going to ask me a question first, as opposed to actually asking it straightforward. If you want to ask me a difficult question, just ask it, as opposed to sparking a mini internal anxiety attack.

"I run group therapy sessions here every Friday for young adults. It's just a place for struggling teens to express themselves and see that they're not alone. Alfred asked me about it and said he wants you to join."

A jolt of rage fires up inside of me, but I don't show it. "He said he wants me in the group?" I ask, hoping for clarification.

Agatha nods. "Yes. He called me yesterday and requested that you join. Obviously it's your choice, but he thinks its best for you. And so do I."

I feel offended and somewhat humiliated. "Did he say why?"

Agatha is hesitant on telling me. "He and I both think that you could use some socialization with others going through your same situation."

I want to scream in protest, but I understand she's not the one who I should be complaining to.

Honestly, it's not even the idea of going to a group therapy session every week that annoys me, even though I would rather use that time staying home. My main problem is this being arranged without my involvement, because they think I'm "too crazy" or something like that. But let me tell you right now that withholding information and making decisions for me without my consent only makes things worse.

I simply smile and say "I'll think about it."

Agatha smiles and nods.

I look at the clock, hoping its almost time to leave. We have five minutes left. I awkwardly look away from her.

"Um… is it alright if I lead early?"

I suspect she's disappointed. "I suppose. Will you think it over?"

I nod. "Of course."

Agatha nods back. "Okay. See you next week?"

"I guess so."

Like I said earlier, I have an issue with being low-energy during therapist appointments. I guess the main issue is that most of the time when I'm in a session, I'm doing fine. I'm usually not cripplingly depressed, or overly anxious, or in a panicked state, even if I was feeling that prior to the appointment.

No, most of the time I'm talking with the therapist, I'm just bored. And I usually just want to go home. And I feel bad for my therapist, as they're having to deal with someone who just wants to leave.

I walk out to the driveway, and get in my old Jetta. I proceed to drive home to my apartment in suburban Gotham. And I'm just fine with that.

Could I be driving a Porsche to a mansion in a wealthy, gated neighborhood? Yeah, I could.

But do I want to? No.