Benson shifted in his seat uncomfortably. The therapist was a young woman named Dr. Marsh. She couldn't have been much older than Benson, but he could tell that she took good care of herself. He tried not to look her in the eyes as she came back from the door and sat down.

"Good morning, Benson," she smiled. "Is it okay if I call you that?"

He shrugged, "I guess so."

"Okay. You can call me Alice, if you like," she told him. He assumed she wanted to break the Doctor-Patient barrier and start off being "friends." That was how all his other therapists had started their meetings. To be completely honest, Benson didn't like it. He didn't want them to be friends. He wasn't paying them to be friends. He was paying them to fix him. He realized that his mindset wasn't the best; that if he was a little more positive he might make a little more progress. He just couldn't help it.

"So, Benson, how are you feeling today?" she started off.

"I don't know," he replied. Not entirely because he didn't want to talk, but also because he really didn't know. He wasn't happy, but he didn't think he was quite miserable. "I'm alright."

"Just alright?"

"Well, I'm not happy or miserable...I'm just... alright."

"Okay," she marked something down on her clipboard. A clipboard that looked strikingly similar to his own back at the park in his office. Great, he thought, another reminder. He let out a small sigh, running a hand through his locks. What did he even want to do? He didn't want to go home, he didn't want to go back to work... He didn't want to be here.

"Is there something on your mind, Benson?"

"I don't like psychiatrists. No offense."

"And why is that?" she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"I've been to many different ones already. None helped. Maybe I'm just incurable," he said, sitting back in the couch. He didn't want to think that there was no way to cure him. That would be like saying there was no light at the end of an extremely dark tunnel.

"Why do you think that?" she rested her chin on the back of her hand.

"Because I'm not close to recovering. I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know if I want to stay here or go somewhere else," he confessed the same confession he gave every psychiatrist. "I feel like I can't make my own choices anymore."

"Do you consider yourself confused?"

"Maybe. I don't know," he sighed. "I don't really want to talk about that."

"Okay, that's alright," she smiled again. "What would you like to talk about?"

"You're giving me the choice?"

"I want you to feel comfortable here. If there's something you don't want to talk about now, we can move on or address it at a later time. I don't want to make you feel pressured to answer any of my questions."

Benson shoved his hands in his pocket. That was what every other one of his therapists said. He didn't know whether or not he should believe her. "I don't know what to say," he mumbled.

"Is there someone in your life you consider close, perhaps?"

He thought for a moment. He had friends, he guessed, but none he considered really close. The only one that really popped out was Skips, but he'd really only argued with the man lately. "I wouldn't... say so..."

"You sound hesitant."

"Well, maybe there's one person, but lately we've been arguing a lot more."

"So, you used to be closer than you are now?"

"Yeah, I think so. I think it's mostly my fault, though. I get too mad."

"I see," she scribbled something else down on her clipboard. "And why do you think you get so mad?"

He shrugged, "I don't know. It's just how I am, I guess."

"So, you've never thought about fixing it? Is that not why you came to me?"

"No... Yes... Maybe," he sighed again. He was beginning to get frustrated. He didn't want to talk anymore. He didn't want to say anything wrong and have the therapist give him a look of pity like all the others did. "I don't want to answer that."

"Okay, that's alright," she said.

They talked back and forth for the rest of the hour, but Benson didn't think they made much progress. Mostly because he kept insisting he didn't want to answer half the questions she'd asked him. He got really angry about 3/4 of the way through and yelled at her, but she wasn't fazed. She probably got that a lot.

The very last thing she'd said to him was that maybe the reason he thought he wasn't getting better was that he didn't want to talk to someone unfamiliar. She said it should be easier for him to talk it out with someone close to him and visit her once a week to talk about everything else. "I do believe you will get better that way," she had said.

Benson wasn't so sure.

After the therapy session, he called his sister. She asked him how it went and he confessed it wasn't as bad as he thought. She wasn't quite as bad as the others he'd gone to and that he might visit her again. His sister seemed thrilled. Afterward he'd exchanged brief greetings to his mother and father and then hung up the phone.

By the time he was done his daily errands, driving around aimlessly and sitting in a park on the opposite side of town, it had gotten late. It was roughly 9 at night when he'd gotten back in his car to drive home. The town wasn't too big, so it didn't take him all that long, but he tried to go as slow as he could. He didn't want to be home. Home was where everything he didn't want to think of came rushing into his head at once. It sucked.

He parked his car and stepped outside, locking it and walking into the lobby of his apartment complex. He was far too tired to take the stairs like any normal human being, so he pressed the button for the elevator and waited for a quick moment before the doors opened and he walked inside with his head down, seemingly exhausted from doing nothing.

As the elevator rose a few levels and then stopped on his floor, he got out and slowly walked to his room. Another day the exact same as before. Another day gone by. He unlocked his door and stepped inside, not bothering to lock it again. He just wanted to brush his teeth and curl up into his bed. He wanted to dream of better things. Things that would maybe make him smile again.

It surprised him to notice that he couldn't remember the last time he'd really smiled. Like, really smiled and really meant it. Maybe a few years.

After he'd brushed his teeth he'd changed into his favorite pair of sweatpants and an old university sweater. They were the clothes he was most comfortable in, yet he wouldn't care let anyone in the park see him like that. He felt they wouldn't respect him if he dressed like he was going to sleep. But, then again, they didn't really respect him at all, did they?

He climbed into bed and settled down, sighing with relief as he laid his head on the pillow. Just as he was about to drift off to sleep, his phone rang. He didn't want to answer it. He really didn't want to answer it, but it could have been important, so he mustered up all the strength he had left and got back out of bed, rushing to the phone.

"Hello?" he knew he sounded exhausted.

"Benson," Skips said on the other line. "You sound horrible."

He sighed, grimly replying, "Thanks for noticing."

"I think we need to talk," Skips said. "I'm coming over."

"What?" Benson nearly yelled into the phone. "Don't come over. I'm about to go to sleep!"

But it was too late. Skips had already hung up the phone. Benson cursed under his breath. The other man could be so impulsive at times. It drove him crazy. And what could he possibly want to talk with him about? If it was park matters, he thought it would be better if he didn't hear it. He didn't want to make anything worse.

He sat back down on his bed, remembering he'd left the door unlocked. Maybe he could at least take a nap before Skips arrived. He laid his head down again, and again he sighed, closing his eyes.

Why did it feel like such a long day when he hadn't even really done anything. It wasn't a good feeling to feel so unaccomplished.