Amanda was seated in the swivel chair and reading through the binder when I returned to the therapy room. Without saying anything, I took a seat on the far end of the couch from her.
“Annabelle, are you ready to begin?”
No. I’m not at all ready. But does that matter? Not one bit. I stared at my hands as I picked at one of my fingernails.
“Annabelle,” she said again, sounding a bit impatient.
I kept on ignoring her.
“Annabelle, look at me. You need to be treating this seriously. You did tell the judge that you agreed to do this.”
I didn’t agree to do shit. When presented with a choice between going through therapy or being sent to juvenile detention, was there really, actually, a choice to be made?
“Would you rather just get right to the point?” Amanda asked, gently, but firmly.
I relented and nodded silently, waiting for Amanda to continue.
“Let’s talk about why you tried to kill your mother.”