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What Have I Got to Lose?

Rifky Wertzberger

I can’t understand why Mommy has decided to listen to Mrs. Kahan, the principal. Doesn’t she know that Mrs. Kahan loves putting labels on kids?

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

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I don’t know why Mommy thinks I need a therapist. I don’t need anything or anyone. I can’t understand why Mommy has decided to listen to Mrs. Kahan, the principal. Doesn’t she know that Mrs. Kahan loves putting labels on kids and sending them to therapists? Everyone knows it. The entire school. The entire parent body. The entire town. I mean the whole world, okay?

She’s wearing green shoes. I see them sticking out from beneath her desk like two little eyes, staring up at me. The walls are gray. Just like the walls in school. They should ask me these types of things; I’d paint the walls yellow. Yellow is carefree. But nobody asks me which colors to use to paint walls or what color shoes to buy. Well, nobody really asks me anything. It’s as good as not being around at all. 

But this hour of therapy is creeping along so slowly, like the three pairs of caterpillar legs. S-L-O-W. But a caterpillar has six eyes. Does this therapist also have that? She seems to be taking me in from her fingertips, her toes, and her eyes. She’s too eye-ful. I prefer somebody a bit more like a blindfish, like me. If only I’d find a real friend I could tell this to, somebody casual like me. Then I’d have a good time laughing at the silly time I’m spending here at this therapist’s office.

Hour at the therapist is finally up. Great. Now I get to walk home and repeat to myself, along with the rhythm of my footsteps, “I’m normal, normal, normal, normal…” I am really normal. I am just going to a therapist because Mrs. Kahan loves sending kids there. If they only knew what they’re doing to my self-esteem, they’d never send me there. Now I get to have a new worry on my worry list: “Am I normal?”

Zeidy’s home when I get there and I say hello. He’s always so relaxed and happy that I’m not sure I’m related to him.

“Hi, Zeidy. How’s your day going?”

“Baruch Hashem, vonderful.”

I gravitate to my room, more specifically, my bed. I plug earbuds into my earholes and space out. Spacing out is comfy.

Nobody calls me. Today or ever. For some reason, I can’t seem to make a decent friend. I’m really okay, I know I am. I get decent marks on my tests and I have great discussions with my classmates during recess. I have just never landed a good friend, and now I need one most because I need to tell somebody how crazy this therapist drives me. Argh! (Excerpted from Mishpacha Junior, Issue 661)

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