That Orange Couch

December 19, 2017
By Anonymous

I say I don’t wanna be here.

But I sit here.
I stay sitting.
I stay answering the same repulsive questions I get asked every Tuesday.
I can't complain as much, I'm getting out of the dread of walking down the school hallways. Stopping and socializing with people that think I care about their well being.

I’m only there for… well because I have to be and of course for lacrosse. Being the captain of the lacrosse team, everyone thinks you're the big thing at Wintercreek high school. I mean I don't hate the attention I get, I don't mind the attention I get from walking in the halls and busting out in a song to annoy my click. My group of people aren't all that bad either, we do find ourselves in some trouble but it's not all that bad to what people may put it out to be. It’s not who I wanna be completely, it's just who I am right now. I may have not made the best decisions in high school, but my parents could never find out about the kind of person I am now. I couldn't imagine what they would think of me. I truly do have a good heart, but they still could never know.

My siblings and I grew up in a church. Church every Sunday and Wednesday nights; Private schools were in my siblings' entire life and mine, besides for high school.

I attended a private school my ninth grade year, and I swore I would never go back. From a society that said they're Godly like people they sure were critical and judgemental, that lead to consequences of me finding out who I thought was my mom, wasn't actually my biological mother. From there on out, I could see it.

I don't look like my siblings or my “Mom”. I don't act like any of them either… I see why my “Mom” always put her actual kids; my three siblings before me without me even realizing it.

Why wouldn't someone want to love a piece of them?

Why wouldn't someone want to love someone who may have the same eyes as them or the same quirky attitude?

How could someone leave their child with no explanation? Leave someone who is half them? She was probably in love with the idea of love with my father, just not me.

I stare blankly at the same white beat up desk my counselor sits at each Tuesday. It sits alone in the corner of the room, but it's almost like the desk wants to be alone.

I want to be alone.

My tongue rubs in between the corners of my chapped lips, tasting the dried saliva that's been crusting up on top of my chapstick since this morning. My eyes follow up the beading on the back of the blue velvet accent chair. The couch was the most uncomfortable thing I've ever had the miserable misfortune to sit on. My finger traces one spot the whole time, the fabric has started to ball up to little fuzzies on the armrest. I hate the color orange. Why did she choose an orange couch that I have to sit on? Just like why my biological mother had to choose this life for me. I could just disappear and leave like what my Mother did, but what would that do. My counselor gathers her colored pens and notebooks at her desk, I watch her brown curls jump out of her head as if they were dancing to the pens clashing together in her hands. Her bright white and straight teeth smile at me, she has a seat on that beautiful, embroidered and straight back chair.

“Charlie, how's school going?”
She starts off with that question every time and every time I just want to tell her nothing has changed. Anxiety curled into my stomach, I've been saying the same thing for a year now.

I know I have been staring at her for a minute now, but nothing has changed. I feel a lot of emotions and have a lot I wanna say, but I don't want to say it to her. I don't share my emotions. I bundle them up as it was a winter day and just hold it inside. I'm stubborn and hard headed and I know it, but if I can admit it then am I really so much? Mrs.Wilson's leopard print glasses have made imprints in her makeup on her nose. I can tell she's waiting for me to respond.

“It’s good Mrs. Wilson, nothing has changed. Same as its been any other week.”
My finger has been numb for the last two minutes, I should probably leave the couch alone, but my nerves won't let my fingers stop.

“Grades? Lacrosse? How's the home life going? Has anything happened that your emotions have changed?”

I catch myself in an eye roll, my arms lift across my chest. I lean back on the hideous orange couch.

“I’m fine Mrs. Wilson, I don't even know why I have to still come here. Week after week, after week, after week, after week, it's the same old thing.  My emotions haven't changed, my parents have no respect for me after I’ve tried getting to know more about my biological mother. My father says it doesn't matter and its disrespectful towards my mom. I can see where they come from, but I’m curious. My parent's mindset is the only values they think is acceptable. So close-minded,  for trying to be a good human being. I feel like the outcast of the family ever since I found out I'm not one of them fully. I just wanna know how my life would be if my “Mom” wasn't the one to adopt me if my biological mother didn't f*** up her relationship with my father. I wanna know how it could be if I knew the answers.

She can tell I have had enough coming here, that nothing will be fixed in my household or how I feel. That feeling of not being wanted will forever haunt me.

“I wanna know why she didn't want me, I wanna know if she has other kids. If I could have other brothers and sisters. If maybe she didn't mess things up or where she is in life. Or if she could be dead.”

All my emotions have hit me at once. She never got to finish a particular bedtime story with me at night, as a kid. She will never see me graduate, she will never see me leave for college. She won't be there to meet the love of my life, she won't be there for my wedding. She will never feel guilt from the words of how I feel right now. I feel angry, my teeth start to clench up. I feel so much right now. I don't want to be here, I want to leave. I stood up, making my last glances at the beat-up desk, my eyes followed the blue chair beading one last time. I felt the rubbing spot of the hideous couch and gave it a last rub.

Before I caught myself getting loud, I took it out on my counselor. “I should've left this horrible orange couch you picked out a long time ago.”

Not looking back at the counselor door, I heard it slam behind me. It echoed the halls of the office. I still feel a lot, but not apologetic from the disrupted in the building, but towards Mrs. Wilson and her trying to help me when I can’t be helped. I shouldn't have taken it out on her; now I have relief of not feeling miserable and lonely in that room again.

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