Dad, I’m sorry to tell you this, but going to a doctor won’t magically fix that I get sick when I’m in a crowd of people for too long.
It won’t suddenly make the crippling fear I feel before going out to do simple things in public vanish.
I’m not going to bust out of the doctor’s office, completely cured.
And it definitely won’t make a job just appear.
It might help, but it’s going to take more than a visit to the doctor and your constant yelling at me to fix the problem.
You telling me that I “always come up with an excuse” when I try to tell you how I actually feel about things doesn’t help.
It doesn’t help me when you yell at me to just do something when I’m trying to ask you how to do this thing I’ve never done before.
It doesn’t help me when you badger me every single day about even making this doctor’s appointment because, newsflash, it’s mom’s doctor. Hers. She has to make the appointment. I’ve never been to anything but a pediatrician.
I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment. Maybe you should just invest all of your hopes and dreams into your star daughter, Olivia.
Oh wait
you already do.
