Page 2 of Wild Thing
I smother the smirk that threatens to creep its way across my lips, even though the question irritates the living fuck out of me.Isn’t it obvious? Wasn't this my karma? I got what I deserved.
The guilt weighs heavy as I ponder Dr. Crowe's question. I am curious as to why I always put my wants and needs first, often to the detriment of others. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve set my world on fire, then walked away while my life explodes into smithereens in the background. Last session, Dr. Crowe told me I had exhibited classic “impulsive” and “avoidance” behavior.
Besides… cool girls don’t look at explosions.
“Well, what goes around comes around, I guess,” I feel my face redden. “I wouldn’t be in this mess if I could learn to control myself.”
Dr. Crowe leans forward, her eyes kind yet probing as she slowly closes her notebook. Guess she's done with the incessant note-taking. Or doodling.
“I’m curious to dig a little deeper here. Do you think you’ve always been this way?”
It is a fair question. I consider the answer.
Have I always been a selfish person?
As a kid, I was restless by nature, always the first to run into a forest to explore or jump off a bridge into the river below without so much as a second thought to the potential danger.
But all changed the day my Dad left.
"As a child? No. I guess I was normal. If that means anything these days," I answer as my mind ticks, remembering the exact moment I realized the world was full of snakes. "But when my Mom told me Dad had left us for another family, that screwed me up."
I was eight years old when I experienced heartbreak for the first time. It doesn't seem fair it was my Dad who was responsible for it. I vowed I would never look for him, which makes the fact that I've turned out to be exactly like my father a true mind fuck.
Asshole DNA runs deep.
"That must have been awful for you."
"Yeah," I give Dr. Crowe a stiff smile. "It wasn't great."
I really didn't feel like unpacking my daddy issues. Not today.
My mind replays my rebellious teen years. I really did give my Mom hell at times. I would sneak out of the house late at night to meet my friends and drink cheap wannabe champagne in the park. And under the dim of the streetlights, I’d kiss the boys at midnight.
Always flirting with danger, I got high off thrills and wasn’t fussed about being liked or the most popular—I only ever did what I wanted and what made me feel alive. Back then, I guesssome people would have described me as impulsive. I've always craved those blood-rushing, heart-thumping, wild, unrestricted moments.
And most of those moments have come from either partaking in dangerous or illicit shit.
My Mom would always tell me,“Do what makes you happy. Spend time with the people who love you hard. Don't settle. You always choose yourself and your happiness first. No matter what.”
In theory? Solid advice. In reality? Doing what makes me happy mostly has gotten me in trouble.
This world doesn't run on happiness. It runs off greed and fear, forcing people to conform to the “way things are” in order to have a shot at thriving in it. Ever since I can remember, I’ve felt uneasy about societal expectations, particularly those around women. As I’ve gotten older, I've pushed harder against what is expected of me more than ever before. The ache and deep need to continue living life hard and fast is still there. But I guess I've been searching for that high in all the wrong places.
What I wouldn’t give to be sixteen again. I’d ruin my life differently.
I glance at the clock again before choosing to answer Dr. Crowe truthfully. “I’ve always chosen to disappoint others before I disappoint myself.”
I still do, which is how I’ve ended up here, with everything I’ve worked so hard for, destroyed.
"We all have desires, Dylan," she says like she is some kind of fucking fairy godmother. "It’s how we act on them that counts. You’ve identified that your past actions have hurt others… but what about yourself?"
Blinking, I hesitate.
She’s caught me off guard, because truthfully? I hurt myself the most. My heart is lashed with invisible scars. I'm the reason I feel sick inside.
My exterior is very much “fuck around and find out.” To some, I'm cold, aloof, unbothered. A real bitch. I can be mean as fuck and cold as ice, but in the right hands, I melt. I'm a fraud in a way. I talk a big game, but my bark is worse than my bite. I'm attracted to tricky situations that test my morals because of how alive those moments make me feel.
The truth is, at 30 years old, I don't like myself. To an outsider, I had been living a life that others dreamed of. Healthy, with a thriving career, a hot boyfriend, and a killer handbag collection.
