There’s one scene at the end of almost every made-for-TV movie.
You know the one: the big dramatic emotional confrontation happens, fade out, and before the credits speed by with a promo for the next show, you’re forced to watch a minute of the super-traumatized young woman (and it’s always a young woman) sitting in a cozy office with wood paneling and dead, dried flowers, being prompted by some cross-legged PhD to start telling her story and working through her issues so she can get on with her life. That one.
I’ve always hated that scene.
But I guess that’s my life. A low-budget cable-channel movie you watch half-asleep at 3:00 a.m. because you’re too hungover to remember where the remote is.
Pretty freaking lame, huh?
I mean, it could be worse. At least my life has the unmistakable benefit of starring the one and only Lydia Bennet, aka me. Not some former Disney channel star struggling to prove she can handle “real drama” so one day she might be “taken seriously” as an “actress.”
Fine, and therapy—okay, counseling—isn’t all that bad, it turns out. It’s actually kind of nice talking to someone about your life and knowing they aren’t going to act like you’re some stupid overemotional kid or butt in with dumb opinions when they don’t even know anything about you.
In real life, anyway. I still think that’s an idiotic way to wrap up a movie. Because that’s not the end. If anything, it’s the start of the sequel.
Problems aren’t magically solved just because you throw out some societally approved ideas for how to fix them. Putting things back together is always harder and more complicated than breaking them.
I should know. I’m excellent at breaking things.
“Have you heard anything about your college application?”
So, yeah. Counseling. I’m in that. Like, right now.
I shrugged. “They sent me some more forms. Still collecting my thoughts about it.”
My counselor, Ms. Winters, reminds me of my oldest sister, Jane, in certain ways. As kind and patient as Ms. W can be, like Jane, you just get this feeling she could break someone in half for looking at her wrong if she wanted to.
Although Ms. W is overall less prancing chipmunks and double rainbows than Jane. And she’s never once offered me tea.
I miss Jane.
Ms. W seems to be pretty good at what she does, and she’s freakishly insightful sometimes. It’s that insight that made me think I might be good at counseling, too—from the counselor’s side of it, I mean.
So I thought if I wanted to go into psychology, maybe become a counselor or a therapist or whatevs myself, it couldn’t hurt to try to learn a few techniques from her. Learn . . . copy right in front of her during our sessions . . . whatever you want to call it. She’s never said anything about my mimicking, but I sometimes wonder if she thinks I’m crazy. Like The Roommate crazy (that’s Single White Female crazy for those not versed in popular teen movie rip-offs about stalking people and taking over their lives). Either way, that could be a fun twist.
I probably shouldn’t mention that to anyone.
“I’ve just been really busy getting ready for summer classes tomorrow and prepping for Mary to move in, and with Lizzie leaving today . . .” I could already hear Ms. WPraise for The Lizzie Bennet Diaries: "Addictive . . . In theory, it should be terrible. In practice, it's pure genius. . . . The Lizzie Bennet Diaries is faithful to the original without being slavish or full of in-jokes. It's a sharp, clever re-imagining of a novel about class, society and the things we do for love (and money). I like to think that if Austen was writing now, she might have created something very like this."