Dr. Natasha Sellers was another Amazon-esque female therapist, but she was also from the streets of Seattle- the rough part of town. With the looks of J-Hud and the academic prestige of an experienced therapist, she gave me the vibes of someone who didn't beat around the bush yet wanted to make sure (like everyone else) that I didn't fall back into old habits.

And upon meeting her, I was feeling intimidated (if not overstressed) when Logan and his uncle joined her in her Masai-themed office. "Well, well," she said in a crisp Northwestern accent. "Wendell, I assume that you already know what's expected of you when you come into my office for therapy sessions?"

I nodded. "I need to govern myself accordingly, use no profanity, and still be ready and willing to open up and be honest," I replied as I sat down on the leather chair in front of her desk while Logan and the dean took the sofa behind me. "But can I be real for a moment?"

"By all means."

I took a deep breath. "Look, you already know from my experiences with the so-called self-righteous quacks that my father laid onto me and how they used my confessionals to make me into some psychotic and unstable teen, hence me feeling like I needed to keep my secrets walled up," I began. "And no tea and no shade, but I can't help but think that one of these days might be turned into a web of lies if I place my trust into the wrong hands."

"That won't happen," Dr. Sellers said firmly. "I've read your case file based on what the legal analysts and the therapists back at Westview Point Residential Clinic give me. They pretty much gave me the rundown on your tragic childhood and the mediocre education that you were stuck in. And as far as those fake therapists are concerned- the ones that were paid by your father? Well, they won't be practicing their firms anytime soon. But yeah, I have a good review on your file, but I want to hear your side of things. And no, I and all the other therapists won't use anything against you. That's a promise."

"That's a relief," I commented. "I'm just overthinking about everything, that's all. Even though I had a great start bat group therapy yesterday, I don't want to end up back at square one just because I goofed up when I say the wrong things or not say anything at all."

"And that's understandable," Dr. St. Pierre commented. "But if you can't trust us to help you heal, who can you trust?"

And that was the whole truth. That one question gave me enough resolve to begin with what I knew best. "All right, I said, closing my eyes and began to "blow bubbles."

Inhale. Exhale. Let it go.

Inhale. Exhale. Let it free.

"Are you ready?" Dr. Sellers asked me.

I opened my eyes. "I'm ready," I said. "Okay, my name is Wendell Harding and I'm a sixteen-year-old teen genius who passed MENSA and have a high IQ that places me in the one-percentile. And while I can easily solve mathematic problems as well as I can have sharp-tongued street-smarts and read people for filth, I am far from being authentic. I feel like I'm one step away from crashing after falling over the edge. And it's all because of two simple words: marshmallow tests."

"Good start," Dr. Sellers noted, "And I know all about those marshmallow tests that they give out to kids like you- you were tested to see if you can delay gratification, am I right?"

I turned to Logan, who gave me a thumbs-up sign. "Yes, ma'am," I replied. "And even when I began taking them, I had this feeling that I could easily not want the marshmallow right away. I came into the room with the other kids with one of my favorite picture books and when we were told to either eat the one marshmallow now or wait until later, I chose the latter and simply waited until later. I was lost in my favorite Mercer Mayer books that Pop-Pop Mack gave me while other kids gobbled their marshmallows away. By the time I finished reading my book several times over, the doctors were looking at me like I had lost my mind.

"And when 'Daddy Dearest,' if I can even call him that anymore, found out... he was on my case for being so ignorant. He accused me of being just like my mother. And, if I may quote him without being vulgar, he said to me, 'You're never going to be able to handle the real world if you don't get what's yours right now, boy! Kids like you these days should want to eat their sweets and all that jazz. You? You're this little bookworm who doesn't get the picture! Get out of my sight, maggot. You make me sick.'"

"That's terrible," Dr. Sellers said sadly.

"It went on like that every time that I took the test, even when the marshmallows upgraded to more sugary snacks and drinks in elementary school and video games and junk food in middle school and other gifts like money, toys, even a bit of alcohol when I took it in seventh grade," I went on. "And even then, I just ignored the gifts and decided to hold out a little longer. I passed the time by either reading one of the library books or my Bible that Grandma gave me, imagined that the goodies were laced with poison, closed my eyes and took a nap, did some crossword puzzles, thought of the goodies like they were either cotton balls or snakes- well, you get the gist."

"And did your 'father' changed his perspective?" Dr. Hyde asked curtly. "No, wait. I can answer that. He didn't. And neither did his new wife and stepdaughters, right?"

"You have no idea," I breathed. "The only people who supported me were my paternal grandparents, may they rest in peace. They saw that I had an older soul like I was constantly searching for things outside of the material and thinking about life and the big picture. And every time that my family left me after being beaten by the Gemini... uh, ladies of the evening; they were there to pick me up and heal me of my wounds. The last time they did that was back in eighth grade when I ignored numerous opportunities to be like the jocks at McHenry South High School in favor of reading my Bible. Pop-Pop Mack offered me words of wisdom, the same words that I still carry within me to this day and I wished I could've taken them seriously: 'Never forget who you are and where you came from,' he told me after Grandma cleansed my wounds from the Stepmother's bullwhip. 'Always be sure to wait for the right moment to take what's yours and continue to practice patience and self-control. My son and his new brood have their moments now, but you will have the moment when you will shine like the stars in the galaxy. Just remember to keep your heart pure and your mind on your books. And never forget to be yourself no matter what they say about you.'"

By the time I had finished, I was feeling the tears seeping from my eyes and cascading on my cheeks. "I never got it, you know?" I added, choking back a sob. "I mean, I was the one who did right by them. I was the one who tried to at least get with the times, but it seems like that nothing I did was ever good enough. I didn't dig deep enough. I didn't reach farther enough. By the time I reached the end of my sophomore year, I reached an epiphany: Maybe I wasn't the problem. Maybe I was too much for them."

"Maybe so, but at least you know that you wanted so much more than what was being given and offered to you back then," Dr. Sellers said, handing me a tissue. "The Marshmallow test was designed to see if kids can practice waiting for the marshmallow, not see if they just wanted to live the good life now. Kids who delayed gratification went on to graduate from high school and college, stayed out of the law, have stable relationships, and even had promising careers. You were supposed to be seen as the light of the future and yet the people who administered the test just thought you were mentally unbalanced. I'm surprised that you withstood all of the backlashes for this long."

"So was I," I admitted. "In a way, a part of me wanted to go ahead and have that gratification just to make everyone happy. But something in me said to keep hanging on and holding out for a little longer. It was like, I wanted to have that instant popularity and just keep up appearances, but a mysterious force said 'I have something better planned for you.' Is it wrong, Doc? Am I wrong for wanting something more in the picture?"

"Not at all," Logan answered. "It just proves that you're willing to wait until you reached for the ultimate endgame when things start finally falling into place. The world right now has been full of instant gratifications waiting to trap people, but there are still others who are searching for something more- continuing to eat their bowls of spinach at the table with the call of a decorative birthday cake waiting for them. The more they eat their spinach, the more the call for sugar can be enticing. But they still stood strong and chose to finish their meal in front of them. Some people are told to wait a little longer and the tests get harder. But in the end, they earned their gratification just by being patient."

"Agreed," Dr. St. Pierre assented, nodding his head.

"Let's stop for the day," Dr. Sellers suggested, closing up her notebook which was full of my notes. "This is a good start to what you gave me, young man. "I want you to be able to tell me anything that's on your mind and be willing to be authentic as you step into my office. The more you do that, the more progress you can make. Okay?"

I nodded. "I'm willing to go all the way, even when my bitter ego wants me to clam up," I promised. "I just can't afford to get played and made into a fool all over again."

"That won't happen," Logan vowed while the bell rang. "I will make sure of it. For now, we got Computers with Solado. And we still have group therapy."

"Wait," Dr. Sellers stopped us before we began to leave. "I have something for you, Wendell."

I turned my attention to the dark-skinned therapist, who handed me a large hardcover notebook and a set of elegant pens. "What's this?" I said.

"Your journal," she replied. "When the day is over, you begin writing inside your first entry and be prepared to share it with me come tomorrow at lunchtime."

"I'll be giving you a fresh sketchbook with pens, pencils, and coloring pencils so you can draw things out," Dr. St. Pierre added. "But both of these things are going to be mandatory to help you cope with bouts of anxiety and depression. no matter what you're feeling or when you feel like you can't express them in words, you can either draw them or write them down. Promise me that you'll use them."

I nodded, staring into the serious eyes of the people before me. "I will," I promised them.

"Good, now head to class."

***************

THE DIARY OF WENDELL HARDING. DO NOT DISTURB!!!

INAUGURAL ENTRY

Okay, so I usually don't do this kind of thing since it's frowned upon by my macho-man of an ex-father (or ex-sperm donor, I really don't care right now). But since coming to Cartier Valley, I came to accept that I am in desperate need of help to finally break free from old habits and to find my center.

And with the new guidelines for my case set in stone along with everyone- teachers, students, therapists, my roommate (more on that later), and the dean- watching my every move; I know that the time has come to stop the playtimes and the sass and just be real with myself.

I shouldn't feel nervous about all of this, but I do. I can't help it. My inner censor is telling me that I should just screw up already and just accept the fact that I'm this brash and foul-mouthed teenager who's too smart for his own good.

But what if I don't want to be that anymore?

What if I just want to be who I can be?

I don't know who I truly am just yet, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes to finally be free from the scars that I had to carry over the years. And despite the nagging feeling that something will make me snap and have all of my progress blow up in my face, I still want to heal. I still want to be happy. I still want to be... me.

So, consider this inaugural entry the start of taking the first step (even though I did so with my first participation in group therapy and getting started with private therapy) towards finding a new balance. Consider this entry an anthem for me to stop playing games and begin to let go of all of that hatred and self-loathing.

Consider this entry the first step towards a long and winding saga to not just being real and being alive. It's the start of being authentic with everyone and myself.

Wish me luck! I'm going to need it.

Wendell Harding.

And so it begins for Wendell as he looks back into the past. And it's sad to see that kids of his caliber are mainly tossed to the side and often bullied, being pressured to conformed to the here-and-now ideals. But it's kids like him and myself (me being smart despite being diagnosed with autism) who keep this world afloat and dare to dream big. To all of you who are like us, stand strong and know that our time will come.

And in the next chapter, Wendell and Braeden meet each other at last and there will be some threats made by Braeden. Plus...Wendell has a bit of a meltdown that will leave you guys crying. Stick around.

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