"Seriously, Mom! This is ridiculous! Nothing is wrong with me. I don't want to go see Dr. Thomas. He's a complete idiot." The anger inside me threatens to explode. I lean my head against the car window in defeat, watching the cookie—cutter houses in a subdivision pass by on this now all too familiar route to see my therapist Dr. Stupid—Ass Thomas.

"Honey, I know you don't want to go, but your father and I think it's important. Can you please try to be cooperative today?" my mom asks in a sincerely concerned tone.

"Mom, it's not that I don't try. I have nothing to say. Why can't you understand that I'm fine?"

"Sweetie, your actions say otherwise, and I want to make sure you're getting the support you need before you go off to college. I worry about you, and I don't want you to make any decisions that could hurt you in the long run."

I'm sick of this spiel, I've heard it many times over the last few years.

My mom is worried about—how does she put it?—my self—worth. She feels that I don't value myself the way that I should, and because of that, I will make bad choices to fit in, but I honestly don't see her side. I'm happy with my life. I feel like my mom has emotionally switched places with me, and she's hell—bent on causing teenage drama. I think that's supposed to be my job. She loves to create drama where there is none. She's always eager to jump in and save the day when, in fact, there is nothing that needs to be saved. I know the nurse in her wants to fix any problems that she perceives needs to be fixed. I wish she would understand that I'm not one of those problems.

"Do you sit around at night and imagine these so—called decisions? Last time I checked, I'm doing pretty well. Do you want me to let you know what other kids my age are doing? Will it make you feel better to know that I'm not whoring around or popping acid like candy? I get good grades. I'm a good person, Mom. Why don't you have any faith in me?" I'm close to yelling now, but it's true. I could partake in many activities that would, indeed, be harmful to me, but I choose not to. Besides what my parents imply, I don't want to grow up to be a loser.

"Please don't be like that, Olivia. You know I only want the best for you. I know that you are a good girl, honey, and I'm so proud of you. Your father and I are worried that when you go off to college without the support system you have here, you might make decisions that could be detrimental to your future."

"If I promise not to tattoo my face or start shooting up heroin the second I get to college, can we forgo this appointment?"

"Very funny, Olivia."

"Well, that's about as much credit as you're giving me," I say dryly. "Seriously, Mom, what do you think I'm going to do? I don't understand. You are making a big deal out of absolutely nothing."

"Sweetie, you are a beautiful, smart, and kind person, but you don't see it, and that worries me."

I know my parents think that something horrific must have happened to me at some point in my life to cause me not to value myself as much as I should. Okay maybe they are right to think I have some self—esteem issues, but I think a lot of people do. We don't enter this world as beacons of wholeness, eager to take on the each day with our self—confidence. I personally believe that we are born as blank slates, and our worth comes from others—at least initially—until we are strong enough to value our own opinions over those of the people around us.

Does one have to suffer through a tragic upbringing to have self—esteem issues? No, I don't think so. I was never abused, neglected, or molested. My life's tragedy isn't worthy of an Oprah Winfrey Show special. My life has been the opposite of a tragedy. I have been loved as much as I think a set of parents can love their child. I have been very wanted, so much so that my mother underwent years of fertility treatments to finally conceive me. I don't know. Maybe this is part of it—my insecurity to be everything my parents dreamed I could be, to be worthy of their struggle. They have never led me to believe that I'm anything but worthy. Nonetheless, the ever—present voice is in my head, reminding me that I'm not quite enough.

I cannot pinpoint a series of shameful experiences in my past as the cause of my insecurities. In fact, there is not even one. I honestly believe that small moments in our lives mold us into the people we are going to be. These fragments in time are so inconsequential that they don't even have staying power in our memories. Perhaps, a girl in Sunday school class didn't like my dress or a glitter project that I'd poured my five—year—old soul into, and when I shared that particular experience with my mother, it was brushed off with a hurried smile as she stressfully made dinner after a hard day's work. Small moments like that could have filled up pieces of my being with emptiness, slowly chipping away slivers of my spirit. It could be that some people are prewired to need less validation from others than I do. I'm not sure. Regardless of the reason, I don't value myself as much as I should, and I'm aware of it. Unfortunately, I can't change my personal self—worth. Although I have tried, I can't trick my mind into believing something that I don't.

The moral of this story though is that it doesn't matter. It's okay that I'm not exploding with self—confidence. I would venture to say that most people aren't. I'm still a whole person, and happy with my life. I'm certain that I won't make detrimental choices the second I'm out from under my parents' roof to—what? Fit in? I'm not that pathetic. Why can't Dr. Thomas or my parents understand this? Why can't they understand that this is who I am, and I'm okay with it? I know all of this interest comes from a good place where my parents are concerned, but I'm beyond annoyed.

"Mom, how many more of these so—called therapy sessions do I have to go to?"

With a hint of resignation in her voice, she says, "I don't know, Olivia. I'm trying here, okay?"

"I know you are, Mom, but I'm fine. I'm happy. Please believe me."

"I want you to have someone to talk to if there is anything you need to work through, you know?"

"While I appreciate that you care, please believe me that I'm good, Mom. I'm good."

"If you are so great, then why did you end it with Ryan?"

I let out a deep sigh. "Mom, we have gone over this, it just wasn't there anymore. We are better off as friends."

Ryan has been my best friend since I was ten, and for the last four years, he was my boyfriend. My parents think that I ended it because I didn't think he would stay with me throughout college and that I wanted to beat him to the punch. The truth is, I ended it because I didn't see him as anything other than a friend in my future.

"Eastern?"

I groan. "Mom!"

My parents are upset that I didn't apply to their alma mater, the University of Michigan. Instead, I applied to a smaller college located ten miles away from it. It had nothing to do with me thinking I couldn't get into U of M. I knew I could have, but the prospect of spending my adult life paying off student loans was enough to scare me away. I know it's a great school, but I want an education, not a lifelong debt sentence.

"Volleyball?"

In as calm of a voice as I can muster up, I say, "Mom, we have been over this. I didn't want to play anymore, and that is it. There is no underlying reason. Just stop it."

"But you were great, honey. You could have gotten a scholarship."

"I'm not going to keep rehashing every decision that I've made with you. I have reasons for everything I do. Please, just stop."

We drive the rest of the way to the office in silence. My mom sighs, and I can sense the defeat in her posture. Hopefully, this will be my last session. I know she worries about me, and she probably always will.

Apparently, the only way to prove to her that I'm a well—adjusted person is to make it through college without doing something idiotic. I think I can handle that.