The fact that Dr. Allen seemed fairly convinced that she wasn’t sociopathic or psychopathic seemed enough to get Freya’s grandparents off her back. At least with the whole treating her like a ticking time bomb. She would still catch them at times talking in hushed tones or looking at her with an intense amount of pity.
Which was perhaps the main reason that she agreed to start going to more regular meetings. It was a chance to get away from those looks. As if she didn’t get it enough at school. Of course, the people at school didn’t know necessarily that her father was Sherlock Holmes, or that sociopathy had ever been a possible explanation. They merely chose to call her that because that was what they thought was the easiest solution to why she was what she was... whatever that was. And, yeah, Freya couldn’t help but wonder, now that she was more or less in therapy, what her official diagnosis would be. If for no other reason to tell someone what she really was and yell at them to do their research.
“I’m not sure whether to thank you or yell at you,” Freya said finally after several long moments of silence. “Sure, they don’t look at me like a ticking time bomb for drug use and whatever horrible stuff my father’s done. But now they look at me as if I’m some poor broken toy. Because, apparently, there’s only two ways that you can go if you need a diagnosis of the mental variety: dangerous and scary or broken and pitiful.” At least when her grandparents thought she fell into the dangerous and scary one, they didn’t say anything outright to her, and they kind of let her do her own thing. Now, it seemed as if, suddenly, they had to make every decision.