For the record, therapy was my idea. Jen just made a much bigger deal out of it than me.
“I’m so proud of you,” she cooed.
“Thanks,” I replied. “But it’s really no big deal.”
I was trying to be cool about the whole deal. Trying to pass it off as though psychoanalysis was as routine as buying milk. I was failing. Though that probably had more to do with the fact that we were laying naked on the bed, her head resting on my chest and her fingers tracing paths from my navel to my knees and back again.
“Of course it’s a big deal,” she said, looking up. “You’re healing.”
“Healing?”
She sat up and scooted to the end of the bed.
“You’ve gone through quite a bit this year, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess,” I said, struggling to focus my attention on the conversation rather than her really attractive, really naked body.
“What,” I asked, smiling as the sight of her pulling a blanket over her lap.
“This is serious, Will.”
“I know.”
“And it means a lot to me.”
“That I take this seriously?”
“That you care enough about me to care about yourself.”
“You give me too much credit,” I said, trying to pull the blanket away.
She glared at me. “That’s because you don’t give yourself enough of it.”
“What can I say, I don’t like to brag.”
“Right. I think you’re confusing low self-esteem and humility.”
“Ouch,” I said.
“It’s true.”
Of course it was. But that didn’t mean I liked what I heard.
“Thanks for stating the obvious.”
Jen exhaled in frustration. “Don’t get mad at me.”
“I’m not,” I protested.
“I’m just trying to participate.”
Way to go dipshit.
I slid down to her side of the bed and put my arm around her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m trying.”
“I know,” she replied, her words clipped and barely audible.
“You more than anyone are responsible for who I’m becoming.”
She looked up hopefully.
“You’re the one who’s helped me remember who I was.”
I really just said that. Out loud. I’m almost embarrassed.
Jen smiled. “Really?”
“Without a doubt,” I said. “Now can we change the subject?”
“When’s your next appointment,” she replied, casually evading my request.
“Next week.”
“Are you excited?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
By now her mood was back to bubbly. “But think of all the progress you’re making.”
“The progress I’m making?”
“Yeah, just look at how far you’ve come already.”
I stifled a laugh.”I’ve been to one session.”
“And look at what you’ve learned.”
“What have I learned?”
She stood up and faced me, naked, though she spoke to me with the confidence and defiance of a person wearing clothes. “What have you learned?” She held out her hand and stuck out her pinkie. Obviously there would be more than one example. ”For starters you’ve learned that you can’t continue living the way you have been.” Her ring finger shot up, “You learned that you’ve got self-esteem issues.” Middle finger. “That despite wanting people to believe otherwise, you’re actually a caring and sensitive person.” Index finger. “You learned that Liz fucked you up.” Thumb. “More importantly,” she added, smiling seductively as she walked towards me, “you learned that I’m the best damn thing to ever happen to you.”
I sat up on the edge of the bed, taking her into my arms as she straddled me. She kissed me softly.
“Promise me you’ll go next week.”
“And if I say no?” I grinned.
She pushed me onto my back and pinned my arms to the bed with her knees.
“If you say no.” She inched herself towards my head and opened her legs. “This is the last time you’ll ever see this.”
* * *
There are probably other reasons to go to therapy besides the desire to see your girlfriend’s vagina again, I just can’t think of them. I take that back. Maybe if I concentrated real hard I could.
The thought of getting better? Not unless it has a Brazilian wax.
Who needs therapy when you’ve got a readily accessible vagina available? Face it, Paxil, Zoloft, and Lithium can only do so much.
Of course psychologists don’t need to know these things. They’re just happy to get a few more billable hours.
“I want to talk about your anger.”
I looked at the psychologist. “What about it?”
“You have a lot of it,” she replied, her voice tinged with casual indifference.
“Do I?”
She laughed. “You’re not fooling anyone Will.”
I laughed back, but I laughed harder. Then I abruptly stopped. “I wasn’t trying to.”
Her smile slowly turned. “Where does it come from?”
“Everywhere.” My turn for casual indifference.
“Everywhere?”
“Yep.”
She studied me for a minute. “I don’t believe you.”
I shrugged.
“Tell me about your mother.”
“She’d got nothing to do with it,” I shot back.
The psychologist smiled softly. “Your tone suggests otherwise.”
“Listen. No one hit me with fucking coat hangers me or anything.”
She held up her hands. “I’m not suggesting they did.”
“Then what’s your point,” I interrupted. “If you have a question just ask the fucking thing.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ”I apologize. What I’d like to know is what type of an environment you were raised in.”
“I shouldn’t have sworn at you.”
“That’s okay.”
“No it’s not,” I replied. “It’s immature.”
She grinned at me. “I’m a big girl, Will. I can handle it.”
“To answer your question, my brothers and I couldn’t have been raised by better parents. They were very supportive.”
“Would you say you were you spoiled?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “They made us work for everything we got. Pissed us off.”
“That you weren’t spoiled,” she asked.
“Yeah, but we were idiots. They did us a favor.”
“Learned a few valuable life lessons, did you?”
I smiled. “You want to know where the anger comes from?”
She nodded.
“When I was a kid my folks told me I could do anything I wanted- that I could be whatever I wanted to be- if I worked hard.”
“But?”
“But that was a load of shit.”
She wrote that down.
“I wanted to be a fighter pilot more than anything on earth. But you know what? No amount of hard work can make up for shitty vision.”
“And that’s why you’re angry?”
“You sell yourself on your potential – sky’s the limit, all that shit – and then one day you realize that what you dream of doing has been rendered impossible by what you’re actually capable of doing.”
When she finished writing she looked at me. “Eventually we all have to realign our goals with reality, Will.”
“Yeah well, I didn’t want to.”
“But you did.”
I sat back in my chair.
“And looks where it’s got me.”
She had to think about this for a minute. “I’m curious. What was so intolerable about your situation that you felt suicide was the only option?”
“The real reason?”
“Beyond being tired.”
Apparently she didn’t like my previous rationale.
“Beyond being tired,” I said, “I couldn’t deal with the fact that my life was nothing but mediocre.”
She looked at me as if she was expecting more.
“Pretty boring, huh?”
“Not everyone’s life is destined for excitement.”
“True,” I replied, “but not everyone holds on to that hope.”
“Perhaps you were putting too much emphasis on your profession.”
“That’s what Jen said.”
The psychologist smiled. “She sounds like a pretty inteligent woman.”
I ignored her. “She said that the number of people who actually get to live out their dreams is so small that if everyone reacted like me there’d be no one left.”
She nodded.
“That’s some cynical shit,” I added. “What’s there to live for if we don’t have our dreams?”
It took me a second to figure out why the psychologist was smiling so broadly. “That sounded incredibly gay, didn’t it?”
“Not for a romantic, Will. Not for an idealist.”
“That’s my problem. The fucking idealism.”
“You just don’t know how to use it.”
I looked at her for elaboration.
“You haven’t figured out how to reconcile your idealism with your choice of professions. Consequently, you put too much stock into the fact that your career choices don’t support this idealism.”
I nodded.
“But what you’ve failed to consider is that your idealism can be satisfied by means outside of your profession.”
“I know that,” I replied tersely.
“And what are you doing about it?”
Silence.
“You’re lazy, Will. You want the idealistic satisfaction yet you do nothing outside of work to achieve it.”
She was putting me in my place.
“Do you volunteer?”
Her voice rose and I said nothing.
“Are you looking for another job?”
Her tone hardened yet I took it.
“Are you even bothering to pursue your dreams or just pouting because they haven’t been tossed in your lap?”
She was bitch-slapping me with the truth and it stung as bad as anything I’ve ever felt.
“You need to wake up, Will. You’re not a victim of fate. Do you understand that?”
I nodded.
“Your mediocrity is a product of your apathy.”
I nodded again.
Her tone softened. “So why the apathy,” she asked.
I shrugged.
“Because it’s easy, isn’t it,” she asked. “You think it allows you to mitigate the consequences? You think it absolves you of the responsibility of taking ownership of your life?”
This obviously required further reflection on my part.
“So, is there a pill I can take?”
She cocked an eyebrow, then shook her head. “I don’t think pills would provide the answer you’re looking for.”
“Yeah, but at least they’d make me happy.”
“Momentarily,” she added. “However, they wouldn’t be treating the underlying causes.”
“Causes,” I replied, deciding that feigned surprise was a good way to respond. “Like there’s more than one?”
“There often are, Will.”
“Interesting. So what’s wrong with me, depression? Bi-polar?
“Not quite.” She studied me for a second as if she wasn’t sure I was mature enough to hear the truth. “You have what appears to be a classic example of borderline personality disorder.”
“You make it sound so serious,” I joked.
She smiled politely and said, “It can be.”
“Borderline personality disorder,” I repeated. “Next stop schizophrenia?”
She laughed. “I seriously doubt that.” “But,” she added, “it is a condition that will require treatment.”
“Pills,” I asked again.
“I’d prefer not.” She opened her notebook and read something. “I believe your symptoms could be successfully treated with psychotherapy.”
“And not drugs?”
“No.”
“Good,” I replied. “Those freak me out.”
