My stomach lurches as I read it multiple times, confirming that it went well enough that she wants to see me again. I confirm that I’ll stop by in the morning. I try to punctuate my response with an emoji of my own, but none fit the context. With my anxiety under control, I set an alarm early enough to allow me some time at the coffee shop before my appointment with Lily.
After channel surfing for a bit, I fall asleep to a Seinfeld rerun—it’s laugh track is the perfect audience for my personal life.
Eleven
Session 2: Honor Thy Mother
I’ve always believed that most anxieties in life come from not knowing, from not knowing when you’re going to die or the meaning of life, to not knowing if you’re doing the thing you’re meant to do or if you’re gonna get laid off. As people, we have a desire to know—which is why The Sopranos ending still grinds people. But, life doesn’t work that way. It’s never black and white, and most of the time we straddle the grey area, so deep in our anxiety that we miss everything. By the time you realize what you’ve missed, time has slipped away and you make do with the remnants. It’s similar to being the last person to the punch bowl, its watered down contents give just enough to let you know what you’ve missed. That’s when depression rears its lovely, little head.
The flip side is, of course, knowing. As I sit in Dr. Felt’s office, the carpet somehow shaggier than last week, I wonder if knowing was worth it. Today is session two and we’re covering my parents. Knowing this was coming has made the last week hell. I haven’t tried to kill myself again, so that’s good, but every time I would have a moment of clarity or experience happiness, I’d think of this session and my mouth would go dry. When I left for college, I swore that I’d never go back home. I would endure everything life would throw at me, and bury all the feelings I had—like an emotional time capsule. Eventually, I’d have my mid-life crisis and have to confront it. Before Sara and the kids died, I figured I had until the kids went off to college at the very least. But now, I sit in this time warp of a house, ready to dig up memories that were lying peacefully dormant, all in the name of mental health.
Dr. Felt is showing her Duke affiliation this week with a national championship shirt, Duke sweats, and blue and white Nike trainers. She’s more casual than the last session and, at this rate, she’ll be damn near naked by our last session. But my hundred bucks doesn’t cover that. She takes a seat and, for a while, we just sit; me, not knowing where to begin, and her with her notepad in hand, ready to dive into my subconscious.
“So, how was your week Miles?”
Simple question for the start, and I like it. If she does one thing well, it’s understanding that going into a client’s past is a delicate exercise. “It was good. Started a show called Game of Thrones, and ate a little bit healthier than last week, also didn’t try to kill myself again—so that was a win.”
She laughs at this but doesn’t write it down in her trusty notepad. I wonder if I get to read the notes at the end—like a game show where you get to see if your answers square up with theirs.
“You’re a funny guy.”
“I’m really not.”
“I disagree, you’ve kept your sense of humor through all that’s happened to you.”
“Depressed people tell better jokes.”
“And why is that?”
“Because the world is already shit, and people not finding us funny won’t make it any shittier,” I say, wondering if this is some warm up exercise designed to butter me up. If this were a date or lunch with a friend, it’d be cute. But, it’s hard to discern what’s real and what’s part of the session.
“What did you think of Thrones?”
“It’s the perfect model of how society works. Little boy climbs window, catches brother banging his sister, and he’s pushed out the window like he’s the problem?”
“Oh, it gets better,” she replies with a grin, and for a second I get a glimpse of Sandra instead of Dr. Felt. “But you’re correct, and I’d advise you to not get connected to any of the characters. That’s all I’ll say.”
“I can’t even connect to people in my real life, how the hell could I connect with one in a fantasy world?”
“Point taken.”
“So, where do we start today Doc?”
If there’s one thing Ive been excited for, it’s this moment. I’m no longer the new client, so I don’t expect her to handle me with kid gloves. But I’m interested in how she plans on transitioning into talking about my mother, and furthermore, her tactics to get me talking.
Dr. Felt smiled at this, and if I were a gambling man, I’d bet she was thinking the same thing. “You mentioned in our first session that you’d been having this recurring dream. Has it gotten any better?” she asked.
“About the same,” I replied, thankful for the softball question. “At this point I’m just happy to see my kids again, even if it’s only for a second.”
She jotted more notes. “Why do you think you’re having these dreams?”
I blew raspberries out of my mouth, the specks of saliva shined in the peeking sun. “Because my life has been one big tease after another.”
She shook her head, letting me know that the time for jokes was over. “Try again.”
“Alright, I think there’s some sort of symbolism there,” I said. “Like, maybe I haven’t reached the next stage of the grieving process yet. Or maybe God is punishing me for the husband and father I was.”
“As you know, who you were as a spouse and father is on the agenda…just not today. But as human beings, all we know is what we’re taught by our parents, which is a perfect transition into our topic today.”
Damnit, she got me. In this moment, I know exactly why the caged bird sings. “Do we really have to do this?”
“I made a commitment to help you get better, and you committed to buy in.”
“Fine, where do you wanna start?”
“Let’s start with your father. Even though he wasn’t around, he seems to have cast a shadow over your life.”
“The guy was never around, never sent a birthday card.” I could feel the anger rising in me, because it’s the first time anybody has ever asked. “I’ll forever hate myself for allowing him to live rent free inside my head, that I give him more time than he ever gave me. To call him a father is an insult. At best, he was a sperm donor.”
Talking about him is easy. He’s the guy that orders a drink at the bar and leaves before trying it. Sometimes I wish I had a dad that was a drug addict, or killed in a tragic fashion. At least there’d be sympathy for him. But when someone leaves and is content to live their life like you never existed, it eats at you. Dr. Felt scribbles furiously in her notepad, her gold bracelets jingling to the rhythm, and I don’t fault her for it.
“You mentioned last session that he started a new family. Is that what hurts you the most? Or is it him not being there?”
An interesting question, and one that I’ve asked myself dozens of times. I tend to lean toward the former; to start a new family—like I didn’t exist—kills me.