I sit in the quiet office, in the corner of the building, starched winter sunlight tersely lifting itself past the chin-up bar of the horizon. The psychologist welcomes me — invites me to sit down. He asks me how I'm doing — fine — what's my major — English — what year I'm in — third. He asks about my family. My parents — together — siblings — three — home — Suburbia.
Delicately florid scribbles predate the oncoming traffic.
He asks about high school. High school. I tell him I hated it. He asks what I hated about it. I tell him it would be quicker to ask what I liked about it — nothing. He laughs. I laugh. It's not fake — my laugh. It's real, because it is actually amusing how much loathing I can possess for an inanimate object, an idea, a diluted memory.
Instead of dancing around it, I spill — the dirty little secret that's been my definition, my sickness, my problem for as long as I can remember. You'd be surprised how easy it is to spill your guts when you have as much practice as I do. His eyebrows remain largely inert; I had expected more suppressed excitement at my laughably soap-opera malady. We segue into the repercussions of this unmentionable — how I felt like Humbert Humbert with the first — potentially last — creature I ever loved with all of my heart. He says it's understandable. I tell him I'm aware it is.
I tell him that even though I asked for the referral, I'm not one hundred percent sure what it is that I want to talk about. I mention the drinking — my initial reason — all the people I've lost — the one that I've just had to forget.
Our hour is nearly up when he ventures into his response. "Have you been to, or looked at any of the private practices here?"
I tell him, yes, I have been to some, but I have not looked at any since.
He mentions a name, before adding, "This is, uh...largely for acute cases," briefly removing his glasses to wipe at the corner of his still somewhat sleep-encrusted eye.
The single word — acute — tells me everything that he won't. You're not fucked up enough, not broken enough, not drinking enough, not drugging enough, not killing enough, not dying enough. Come back when you're one of those
I leave the office, and it's about then that the sinking feeling sinks in. I realize what I've just done — tear out all my stitches, staples, blocks.
Paracusia of blood hitting the floor.
Each step away solidifies the rapidly amassing sentiment of having just committed hara-kiri for a private peepshow. There is nothing proud in this, though — no conciliation, just more emptiness than I woke up with — more than I remember having. The cycle completes itself; the snake devours its own tail — the circadian ouroboros.
Gutting yourself isn't as hard as you'd think.
-M
