The Session

I arrived early. My dad had wanted to drive me but I insisted on going alone. It almost erupted into a simmering fight but my mother shouted from the other room, something about ‘who cares about him anyway, just let him go’. I found it easily. I always wondered what was down that road. It was one of those small roads nestled in right by the freeway behind an on-ramp. The left side of the road was taken up by dark brown condos or maybe they were townhouses, and on the right was an office complex built out of dark wood and desperately trying to look friendly. I’m expected in suite 202 which is right next to a realtor’s office. I’m sitting in the car trying to find some humor in a realtor’s office being right next to a therapist’s office but I can’t come up with anything. I once saw a bar right next to a gun store. It was right next to where I was working at the time. I never went to that bar though. It would have been cool if everyone from the office went to the bar next door after work. I don’t think anyone from the office ever went to that bar actually. It was a bit too much cowboy, a bit too local color, for our taste. I also sometimes thought about going into the gun store. I wondered how it would feel to just walk in and say “Excuse me, I’d like to buy a gun please.” I’ve never even held a gun. I don’t even know if you need some sort of license or background check or whatever to get one. The therapist will probably ask me whether I’ve ever had suicidal thoughts. I’ll tell her about the gun store, and thinking about buying a gun. Everyone’s had suicidal thoughts. I’ve even thought about what my suicide note would say. “Whatever you think the reason, you’re wrong.” Having thought of a suicide note comforts me. Only about twelve percent of suicides leave a note – and most of those actually have something to say like confess a murder or reveal a secret. I don’t have any secrets worth revealing. So if I were a real suicide risk I wouldn’t be bothering with a note, at least that’s my thinking. I wonder what the therapist will say about it. It’s time to go find out.

The receptionist is nice, girl about my age. She has me filling out this form, questionnaire really. I think it’s some sort of standard psyche evaluation. I hate these things. For each statement you have to say whether you agree or disagree on a scale from one to five. It seems so arbitrary. “I have trouble sleeping”, sure sometimes, does that make it a four or a five? What would it take to make it a six? And then to confuse you they ask basically the same question but worded differently a bit later. I know they just do it to get a more accurate picture but I always feel like it’s a test, like they want to catch me lying. So I go back and make sure I give the same answer, which I guess is cheating but it’s a psyche test; they can’t expect the insane to give honest answers. I wonder if the receptionist looks over these things at all. It must be kind of odd to deal with folks who have problems all day, except never to really know what those problems are. She seems chirpy enough, so either she’s hiding her contempt for everyone in the waiting room or she just doesn’t think about it that much. In the interest of full disclosure I should point out that this not the first time I’ve seen a therapist. Once in college I saw the on campus counselor over in the pepto-bismol colored building. He was really nice. Everyone in college was really nice when I withdrew from all my classes that one semester. So I’ve been through this routine before, but I’m no expert or anything. I’m not a serial therapist seer. In fact this whole thing was my parents’ idea. I’m happy to go along with it, if it helps I’m all for it, though I’m not sure exactly what I’m supposed to get out of it, but it was their idea. And in case you’re confused this isn’t taking place the day after the lawn thing; they didn’t have the appointment already set up or anything. My dad made the initial call after we talked and then I called the day after that to set up the exact time and everything. I’m almost done with this questionnaire, it’s longer than the one they had me do in college. Then I have to fill out this second form, which is mostly insurance stuff. I always wonder where doctors get their magazines for the waiting room. Most of the ones here are about photography. There’s actually an interesting article about how to each this cool effect with moon shots through double exposure. Apparently two different people came up with independently of each others. Photography is cool. I remember reading Susan Sontag in college, and when I was in Junior High I actually learned how to develop pictures in a darkroom. But these magazines are all treat photography as yet another super expensive hobby. Homo Sapiens Suburbia is often portrayed as a mindless mass, but that’s not true, they all have at least on yet another expensive hobby to make them unique. Some of them are even kind of cool. I know this one guy who writes a blog about roller derby events in the area. He went to every single one and took pictures and wrote up a little report afterwards. He played the journalist in this little micro-culture of roller derby which is actually kind of cool if you don’t think about too hard. I’m so engrossed in this glossy photography magazine that I don’t hear my therapist calling me to come on back; she’s already in therapist mode, calling quietly, smiling kindly but with a hint of blankness. I wonder if she practices that. I think I would.

I don’t like her office, too much cloth. It’s like a mini living room, a couch and two comfy chairs. Curtains over the window make everything dark and diffuse. The light from the lamp is yellow. Off to the side is a desk, it’s incongruous with the rest of the office. I guess she wants to make the whole thing seem less clinical and put her patients at ease. I’d be more at ease in a real doctor’s office. This doesn’t feel serious. It’s as if I was sent to the nice lady next door who paints calming pictures to talk things over. I don’t want to talk things over I want someone to tell me what’s wrong with me. My greatest fear is that nothing is wrong with me. I can tell she is writing me off as just some kid with make believe issues, “the sensitive” one who over-thinks everything, probably a bit of a romantic or idealist, and believes “no one gets me”, but is mostly a whiny white kid. That’s not me. Honest. I tell her that. I tell her straight up that I know what she’s thinking but I’m not just here to have a therapist hold my hand and help me through my life. She asks me why I am here then. I try to explain about my parents. It’s hard. It never comes out quite right. It would be so easy to make them the villains and leave at that. I can tell she that’s what she wants me to do. She thinks it’s part of my condition that I can’t bring myself to lay the blame squarely on them and it’s her responsibility to liberate myself. I keep trying to explain, to capture the whole situation but no matter what I say it sounds like it’s somebodies fault and then I have to keep talking to exculpate them but I only end up blaming someone else in the process so I just keep going. I realize I probably sound mental the way I’m rambling on to her. She just sits there and smiles and takes notes. Aw, what the hell, it doesn’t matter if she gets it or not.

When I get home the first thing my dad wants to know is “Did it help?” I have no clue how to answer him. One session, and I’m not even sure how I would know if it helped or not. He desperately wants it to work. I can’t help but feel that he doesn’t so much cared about me being better but that he just wants me to be ‘fixed’ so I can get on with it all. Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe the distinction is academic. But, I have no idea how to answer him feeling like that. So I just walk out, again. It’s an awful thing to do. I wonder what my therapist would say about it. I have a hunch she would be proud of me. What is pride coming from someone I’ve only met once? Not really met even, “had a session with”. I briefly consider sitting on the grass again just in front of the house. If I could just sit there alone for a while and then walk back in, sort of erase the question… maybe I could hustle through the evening, sort of avoid talking to them for a while until I had an answer and knew where this was going. I’m halfway down the block already – there was no way I could have just sat on the grass alone, my dad would have been out there in a second asking what was wrong. When I was younger and cried because I was angry or sad or afraid or whatever they would always ask why and sometimes, you know, I didn’t want to tell them for whatever reason, maybe it was about them or maybe it was my own private thing, or maybe I felt they ought to know, and they always said “if you’re not going to talk about it then you have no right to cry so either talk or stop crying”. I hated that. I think sometimes I kept crying just because that hurt so much. – and I haven’t even thought about what my dad must be feeling right now, standing back at the house. Walking out like that was stupid. I had no reason, it was just a simple honest question. But I didn’t have an answer; I didn’t know what to tell him; I didn’t understand what was going on.

The Lawn

I live in a sunny place with well kept lawns and friendly dogs, at least that’s how you would describe my town if you were writing a book. My name is Joseph, after Chief Joseph. I don’t really know who Chief Joseph was, except that he was an Indian. I looked it up once, back in high school, the year I was trying to be Indian. Right now I’m sitting on the lawn of my parents house. The grass might look soft but if you sat on it for a few hours you would know it’s actually prickly and not a great place to spend an afternoon doing nothing. The worst part isn’t the grass. It’s uncomfortable but you get used to that after a while. The worst part is the view. You can look at either grass, asphalt or the house across the way. I chose asphalt for most of the time. When I was little I had trouble falling asleep. I would stare at the ceiling. It was one of those rough bumpy ceilings. I always wondered why they made ceilings that way, instead of just smooth like any other wall. One summer when I was an intern at some library I stayed with this lady. She told me it was called a “popcorn-ceiling” and they used to do it conceal poor workmanship, but they stopped doing it as much. I helped her remove the “popcorn-ceiling” at her place because she thought it was ugly. You spray it with a bit of water and it all comes down in one great big mess. Staring at the asphalt reminded me of staring at the ceiling when I was little. I traced out imaginary patterns in the texture to keep my mind busy. It works for while but then it gets boring. Right now, I’m bored, and starting to get a little cold. The sun started going down about 10 minutes ago. I’d go inside but I don’t have a key. Do most grown children have keys to their parents’ house? I suppose I must have given mine back at some point, maybe when I went away to college. No wait, I never had a key to this house, they moved here after I had already moved out. I forget that sometimes. When they get here I should ask them for one, in case of emergency or something. Today isn’t an emergency. I’m not really sure what it is. This past week has been kinda weird. Some weeks are just like that. Now that I think about it, I feel like I’ve been saying that about almost every week “You know, it’s just been one of those weeks”. They always seem to know, or at least they pretend they do which is good enough for me. Sometimes I’m afraid that when I talk no one will understand me. That even though I think I am speaking coherently it’s actually all gibberish. I imagine everyone looking at me quizzically and thinking I’m some sort of crazy. Mostly I don’t think about it too much and so far every time I’ve tried to talk it’s all come out just fine. But still, if someone doesn’t hear me or understand me right of way I sorta freeze and almost panic. I guess that’s what this week has been like: almost panic. I like that phrase “almost panic”. And I like having that phrase. Coming up with a succinct encapsulating term is a very satisfying way to end the week. I can get up and go inside now. Except I can’t because I still don’t have a key. I sorta forgot about that. If this were a TV show my parents would come home right now, we’d exchange some heartfelt words and walk in together. Perfect ending for an episode. I wonder if it’s this cold on TV sets. My mother is going to scold me for not wearing a jacket. She’s right, except that when I left it wasn’t cold. But then again, I knew they wouldn’t be home till late. Well I sort of knew. They’re actually out looking for me. A teenager would call that ironic. I don’t want to think about what my mother will call it. I don’t really want to think about any of it anymore which is why I’m trying to trace patterns in the asphalt except it’s dark so you can’t really see the asphalt anymore. If this were a story I would be able to see the stars, I’d probably even know a constellation or two, maybe one my dad taught me when I was a kid. You can see a few stars, but no more than ten. I’m pretty sure there are supposed to be more than ten stars. I can’t think of any reason why it would matter how many stars you can see. Except for my Jewish friend. He needs three stars to start his holidays. He’s my best friend. His name is also Joseph, but not for the same reason. I always thought coincidence like that only occurred in books. Now I’m staring up at one of the few bright stars. It might be the north star, I really have no idea. Except, in a few seconds it’ll be covered up by a cloud. All day nothing but a simple blue cloud and now that I’m looking up there’s a measly cloud covering the one patch of sky I want to stare mindlessly at. I’ve always wanted to lay on my back and imagine clever shapes in the clouds. I don’t think I ever have though. Either there are no clouds or there’s just a blanket of clouds or sometimes just lame wisps – never those nice cotton ball clouds that turn into giant killer rabbits in your mind like there are supposed to be. I can’t see that star anymore so I’m looking for the moon but I guess it’s a new moon today or something. I must look like a freak sitting on a dark lawn craning my neck around like I’m possessed or have some sort of tick. The neighbors are probably thinking about calling the cops. Maybe they’re constructing some grand fanciful tale about me, about how I escaped from a mental institute and am now preforming a sacred pagan ritual. They won’t call the cops though. They’ll just shake their heads and get bored of gawking at me from behind carefully drawn curtains and go back to watching TV. I’m not sure how I would explain my presence if the cops do come. I’d want to make up a cool story, but I’d probably just stammer and try – and mostly fail – to explain that I don’t have a key and my phone and wallet are in my jacket which I didn’t grab on my way out and I walked here and I’m waiting for my parents who are most likely out looking for me which isn’t ironic but just stupid. On second thought, it’s probably better no one calls the cops.

The thing is though, I don’t really have an exit strategy for getting off this lawn except being dragged off, figuratively, by my parents. In a little bit I’ll have to say “O look, here they come”. I can hear myself saying it and I sound stupid. Even though I’ve been waiting here, waiting for my parents here, for hours I suddenly don’t want to be waiting for them. I don’t want to just stand up when they pull into the driveway “Hey Dad,” and saunter inside. I could tell them “I’ll be inside in a sec, go on in”, the way executives make people wait in the hall before a meeting to show their powerful. My parents wouldn’t get it though. And I’m cold.

They found me asleep on the lawn like some hobo. Sleeping outside, on the grass, under the stars, ought to be romantic. I’m just sorta cold and stiff and still mostly asleep when my Dad guides me inside like a bleary eyed lamb lost in the frost. By the time we reach the door I’m actually mostly awake again but I pretend to still be half a sleep so I don’t have to answer anything. My Dad probably sees right through it but he doesn’t say anything and pretends along with me. I collapse – well, play-collapse – onto the guest bed my parents made up for me. They sold my bed a long time ago. Tomorrow there will be a “serious talk” with my parents. I try not to think about it. I made a rule for myself once that I’m not allowed to think negative thoughts or worry about the future when I’m in bed falling asleep. It actually works. Instead of playing out possible scenarios in my head, thinking of the perfect come back, trying to predict what Mother will say, not just worrying but feeling what that conversations is going to be like I just concentrate on falling asleep. I know it’s escapism. But that’s the point of the rule. It’s codified escapism so you don’t even have to think about the fact that it’s escapism. I can hear my parents talking in the kitchen. I wonder if it’s about me. I always assume it is. I briefly consider sneaking about and listening in. Do all grown children regress this much when they’re in their parents’ house?

I don’t remember falling asleep and I’m pretty sure I didn’t have any dreams. I rarely dream. Or maybe I just rarely remember my dreams. Not that it matters one way or the other. I’m glad I don’t dream much – or don’t remember them, whichever it is –, I don’t enjoy recalling and thinking about the dreams I’ve had. I do sometimes wonder what I would dream about if I dreamed more. Probably nothing super interesting. Ok, I’m going to go to sleep now because my own thoughts are starting to bore me and no one likes listening to someone just drone on and on. Good night.