If I hadn’t walked out the door, they would still be here. That truth has led me to this morning, it’s led me through an overdose and a possession charge. But, most importantly, it’s leading me to therapy.
The engine slowly hums while it idles in park as I stare at the old colonial home. The address matches the one on Dr. Felt’s website but doesn’t match my expectations of a therapist charging a hundred bucks an hour. I exit my car and wipe the potato chip crumbs from my jeans before ascending the steps to the yard. The house itself is a single story structure, painted in an odd shade of green that’s grown weathered over the years, leaving faint hints of its original beauty. The yard is well maintained and surrounded by a chain link fence with a concrete path leading to wooden porch. On the patio, the furniture sat covered in dust, the layers so thick it could pass for a tarp. The screen door creaks loudly as I open it and tap lightly on the stained glass windows.
I can hear a figure moving closer to the door before it swings open and I’m greeted by a petite older woman.
“You must be Mr. Alexander, I presume?” she offers a hand and a smile.
“Yes ma’am, but you can call me Miles. And you’re Dr. Felt?” I grip her hand in a firm grasp.
“Yes, call me Sandra. Please come in.”
I step into the living room and survey the surroundings. It’s sparsely decorated with a couple of pieces of furniture and an old school television that has rabbit ear antenna protruding from the back. It’s the kind of TV that requires pliers to change the channel when the knob wears off. In the corner sits a small computer that I’d bet the rest of my life insurance money on is still running Windows 95. The shag carpet is light brown and probably went out of style around the time the house was built. Sandra leads me into the room she uses to meet with her clients, and it only serves as an extension of the living room. The walls are decorated with her credentials.
Various awards surrounding the diplomas tell me that the woman clearly knows her shit, or maybe she’s just full of shit—time will tell. A single chair is placed in front of a couch, and the walls are lined with bookshelves that are filled with books highlighting psychobabble bullshit to feed to the poor schmucks ordered here by some overworked city court judge.
I’m one of those schmucks.
The judge was willing to ignore my significant stash of pharmaceuticals in exchange for therapy and the promise of turning my life around. I had no doubt that he had factored in my grief as a widower after the death of my wife and children. In any case, I’m a newly single male with no children and seven figures of pity money in the bank from the deceased delivery driver’s company—on top of what I received from the life insurance policies. After receiving the money, I drove to the nearest Best Buy and bought whole collections of shows and hunkered down in my living room, embracing the depression one bite of Chinese takeout at a time.
I can’t work through my own pain, but I can convey a highly articulate argument of why Tony Soprano did indeed live in the series finale of The Sopranos. Television shows are better for dealing with depression than movies. With movies, you have to decide on the next one—leading to an awkward pause in front of a dvd rack that thrusts you back into the hell that you’re trying to escape in the first place. Shows allow you to jump right into the next episode, allowing the disconnect from reality to continue uninterrupted.
Sandra takes a seat in the chair across from me, and I finally get a chance to look her over. She’s wearing an old, baggy, gray sweatshirt, commemorating a Syracuse run to the Final Four a couple of years ago. Her curly hair is an equal mix of brown and grey that drapes to her shoulders. Her face is creased with lines and wrinkles that highlight overcoming her own life or struggling to carry the burden of her clients issues—burdens that I will undoubtedly contribute to. But, her eyes tell a different story. A mixture of blue and green, they’re warm and inviting and, combined with her smile, they beg to begin opening the pandoras box that is my emotions and fragile psyche. But before the mind-fucking can commence, we must deal with legalities.
“Before we start, we should go over some paperwork and ground rules,” she says, pulling a folder from the coffee table next to her chair. “Are you familiar with doctor-patient privilege?”
“Yup, everything I say to you stays here…or I can sue you.”
“That’s correct. Unless you plan to harm yourself or others, then legally I have to report it. Also, the next page highlights the parameters of our relationship. Basically, it states that I won’t be having sex with you.”
“I guess a hundred bucks an hour doesn’t go as far as it used to,” I retort as I sign the papers.
A grin crosses her face and she shakes her head. She’s never heard the line and appreciates the humor. She inspects the signed forms and replaces them on the side table and takes out her well-worn, leather journal. It’s seen better days. No doubt she’s going to take notes and have a laugh over dinner.
“So, Miles, why are you here?”
“Because the judge ordered me here.”
“Don’t get cute. Your file says you attempted suicide. If you really wanted to die, you would’ve made the adjustments and tried again,” she leans forward and stares directly into my eyes, “So let’s cut the shit and start over. Why are you here?”
“Because my wife and children were killed a couple of months ago, and I can’t move past it.” My heart begins to beat faster—a sure sign of anxiety—and, out of habit, I start fiddling with the hospital band. Not going unnoticed, Sandra begins taking notes. And as strange as this sounds, I feel alive for the first time since the funeral.
“So what made you try to kill yourself?”
“You just go right for the jugular don’t you?”
“It’s your money, but I thought we could save some time and make sure you leave here with a couple of bucks left in your pocket.”
“Trust me, I got enough in the bank to afford an eternity in your care.”
Normally I’m not like this in new environments, but the fucks I have to give are on backorder, with no restock date. Sandra is staring me down, chewing on the end of her glasses. I know that I’m not the first asshole that’s come to her practice, nor will I be the last. Part of me thinks she’s intrigued by the challenge of it. Where’s the fun in paying six figures for grad school, if every patient breaks down like a bitch as soon as they walk through the door.
“Ok, let’s start with something simple. Are you here because you want to get help, or are you doing what you can to get the judge off your back?”
“Well I know I need help, but I’m not the type of guy to come in here on my own. So, let’s meet in the middle and call it divine intervention.”
“Are you religious?”
“I was but, after all that’s happened, I’ll file that under ‘it’s complicated’.”
Sandra starts writing again which, of course, leaves me self conscious. I don’t think she’s writing anything of substance. Hell, she’s probably drawing stick figures for all I know. I’m pretty sure it’s just a tactic used by therapists to see you sweat. Like when a cop takes extra time running your license after pulling you over.