This Season is Over

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     I know that look. I’m trapped. This always happens, what my dreadful mother called, ‘the angle of repose’. Goodness, I can’t stand it. Her eyes are kind, but wary in case a bulwark must be raised in haste.

     Now’s the time, Damian, you gotta come clean. I am agog. Mouth open; nothing comes out.

     “You can say it,” she says, “I’m here. Nothing’s going to change.” I don’t believe her.

     Okay, here it goes… “I’m seeing a therapist.”

     “That’s it. Just that. Okay. What for?”

     “Actually… I’m currently seeing three different…”

     This makes her uneasy. She writhes subtly in her seat, “Three therapists… a week?”

     “Yeah… Well, truth be told, almost every week I see a fourth, but it’s always different because there’s a whole slew of physicians that do introductory sessions for free. It’s kinda like any other business plan; get you addicted for free and then punch up the cost once you’re hooked. So, I’ve been meandering on the fourth because I really can’t afford another. I tried some of those group sessions, but the fix of it is that I just don’t get anything out of those. I don’t really want to hear what other psychos have to yammer about.”

     “Psychos?”

     “Sorry.” Awkward silence. “No offense.”

     “Three therapists?”

     “Well, yeah, like I said, I’ve been trying to find a way to get a fourth.”

     “Okay. Four therapists… anything more to say?”

     At this I get indignant. “Hey, you don’t know what’s wrong with me! I could have been raped!”

     Scowl. “You weren’t raped.”

     “That’s not the point.”

     “Then what is, Damian?” Her hands reach across the table for mine. I have to memorize my story. My life. My life, my story; not the place for false anger.
     “I… I have a problem.” My eyes well up. Right on cue. I’m in the zone, peering into her eyes without blinking, without turning away, without remorse. I’m in character now. I will play the part. I will be the best emotionally deranged therapy junky there ever was. I will play the part, telling myself that this isn’t me. “I go there to make up stories. Currently, I have cancer of the eye, I have homicidal thoughts, and I gave my kidney to my brother who then drank himself to death.”

     Silence. She takes her hand away from mine. “But you don’t have a brother.”

     “I don’t have eye cancer either.”

     “Do you want to kill me?”

     “Why would I? Oh, right... I don’t really struggle with that.”

     “You’re just a pathological liar.”
     “No. I know I’m lying. I enjoy the fable.”

     “I have to go.” 

     She leaves.

     Sigh.

     Lying never gets me in trouble. I grimace as a wave of self-hatred seeps in. She’d still be here if I kept lying.