Becoming the Story by L. E. Henderson Page B

conscious decisions; the times I was most alive and most
acutely aware. Maybe that is also why I wrote in journals, to
recreate that state as often as I could, although I did not get to
write in my journal every day.
    I never got to write a journal entry about
how it felt to be born because when it happened I barely knew. I
did not even know it was going to happen. It just did, and I was
stuck with the way things were.
    Then, as soon as I got used to the idea of
being alive, someone told me that someday I would die. But in the
time between those two points, I had options. I had no say over my
destination, but I could create my own path. And my path has
brought me to this point where I have decided to take what I have
sought, and fought for, and longed for: the final word.
    Maybe that is the real meaning of
everything: that in all the confusion, in all of my comings and
goings, in all of my stumbling progress, I was able to have some
say in how it all happened.
    Enough ruminating. This Lite Brite pattern
is dimming fast. I feel like I should say goodbye. Adios. Au
revoir.
    But those words are too boring, too
expected, too dull. I would rather select my own. So, what do I
want to be my final word? I have always loved the onomatopoeia
words like “moo” or “crash,” but those will not do.
    If I am going to get a one-up on death, I
need to be more thoughtful. Maybe a longer word would be better,
like “sussuration,” meaning a soft murmur or a whisper. But no, it
is not quite right. An idea is whispering to me, like a breeze, a
sussuration that is getting louder.
    Hey, I think I have it, the perfect final
word, eloquently succinct, unforgettable, and deeply felt. Hey
death: Thpppffffff!
    Yeah, that one. I really like that one.

Rational Therapy,
Inc.  
    26 year old Katy stared at the “Pythagorean
playground” with mistrust, a yard full of soaring geometrical
structures leading to cube of a clinic. This was not like any
psychiatric office she had ever seen. But then, that was the whole
point. 
    Normal psychiatrists had failed her, had
given her sedatives and asked her questions, which were pointless
since she had already answered those questions to herself many
times.
    She needed therapy that could tell her
things she did not already know. She had been told that this was
the place for that. Here, she was told, therapy depended on
learning. What she would be learning, she did not know.
    The Rational Therapy Institute was secretive
and reputed to be “experimental.” Patients could only enroll by
invitation, though visitors, attracted by the unusual park, could
explore the exterior grounds and take photographs.
    The secrecy, some conjectured, was a
publicity stunt. The patients who had received treatment from the
institute had been forced to sign a contract promising not to
divulge the type of treatment they had received.
    The media had a field day. The institute
stopped cars with its towering geometrical structures, its pyramids
and orbs of blue and red marble. Katy followed the stone path to
the rectangular door, went up a short set of stairs, latched onto a
circular door knocker, and banged.
    A tall man opened the door, his hair
steel-gray, sideburns framing his face severely next to an
unsmiling face. “Ah. I see that you came,” his voice was deep and
flat, but his eyes were alert and appraising.
    She had expected “hello” or “how are you
doing?” and had been prepared to answer accordingly. But what was
the answer to the non-question, “you came,” a simple and obvious
observation? She opened her mouth but nothing would come out.
    She stepped inside, expecting soft lighting
and antique furniture to match the door knocker. Instead she found
an almost empty foyer with severe white walls and white marble
floors. The only furnishing was a small wooden table next to the
door stacked with papers. A mirror graced the wall across from her.
The lighting above it was harsh and revealed her every flaw. She
turned