scratches at his turtleneck with his pen. “I’m asking because I’m concerned that perhaps you have a challenge, and we all have challenges”—he never says problems —“but I’m concerned your issue is that you don’t trust people. You mistrust, and in doing so, you create, uh, challenges for yourself . . . you feel like you must control every aspect of everything, you must try to keep things perfect at all times.
“And we both know that nothing is ever going to be perfect,” he continues, downshifting his tone to Sympathetic Light. “We both know that we can’t do everything alone, and that it’s okay to let people in . Or, at least, we should know that. So, do you feel like you can’t let Her in, because that would be giving up some of that control?”
“Yeah. I guess that’s it.”
“Well, that must be exhausting,” he adds, ladling on the sympathy now. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
I’ll bet he is. We both sit there for what feels like ten minutes, just looking at each other. Then he does that motion with his hands again, and I officially mail it in. I’m not even listening to what I’m saying now, but if it’s any consolation to him, I now actually feel worse than I did before. I believe this is what’s known in the industry as “tearing down to build up.” Psychiatry is a waste of time.
But at this exact moment, I can also feel my mind making a U-turn. Maybe this guy was right . . . maybe I do mistrust people. Maybe I am denying myself happiness and true love because of it. Maybe life isn’t stacked against me, and everything can be okay if I’m willing to just let it be.
Mercifully, he glances down at his gold watch, sighs, “Well, our time is up for today,” and is showing me the door before I even know what hit me. I don’t even get a new prescription because he says the one he wrote me a week ago should be enough to get me through until the next time we talk. There’s always a next time because psychiatry never fixes anything. It always needs a next time.
I walk back out into the waiting room, and sureenough, some kid is sitting on the leather couch. We don’t make eye contact at all. I grab my coat off the rack and bolt for the door. Soon, I am sitting behind the wheel of my car in a half-empty parking garage. I think about running a hose from the exhaust pipe. Then I reach into my coat pocket and shake out a couple of Ativans, the ones that look like Superman’s logo, and I laugh for a second thinking of a dosed-up superhero (“Captain Lorazepam!”). I swallow them down and start the car. This time, there won’t be a next time. The train is gathering steam, it’s itching to leave the station. Next stop: Madison. Or madness. Whichever comes first.
10
I don’t tell Her I’ve left. I’m not sure why. My phone vibrates every half hour or so, Her name flashing on the screen, but I let it go straight to voice mail. I listen to Her messages in the bathroom of the studio, away from the other guys, the tap running while I swallow my pills. As Her voice spills into my ear (“Hey . . . it’s me . . . where are you?”), I stare at myself in the mirror and realize that I am nothing more than a smile with a heartbeat attached to it . . . skeletal, muscular, and circulatory systems, all color coded. Major veins and arteries. Major organs, easily removed. I am a living version of the Visible Man. You can see directly into me. I place an Ativan on my tongue, gulp it down with water from the tap. Watch now as it makes its way to my stomach. Follow it into my bloodstream. See it attach itself to the receptors in my brain. I’m here for your education.
After the first dozen messages, the Hey s get more panicked, and the I love you s become less frequent. She’s worried about me, she says, and for whatever reason I don’tseem to mind. I’m teaching Her a lesson . . . don’t believe in me, and this is what you get. But then the Ativan rolls in over me
“And we both know that nothing is ever going to be perfect,” he continues, downshifting his tone to Sympathetic Light. “We both know that we can’t do everything alone, and that it’s okay to let people in . Or, at least, we should know that. So, do you feel like you can’t let Her in, because that would be giving up some of that control?”
“Yeah. I guess that’s it.”
“Well, that must be exhausting,” he adds, ladling on the sympathy now. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
I’ll bet he is. We both sit there for what feels like ten minutes, just looking at each other. Then he does that motion with his hands again, and I officially mail it in. I’m not even listening to what I’m saying now, but if it’s any consolation to him, I now actually feel worse than I did before. I believe this is what’s known in the industry as “tearing down to build up.” Psychiatry is a waste of time.
But at this exact moment, I can also feel my mind making a U-turn. Maybe this guy was right . . . maybe I do mistrust people. Maybe I am denying myself happiness and true love because of it. Maybe life isn’t stacked against me, and everything can be okay if I’m willing to just let it be.
Mercifully, he glances down at his gold watch, sighs, “Well, our time is up for today,” and is showing me the door before I even know what hit me. I don’t even get a new prescription because he says the one he wrote me a week ago should be enough to get me through until the next time we talk. There’s always a next time because psychiatry never fixes anything. It always needs a next time.
I walk back out into the waiting room, and sureenough, some kid is sitting on the leather couch. We don’t make eye contact at all. I grab my coat off the rack and bolt for the door. Soon, I am sitting behind the wheel of my car in a half-empty parking garage. I think about running a hose from the exhaust pipe. Then I reach into my coat pocket and shake out a couple of Ativans, the ones that look like Superman’s logo, and I laugh for a second thinking of a dosed-up superhero (“Captain Lorazepam!”). I swallow them down and start the car. This time, there won’t be a next time. The train is gathering steam, it’s itching to leave the station. Next stop: Madison. Or madness. Whichever comes first.
10
I don’t tell Her I’ve left. I’m not sure why. My phone vibrates every half hour or so, Her name flashing on the screen, but I let it go straight to voice mail. I listen to Her messages in the bathroom of the studio, away from the other guys, the tap running while I swallow my pills. As Her voice spills into my ear (“Hey . . . it’s me . . . where are you?”), I stare at myself in the mirror and realize that I am nothing more than a smile with a heartbeat attached to it . . . skeletal, muscular, and circulatory systems, all color coded. Major veins and arteries. Major organs, easily removed. I am a living version of the Visible Man. You can see directly into me. I place an Ativan on my tongue, gulp it down with water from the tap. Watch now as it makes its way to my stomach. Follow it into my bloodstream. See it attach itself to the receptors in my brain. I’m here for your education.
After the first dozen messages, the Hey s get more panicked, and the I love you s become less frequent. She’s worried about me, she says, and for whatever reason I don’tseem to mind. I’m teaching Her a lesson . . . don’t believe in me, and this is what you get. But then the Ativan rolls in over me
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