.

"adventures in therapy"

.

.

           the sad thing is, is that I’m actually looking forward to therapy. the therapy I’d refused to go to, become so hostile about I’d lock myself in my room, a dread creeping in my stomach that could only be undone by blaring my walkman into my ears as a satisfactory escape from all of it. but no, now, I want to go to therapy.

          I remember her being nice, a whispy blonde in her early 40's; walls covered w/ impressionist paintings- the kinds that are supposed to soothe the ill, like myself.

          "so, do you want to go to college?"

          "yes, I’m really excited."

          "do you want to get a job?"

          "uhhh...no...not really, but then again, who does?"

          she smiled. I smiled. that was it.

          funny, cuz those were the reasons mother put me into therapy.

.

         "oh cool!" I said when my boyfriend told me that he got a haircut. like, "oh, wow, cool!" like it was the most normal response a nutcase like me could come up w/. not that I was lying... but more that once you enter therapy, you question everything you do- everything becomes: is this normal? is this what a happy person would do? not that I’d consider myself unhappy...just um, confused. as Jon would say, "but you are funny to me...I remember you saying okeydoke artichoke to your mom once...and I smiled "

         "haha, really?! "

         "funny, with a sense of tragedy; that’s who you are to me"

         "hehe, why?"

         "with your beaming smile, short dark hair, and Seasonal Affective Disorder. and confused... you try to see things....to learn... "

       there had been a pause, a slight evaluation of the material as it lay before us.

       "and sometimes the facts aren’t available... "

.

          "do you want to see me?" asked my boyfriend, and I can just see him there: half

          scared, sitting in front of the computer w/ the mouse pad that has a picture of him and his ex-girlfriend on it.

          "of course." but then, I really wonder if I do.

          I could see him smiling, even behind the screen. "ok, good."

.

           I can remember breaking down in therapy. Ava, looking so concerned, I almost wondered if it was a front because she had to or if she really cared.

          "there's Kleenexes over there, honey," she said, handing me the box.

          "...and she was saying that she had to pay for my college and my brother," I spat out between sobs, "and that she wanted to keep the house and she needed money."

          I highly doubt I was making any sense.

          "oh..i see," she murmured, "so it's your fault."

          "yes." I choked out.

          "you know, she could've paid for you to go to college and gotten a divorce."

          "I know."

          and I did know. it split open before me like an eye, one of those crevices that all of the secrets fall into and then are discovered when the flashlight of therapy shines onto them.

.

          so, since oprah told 5 million viewers yesterday that excersise not only heals the body, but also the mind and spirit, I’ve decided to go for a walk. the place: the cemetery.  how appropriate for a person in therapy I think almost too gleefully, and gallop in-between the graves.

          "arghhh" I say, flopping down in the grassy field next to the church. but it's not really a church, it's one of those buildings where bodies are held.

          the clouds are moving fast, almost blinking past me as my body holds them in, wants to squeeze out more nimbus, cirrus, feathery things into shapes and wiry outlines.  (oh how I even wish I had better spelling in my thoughts). Suddenly, I feel a cool hand resting on my shoulder.

          "are you okay?"

          no, I’m in therapy.

          "sure, I’m just resting."

          "okay, good, I didn't want you to be hurt."

          "but we're in the appropriate place!" I say, just a little too maniacally, "we're in a cemetery!"

          the person gives a slightly frightened look and walks slowly away, then quickens his pace into a steady run. I sigh, bruising off my shorts and standing up.

.

          (inner dialogue gets a bit crusty after a while).

.

.

          "so what are you doing?" asks the lesbian chick I talk to online. she's pretty cool; tries hitting on me and stuff. I get a kick out of it, cuz my boyfriend always gets so defensive as if she's actually going to reach out and touch me. too bad she lives about 1000 miles away anyway. besides, I’m not even gay.

          "oh, not much, just typing a really dumb story about therapy."

          "why?"

.

          so why am I doing this? even I don't know. even as I scrape everything I possibly can from the asphalt of my mind, I will never be quite as good as lorrie moore, or nancy thayer, or that guy who writes the ejaculation stories on salon.com. but that's not the point, because I’m in therapy and I’m recovering.

.

          my boyfriend decides to bring me ice-cream, as if it's a healing food, kind of like when you get 8 wisdom teeth pulled out and that's all you can eat. that's how I feel.

         "um...yum, good."

         "do you like it?"

         "yeah, I like it so much I think I’m gonna talk about it at therapy."

         "if you liked it, you wouldn't have to talk about it in therapy.

         I blankly look at him.

        "oh, oh yeah, " I say, scooping up another chunk of chocolate and whipped cream.

        "you know, I think you talk about therapy too much" he begins, "it's like it's taking over your whole life- who you are."

         ha, easy for him to say- he's been in therapy for the past 8 months.

.

          "yeah, yeah, you're right," I replied hastily, but then looked at his shoulder, and then his arm ("you're getting so muscular!" his mom had said earlier, and I had agreed), shoulders, and couldn't help but grin. I think about how just last nite she caught us alone in his room, orgasms still wearing off and hair awry, but I didn't care.

          "I don't care anymore."

          "that's good."

          "no," I said, "I really don't."

          "then why are you writing this?"

.

           I guess I’ll always be writing this. that's what happens, I think, when you go into therapy. words quiver, diseased and awestruck in your brain, begging for escape, begging not to be judged, scrutinized, evaluated any longer. but that's okay.

           I am looking forward to therapy. soon I won't have to go any longer. that's what my words quiver for.

.

.

"i know you have a little life in you yet; i know you have a lot of strength left"