The clock on the nightstand said 5:45 a.m. I had not set it the night before...I had intended to oversleep...just as I'd done the previous four days of the week. Instead, I had been awakened by the absence of darkness.Daylight had, somehow, managed to sneak past my tightly closed eyelids.
Once up, I dressed quickly...trying to trick my subconcious into believing I was actually excited at the prospects of getting help. I had agreed to therapy, although I saw it as being nothing more than an exercise in futility. Yes, for years, I have gone days without talking...consciously choosing my own company over that of others. That being a "given", why would I go anywhere to "talk" to anyone about not "talking"? Did my wife really think that, once seated before a licensed "mechanic of the brain", I would be able to say, "It starts with a sort of humming sound...then "Ka-chink, Ka-chink", and my brain suddenly sputters and quits?"
As I drove along the interstate, I made another valiant attempt to convince myself that I was, indeed, doing the right thing. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. Would my therapy be like a "bad episode" of The Bob Newhart Show...would "Jerry The Dentist" poke his head in during the session and ask how soon "Doctor Bob" would be done so they could go to lunch? Would I sit beside an old man with spittle running down the side of his face?
Out of habit, I began to script a scenario, a little something to help keep my mind off the fiasco I was about to find myself in the middle of. In it, I play the part of a "textbook patient" who has, after considerable coaxing, agreed to give a brief presentation to a group of doctors and therapists that have traveled the globe in search of such an experience.
I see myself walking into a large conference room. One long table runs the length of the entire room. On both sides of the table are chairs. With every seat taken, others have lined the walls of the room. As I step to the podium sitting at the head of the table, I clear my throat to begin.
"The inability to focus is an acquired taste. For most, it is easier to accept whatever activity presses itself against the pane of our psyche...clamoring for attention...begging for acknowledgement and acceptance. From the beginning, I knew I was the exception, rather than the rule.
As a child, my mother hated waking me. It was not that I refused to awaken...for I have always been an abnormally light sleeper. She detested having to leave the kitchen, walk to the foot of the stairs, and repeatedly call out to me. I learned, after a while, to simply allow one leg to escape the covers, long enough to drop my foot, heavily, on the floor...feigning activity. Usually, it was enough to slow her trips from the kitchen.
As an adult, I learned to use the same sort of process...a glance, thrown in the direction of those speaking to me...a raised brow, as if what they were saying had peaked my interest...my mind simply “dropping a foot on the floor”...the reality being that my mind and thoughts were still lying under the covers.
Looking back, I find myself honestly amazed at how popular I was, while keeping so much of myself hidden. It was not that I feared people knowing me...it was, and is, that I simply do not have the interest, or the desire, to be known.
I wish, for the sake of interest, I could say that life, at times, has been a struggle. Of course, I could...but, I would be lying...and, I am now trying to be completely honest. I find it amusing that my “lack” of focus has, on many occasions, been seen as being “driven” to succeed at whatever task lay before me. As a teen, the girls saw me as one who was sensitive and ready to listen to what they had to say. I was not like other boys they had dated...I did no bragging...I did nothing to try to gain their interest. The next move was always up to them.
The first girl I was ever with did everything but put my member inside her. We kissed until my lips were chapped...all the while; she kept telling me we would have to stop before we ended up going too far. As I lay beside her, I found myself thinking I had intended to pick a ripe cherry. Instead, it had fallen at my feet before I could begin my climb to the top of the tree. The girl took my silence and hesitation as a valiant attempt to keep from “soiling” her reputation. She later told her mother the entire story. Her mother was a cashier at the small grocery store where I worked part-time as a “stocker”. Before the month was over, I'd had sex with both daughter and mother.
Most of my life has been shaped by accident. There has been no planning, no grand design...I have simply stumbled in and out of opportunities.
Somehow, I have always known that, one day, I would want to truly focus. I had always assumed it would be easy...that I would simply “flip a switch” and the light would come on. I had no idea that some skills must be honed...finely tuned...unused, they become dormant...”sleepers” that can refuse to awaken.
I now find myself standing at the bottom of the stairs, impatiently calling out to that part of myself that is, I know, lying somewhere, still completely covered. I feel my frustration growing...impatiently calling, again and again. To my horror, I hear an all too familiar sound...the sound of a single foot, landing heavily on the floor."
As I conclude my remarks and open the floor to take questions, I pause briefly to look at the roadsign coming into view. Mental Health Center - pasty white letters on a dark green background...this is my exit.
As I manuever my pickup through the parking lot, I quickly glance at each building in passing. Separate, yet connected...sleek looking, brick buildings - one big complex. Inside, I am greeted by a single window. A clipboard is lying on its sill. "Just some basic information", the receptionist says softly. For the layman, I should explain that their "basic information" consists of questions designed to do two things - get a "read" as to how crazy I might be...and, how they may best proceed to secure payment for services rendered.
Having satisfied their need for "basic information", I am ushered into a waiting area. I am told, by a pleasant enough lady that my therapist will, after glancing over the documents I have submitted, greet me shortly. Taking a seat, I find myself starting to get anxious. "How long does it take to look at a single piece of paper", I say to the empty chair beside me. In an effort to shake my discomfort, I quickly reach for another scenario...
Peering down the long, dimly lit corridor, I see a single shape...moving slowly...almost shuffling along. In my ears, a faint click, click; click...a steady rhythm, choking the silence between us. As the form moves closer, I see a cane...white, with a red tip near the bottom...I find myself staring harder, straining to see beyond the cane...to see the face, still shrouded in darkness.
The cane suddenly breaks its rhythm...rearing its head, as if the tip were a single eye, pausing to gaze into the darkness. Before I can move, the owner of the cane begins to vanish into the darkness. Soon, only the cane is left...standing erect before me...taunting me...daring me to consider how such a feat can be possible. I watch in silence as the cane begins to transform...shrinking and changing shape at a most amazing speed. I stare until my eyes begin to burn...I feel the need to blink. Fighting to keep my eyes on the cane's metamorphosis, I finally yield to the pain. When I open my eyes, I see the cane is now a pen...resting in the hand of the therapist standing in front of me. I watch as he slowly clicks and unclicks the pen...I wonder how long I have kept him waiting...how long I have sat silently, lost in my own thoughts.
I stand quickly and allow him to introduce himself. He turns his back to me and begins walking down the hallway to his office...I follow, just a few steps behind. As we walk, I notice the scuff marks on the floor ahead of me. The small black marks line the hallway...some down the middle, giving the hallway the appearance of a little "two lane" highway. As we near the end of the corridor, I cannot help but wonder if I have actually started my journey down the road to recovery...?