Before I could get to Sandra Joe’s room, Dr. Rathbone intercepted me in the hall for more of his fantastic therapy. I suspected he also wanted to show off his new chair, which was bigger and nicer than the one I had commandeered from him. A bit passive aggressive, are we Doc? Eh, at least I could still spin.
I took a seat. After a ten second game of Furniture Simon (you should know me by now, take an educated guess), he asked how I felt and why I was not happy.
Happy, happy, happy, I was sick to death of happy. I told him so.
“Everyone wants happiness, Brittni. Why don’t you? Isn’t that what most people plan for and try to achieve, some measurement of happiness?” He countered.
“I don't think constant happiness is a natural state. To me, constant happiness is a warning sign, because at some point it becomes exhausting, at some point you realize you were happy five months ago and have been forcing it ever since. Then what happens? You crash.”
“And you’re afraid of crashing?’
“Are you sure your degree isn’t actually a lick and stick tattoo? You didn‘t get it out of the gumball or candy machines in front of supermarkets, did you?”
“Ever the pessimist. You’re rudeness is a defense mechanism, Brittni. Why do you think you rely on it so much? Why aren’t you more cheerful? Why can’t you be more cheerful? Thinking positively and feeling positively has been shown to achieve positives, which can be argued leads to happiness.”
Again with the happiness, you’re obsessed, Doc. You really should see someone about that. “Cheerfulness and happiness aren't the same thing. I think being in emotional balance is the most natural state. Balance varies in degrees during the struggle to build your own life. And the ultimate version comes with achievement or acceptance of an alternate path, having reached your goals or decided upon another goal, and feeling perfectly at ease in the outcome. Veer to the left and you can reach for anger, veer to the right and you can reach for happiness, both at hand equally, and both to fulfill needs we have in ourselves, needs of venting emotion. Constant happiness is unnatural and a fucking bitch to try and maintain. I think balance, being at…or trying to …I don’t know, reach, I guess, an ideal place in life is confused for happiness, when it‘s really being at peace with your achievements or progress.”
“Don’t you think depression is exhausting, too? Not just happiness?” He asked. I noticed the notebook on his lap had slid from the top of his thigh and was pressed against the side of his new chair, and he had dropped his lead pencil on the desk.
Is that bad? When a shrink quits taking notes? I wondered, then answered, “Of course it is exhausting. Weren’t you listening? If it wasn’t exhausting, why would I be here?”
“Brittni, being this antagonistic does not help you get better.’
A fuck I give, Doc. Really. “Oh! So, it’s kind of like you, then?”
He frowned at me in a paternal way, “I would like to you help you, but if you won’t let me, you’ll be the one who suffers for it.”
I popped my neck and tapped my feet on the ground, considering to spin away. Spinny chairs must bring out the petulant child in me, but this grown man was about to bring out far worse.
“You need to open up and let me help you make sense of things.’
That fucking does it. I went rigid in my seat, then slid over towards him – all two feet – and lifted my legs off the ground, crossing them in the seat of the chair. Leaning forward, I dropped my chin and glared at him, my voice sinking low, “How are you going to help me when I’ve seen you twice in four days? This little dance we’re doing is bullshit. The first session was the hokey pokey and now you’re trying to get me to do an interpretive dance of my life, like I’m some kind of coin operated, symbol-banging monkey ready to be wound up at your convenience.
“You want deep, Dr. Rathbone? A week ago, I wanted to die. Not to forget my pain, but to end it. Not to numb it with pot and alcohol like most of my generation, but to erase everything permanently, because drugs filter out, so I tried to just destroy the filter entirely. I wanted everything to just quit. But, right now all I want is for you to get the hell out of my face, because you’re forgetful and negligent at best and intentionally avoiding us at worst, and I cannot decide which is the most damaging to a patient for their goddamn doctor to be. Is that deep enough for you?”
After my voice faded, the silence was encompassing. I realized I hated the quiet, and waited for him to react. I don’t know what I expected. To be ordered from his office, I suppose. Heat fluttered and faded in my chest as I awaited his reaction.
He simply sat, hands splayed in a temple over his nose, and said, “That’s the first time I’ve seen real passion and not sarcasm from you.” There was a tinge of pride in his voice.
I snapped, “It’s the first fucking time you’ve tried.”
“Anger is vital, but it will only get you so far in your recovery.”
I’ve heard a chide like this before. With a snicker, I asked, “You’re not going to start talking about angry logs, are you?”
“Logs? What do you mean?” He asked, and shifted forward. The curiosity in his eyes caught me off guard.
I faltered for a second. His sudden interest was putting me off-balance, the careful balance I had just expounded upon. To put it plainly, he was pissing me off with his swinging therapy, like he was playing good doc/bad doc with himself. He did know that tactic only worked with two people, right? “I had a shrink tell me being angry was like stoking a fire; we can control how hot it gets, because we’re the ones who add the logs.”
He removed his glasses, pinched his nose, and slowly shook his head. Suddenly, he won a few points from me, because I had the same ‘you have got to be kidding me’ expression when the log analogy was first explained. Rathbone began waving a hand by his face as though he were clearing away a cobweb. “A bit rudimentary, but accurate. Now, let me ask you something. Would you agree fire is to produce warmth and comfort, or to cook?”
“Yes.” Holy shit, shrinks stick together. He’s trying to salvage this crap.
“Okay, good. What happens when you add too many logs to a fire?”
I see where you are going. And I will fight you, fight you, I tell you, every step of the way!
That’s not an angry log, is it?
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, “Hmm. That’s a tough one. You burn down your grandparents house?”
“You make a destructive mess, Brittni. Each ‘log’ increases your anger until it has control over you, instead of the other way around.”
I get it, Rathbone. Quotation marks with your hands--just not necessary.
“Yeah, okay. I see your point.” I conceded, and got up. “We through?”
“For now.” He said.
“Good. Bill me.“ I left his office.
And immediately ran into Sandra Joe.
No comments:
Post a Comment