Memoirs of a Life Well Wasted

17 Apr 2018

"A diary."

Doc returns my gaze with her own level, unfaltering one. She blinks a few times behind her usual floral print reading glasses, the kind you can get at Wal-Mart. I have a love-hate relationship with these staring contests of ours. I hate backing down from a challenge — and that's what these always feel like — but I swear her sharp hazel eyes see right through me as if my own eyes were glass.

"Not exactly," she replies, unfazed by my abrasion to the idea. Still staring, still challenging. Aside from her steady blinking and calm breaths, she remains uncomfortably still in her seat across from me. Well, it's uncomfortable for me. She seems rather at ease, as far as I can tell.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

In the thick silence between us, the clock on the wall behind her is practically screaming in my ears. It's unnerving; distracting. But I can't look away from her. Not yet. I have to stand my ground; I have to win.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

Doc remains silent, waiting for me to break. I know she is. She knows I will. I always do. I begin twitching the foot of my crossed leg absentmindedly, watching the toe of my tennis shoe bounce rhythmically in my lower peripheral. I never break her gaze, though. I just can't sit still. I have to move; it's in my usual nature.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

How long has it been now? Twenty seconds? Thirty? My typical restless disposition is starting to get the best of me. It always does. I notice I've been clenching my jaw; it's a subconscious side effect of mine when I get tense. I finally sigh, releasing both my jaw and her gaze at the same time. She did it. She beat me again.

"Are you going to tell me what you mean?" I finally respond, exasperation clearly visible across my features before I turn and look out the large bay window of her office. It's dim in here, with most of the lighting filtering through glass and sheer blue curtains just a shade darker than the walls of her office. There's a small table lamp on as well, but it's on her desk on the far side of the room, airing the ambiance but doing nothing more. I think it's meant to be calming, but I'm never calm.

"What party would you like clarified?"

"Why I have to do it in the first place."

"You don't have to do anything I suggest."

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. "Isn't that why I'm here, so you can tell me what to do to fix myself?"

"I'm not here to tell you what to do. Why are you here?"

I continue to stare out the window, watching a bird hop around on the branch of a nearby tree. I'm sure it's chirping, but I can't hear it through the glass. Why am I here? Things haven't been all that bad lately. No nightmares, no super impulsive decisions, and no really bad attacks. It's been a quiet couple of weeks. I've been happy. I think.

"Nicole."

I drag my gaze from the bird back to my therapist, reluctantly dragging myself out of my thoughts as well.

"Yeah, Doc?"

"Focus." Her gaze shifts briefly down to my foot, which I'd still been tapping in the air, then to my hand, of which I'd apparently starting drumming my fingers against the couch cushion I'm sitting on. I halt all movement.

"Sorry. Bad habit," I mutter. "What'd you ask?"

"Don't apologize. Why are you here?"

Ah. That. "Because I want to get better. I want to be better. I need to learn how to control all this," I say, gesturing to my brain. I remember the last time I'd delivered this sentiment. I wasn't lying now, and I hadn't been lying then. But, I'd had a different therapist back then, and I was no more open to the idea of therapy than she was to the idea that I would actually change. She was nothing like Doc. Doc understands me, in her own irritating way.

"But you never talk," she states, again snapping me out of my thoughts as I return to see that same obscure expression on her face.

"Yes, I do. I just told you about my week. I had a good week. I even talked to my mom."

"And how was that conversation?"

I shoot her a look. "I told you. It was weird, but it wasn't bad."

"What did you talk about?"

"School. Music. Easter. She asked if I was coming home."

"Are you?" Doc raises an eyebrow. Finally, some emotion.

"No."

Her eyebrow stays arched, pressing me for clarification.

"I don't know... Probably not."

"Why?"

I sigh again. "Because it's always the same: I go home, we all pretend like nothing's wrong, there's a lot of awkward silence and judgmental stares, and yet anytime we go out, we pretend like we're one big, happy family. And on the off chance that we actually talk, it's usually because I did something they didn't like and it always turns into a big fight. I'd rather just stay here. I'm still a bad kid to them either way."

"So how did she respond?"

"Same way she always does. 'Okay. Be safe. Love you.' It's just habit at this point, a way to get me off the phone." I let my gaze drift from her, trying to mask how much this admission hurts me. I instead focus on a plant off to her left in the corner of the room. It's some kind of leafy stalk, I think. I study it casually, doing my best to distract myself by guessing if it's real or fake.

She peers at me, thoughtful. "Do you actually believe that?"

"What do you mean, 'do you believe that?'" I snort. "I've told you our history. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, it seems to me that she wants to feel effort on your part."

"Why aren't I getting any effort from her?" I retort, fury beginning to build up inside of me. "Hell, she calls me and then gives me barely any actual conversation. She doesn't tell me anything; just waits for me to say something."

Doc leans forward and pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and pointer finger, visibly irritated that I'm not getting whatever point she's attempting to make. "Has it occurred to you yet that she wants you to tell her about your life without pulling the information from you like teeth? This isn't a typical parental estrangement case. She loves you; I know that because you told me that you know she does. Truthfully, I would've known that even if you hadn't told me, but the point I'm making here is that you know she loves you. Yet, you either shoot down or purposefully avoid every single opportunity to begin to make your way down the road to reconciliation.

"I know your past. I can tell when you're lying. And hearing the stories you've told me from years ago, I know you're not lying about those to try and make her look bad. Most of them are true; I can tell. Y'all have reasons for the antipathy between you. She's done things that have legitimately hurt you; but so have you, and you understand that. That's what frustrates me here. You've been coming here for months, and yet you have all the information and plenty of chances to act on it. You have opportunity. You have the desire. But you don't do it, and I don't know why. That's what I mean when I say you don't talk. There's something you're hiding from me, from her, or from yourself. I can't tell what it is, and I don't think you can, either. But I can't help you if you don't talk, so that's why I brought up the journal."

"Diary," I cut her off.

"Don't interrupt me," she says, silencing me.

I came to Doc for a lot of reasons, but I keep coming back because of her approach. Sure, she asks a lot of questions that align with that of a stereotypical therapist, but she's not afraid to call me out on my bullshit. I respect her for that because she's the only person in my life who'll actually do that. She's not afraid of hurting my feelings, and I appreciate that most about her.

"I know you want to talk," she continues. "I know you want to move forward. But some part of you isn't allowing that, and that's something that you can only breach on your own.

"I suggested writing things down because I know how your memory works, and if you write it down, you're able to look back at it and can reflect on it further. You're a writer by nature. I've listened to your songs, and I have more insight on you because of that. Writing helps you express yourself more than anything — including therapy — ever could. More importantly, there's no pressure like you have here or with your parents."

Another thing I like about Doc: she always gives me actual answers and explanations when I need them. None of that answering-questions-with-another-question to draw a response out of me like most would. I don't know if it's her usual tactic or some perceptive insight into who I am telling her that that's her best approach with me, but that's how I can tell she's serious about helping me.

"Plus," she adds, "I know how your memory works. Half the time, you forget to mention things to me because they just don't come to mind while you're here. Having a journal will help you keep track of your thoughts."

"Fine," I grumble. It doesn't matter how much advice she gives me or how often it's always worked; I never take to her suggestions eagerly. These days, I'm starting to realize it actually has nothing to do with her. I'm just adamant about handling things on my own. I'm better about ideas when I convince myself that they're my own. Detrimental independence, I call it.

"Does that mean you're gonna do it?"

"That means I'm not gonna argue with you about it anymore."

"I figured," she muses.

"Excuse me?"

"Nicole," Doc sighs, "I know you. Aside from it being part of my job, you're actually a lot easier to read than you think."

"If that were the case, my mom would've figured me out a long time ago," I mutter.

"Not exactly."

I groan again

* * * * *

"Same time next week?" the receptionist asks me.

"Yes ma'am, if it's available," I reply kindly.

She scans the schedule, then nods and typed a few things into the computer, setting my next appointment. I thank her and walk out the front door to my car. The sun is high enough now that it won't be menacing to my eyes, I notice as I step outside. Not that it matters much. I have a system on "meeting days," as I call them: wake up, walk my dog, workout, therapy, and then the taco shop.

My eyes sweep from right to left over the parking lot, and then my vision focuses moves to the road parallel to the lot, extending down the half mile to my favorite lunch spot. It's close enough to Doc's office that I could probably walk, but I don't want her to see the state I'm in when I finally leave.

The thing I love most about Francisco's is that I know the owner, and he knows me. I can leave my car at his restaurant for weeks at a time and he wouldn't care. So, in continuation of my typical Tuesday plans, I make the minute long drive down the main road through town to his little spot of the square after my meeting with Doc.

When I walk in, I'm glad to see him at the register rather than any of the girls he typically hires to handle the front. I have nothing against them; they're all super sweet. The problem I have is that they're all college underclassmen; just young enough that they see me as someone to look up to. I've never been particularly fond of any attention directed towards me — surprising, considering my line of work — but their admiring gazed they typically subject me to puts me at more unease than I'd like.

"Nikki! Good to see you again!" Francisco calls to me as I walk in.

"You too, Cisco," I return with a soft smile, genuinely meaning it.

"The usual?" he asks, and I nod in response. He taps the touch screen in front of him after I confirm his thoughts, then moves to the bar as the computer processes my order. He returns with a frozen rum cocktail — my favorite, especially after a session with Doc — and takes my card to close my ticket.

"How's she doing ?" he questions me, referring to Doc. They'd been close friends growing up, and once he realized I started seeing her, it gave us something extra to talk to.

"Calling me out as usual," I respond with a rueful smile. "But she's good."

He flashes me a broad, genuine smile. "Good," he answers, handing me my receipt to sign. "Your order is number 34. It's good to see you. You look happy."

"I... Yeah. I am."

"Good," he says again, still smiling. "Let me know if you need anything, sweetheart."

I nod in agreement, taking my drink from his hand and heading to the seating area. My meeting with Doc took a lot out of me mentally; it always does. And — forever a creature of habit — I turn to alcohol to numb the after effects.

After taking my seat outside, I glance around the patio to take in all the soothingly familiar sights as the Real Country radio station plays overhead. Lacquered pine tabletops and picnic tables are scattered throughout both the covered and exposed parts of the patio, the tabletops accompanied by the plastic leather-upholstered chairs with Francisco's logo printed across their seats. Two flat screens sit on opposite corners of the area, both screening two different baseball games. A couple tables already sit occupied with a few groups ranging in size between two and six members. I take a picnic table to the far right; partially because there's no one in this area, and also because no one ever sits near someone sitting on their own, and this spot is surrounded by more picnic tables, so I know I'll be left alone. Again, this is part of my Tuesday routine. I've always enjoyed being around people, but actually talking to them is something I actively avoid.

There's something about rural Texas that has always put my mind at ease; I think that's why I didn't go to my first choice college and instead moved here after I graduated. I've always known that I'm a bit of an anomaly: deeply tanned skin that fades to a light beige in the winter, naturally curly black hair that shines with hints of brown in the sun, abnormally bronze colored eyes, and a fashion aesthetic that shifts hourly between anything from dedicated ranch hand to Manhattan businesswoman.

Needless to say, in a Texas town of only five thousand, I stand out. And here, standing out subjects you to two things: scrutinizing distant stares, or curious townsfolk approaching you like a zoo animal. In the state of mind I've been subjected to for the past twenty-four years, I prefer the latter to the former.

Settling into my usual spot facing the one lane road that sits adjacent to the restaurant, I open my Notes app on my phone and start typing out my opening journal entry that I resolve to later write out in an actual journal like Doc had suggested in our meeting while I wait on my order to be called out over the intercom. Cars speed by exceeding the posted 30 mile an hour speed limit, adding to the patio the irregular acoustics that complete the space's atmosphere and I enjoy hearing when lost deep in my subconscious.

The occasional jacked up truck revs by, distracting me temporarily from my thoughts as I look up disapprovingly. I drive a truck myself, just a normal F-150; but these daddy's money city boys in particular have always pissed me off. I've never been partial to those who act like something they're not. I drive a truck because I need it for work during the week; they drive one to fit in around here. Not to say I haven't done things of my own to fit in; I've just never convinced an authority figure to spend $30,000 with an APR of 9.41% for me to do so.

"Number 36, your order is ready," calls a disinterested voice across the overhead speakers, snapping me back out of my condescending thought process. I rise up from my seat and walk inside to the order window automatically to pick up my order, slipping back into my thoughts barely a second after standing up.

While I write, I drift back to my conversation with Doc, where she gave me more details as to what she wanted me to include in my journal. Truthfully, I can't see myself submitting to most of it, but she had some good ideas that, thinking on it now, I'm convinced will actually help.