SPECIAL LIKE ME

(Original Image by Nik Shuliahin)

Mandi told me to seek therapy, and so I did. I researched the best shrinks in town and found a Doctor Oly with several degrees in behavioral psychology, not to mention a 4.83 star-rating on Google. So, I made the appointment and, a week later, I was seated at the far end of the lobby where an old television was showing National Geographic. Truth is, my mind was elsewhere. I knew I had issues: fantasies of punching my boss out, of running away to Spain, of dragging the business end of a kitchen knife across my larynx. But, who didn’t these days? Why was I so special? What did Mandi expect would happen, that I roll into the office and then, after hearing some almighty truth, roll out sparkling new? Even a child could tell you, the human mind doesn’t work that way. I began wondering whether her recent push for therapy was a genuine desire or a sophisticated way of passing the buck.

A door opened.

“Mr. Malpass.” the receptionist called out.

I stood. “Yes. That’s me.”

She led me down a series of winding hallways until we reached a large office with a mahogany desk at one end and a pair of leather upholstered chairs at the other end. Same old, same old. The receptionist motioned towards the leather chairs, and I sat down. She handed me a questionnaire and a little nub of a pencil, asked me to answer the questions as truthfully as possible, then walked out. There were questions like: on a scale of 1 to 5, rate your sex life, your work life, your relationship with your father, your mother, your siblings, your partner, yourself. And then, of course, the obvious questions: how often do you think of hurting other people, how often you think of hurting yourself, how often have you planned to commit suicide… Jesus Christ, I thought, this was Kafka’s nightmare realized, not the act of suicide, but of the documentation required to proceed.

Once I had finished the questionnaire, I looked around the room, at the carpeting, the bookshelves, the degrees on the wall, the ceiling, the floors, the window blinds. At least a half hour passed. I was aimlessly tracing over my faded pencil marks when Doc Oly entered. He was a short man, slightly balding, mid-fifties or so, holding a grand mothership of a clipboard. He shook my hand, said hello, then took my questionnaire and gave it a gander.

“Tell me, why are you here?”

“Because a woman told me to.”

“Any other reason?”

“I want to prove that I’m a modern miracle of science, that you won’t find me in a book or a graduate lecture, that, when you eat your steak dinner with the family, you’ll think of me and shake your head enough times for your wife to ask what’s wrong.”

“I’m a vegetarian, actually. But, that’s a very thorough answer. I think we’re off to a good start. You also wrote in your questionnaire that you fantasize about suicide. Is that right?’

“Only on the dark days, Doc. It’s like waking up with a cold. You feel like shit for a while, and you limp around between work and home, then you go to bed real early, and the next day you wake up feeling fine.”

“So the thoughts come and go?”

“Don’t yours?”

“I haven’t had those kinds of thoughts in a long time. But, I understand, at least in part, what you’re saying.”

“You don’t understand me at all, Doc. I’m not looking to be fixed. I’m looking for victory. I want to wag my finger in the faces of all those who thought I needed someone like you.”

“So, it wasn’t just one woman?”

“Nah. It was a whole host of people, a choir of inconvenienced family and friends.”

“Inconvenienced?”

“Yes. Most definitely.”

“You act as though they’ve abandoned you. I think the opposite may be true.”

“It’s human nature to use someone for as long as they remain useful. Once they upset the applecart with their true feelings, we just toss them to therapy and move on to someone else.”

“Do you treat people like that?”

“Hell no! I’m no monster. But, you look out the window, and they’re everywhere. Who wouldn’t fantasize about suicide in a world like this?”

Doc Oly nodded then began writing on his clipboard.

“What is it this time, huh, Doc? Anxiety? Depression? Bi-Polar? OCD? Mania? Huh? What box are you gonna place me into today?"

Doc Oly placed the clipboard in his lap. He leaned forward.

“How much money are you paying for this visit?”

“You should know your own rates, Doc.”

“No, tell me. Is it $100? $200?”

“$175.”

“$175, thank you. So, you’re paying $175 for an hour session with me to prove… presumably to prove… that you don't need my help?”

“Looks like those degrees didn’t earn themselves.”

“From what I gather, you’re a prideful man?"

“Yes.”

“You like being respected, being in control?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“And sometimes you find yourself… how did you put it?…” Doc Oly checked the clipboard, flipped a page back. “…On your knees on the kitchen floor with the… business end of a blade pressed against your larynx?”

“Only on the dark days...”

“And how often do those come along?”

“I’m having one right now.”

“You appear angry. Are you having violent thoughts towards me right now?”

“Naturally.”

“Why?”

“Because you are the enemy. You are the silver tongue of the establishment. You are the mercenary, the surrogate, the punching bag commissioned to stupefy me so that everyone can go back to business as usual.”

“What about Mandi?”

“What about Mandi?!”

“Is she part of the establishment?”

“…When it suits her.”

Doc Oly returned to his clipboard. He wrote and wrote and wrote. I sat there watching his stupid arm in his stupid white shirt moving back and forth, penciling the cliché solutions. Paxil. Cymbalta. Lorazepam. I’ve been there before with my first wave of panic attacks, and I wasn’t having it. Better to feel pain, to endure anguish, than to feel nothing at all. I flushed every one of those goddamn pills down the toilet. My drug-freak friends were pissed when I had told them so.

When Doc Oly had finished writing, he stood and shook my hand.

“Mr. Malpass, it was very nice meeting you. I wish you well. You can see yourself out when you’re ready.”

“Wait a minute.” I said. “Aren't you going to give me your analysis? Aren't you going to cure me?”

He put his hand on my shoulder – squeezed tight.

“Mr. Malpass, you’re right. I’ve never seen anything like you. I’ll think about your case at dinner. I’ll stay up late reviewing medical journals, graduate dissertations, and my own previous work that best touches on this subject. I’ll annoy my wife and kids with my absence and, perhaps, won't make love for another few months while I dedicate my waking hours to unraveling all that is you. Okay? You’ve won, don’t you see? Now you can tell Mandi, and everyone else for that matter, what selfish, misguided fools they had been to recommend therapy.”

He let go.

“What’s the catch?”

“Catch? Well, you’re out $175. You haven’t addressed your issues with abandonment, your suicidal thoughts, you have no treatment plan for the future. You could say you’re in the exact same position as the moment you arrived. Well done.”       

“Ah, Doc,” I said, wagging my finger. “I see exactly what you’re doing. It wasn’t a minute ago you told me how special I was, now you’re giving me the ol’ reverse psychology play.”

“Foiled again.” he said. “You’re just too cunning for me. Good day, Mr. Malpass.”

He turned quickly and walked out of the room.

I had done it! I had defeated him, cut through his bullshit before he even had a chance. He was befuddled, flummoxed, discombobulated at every turn. Now, I will burn in his brain for the foreseeable future. He even told me so! Given enough time, it might be him on the kitchen floor with that blade digging into his throat – not that I’d wish harm on the old fool. He was just doing his job, however fruitless it may have been. But, I’ll certainly drive him to madness. Him and his cadre of inconvenienced souls. Those with the wide eyes and the careful words and the concerned tones. They haven’t figured me out yet, and they never will. They are not special like me. Like me. Like me. Not special like me.