That I’ll be able to wrap the remainder of the movie too.
Easy for him to say.
Sure, my career might be back on track. Connie did a good job of spinning the narrative about a burnout-induced psychosis that garnered sympathy from the public. And yes, things may be better now between my family and I following our family therapy sessions. But Christopher still won’t talk to me.
Which doesn’t bode well given we’re due to be together for a week come Sunday.
I reach the five-mile mark and the treadmill slows to a stop.
Thirty-six minutes. A new personal record.
I grab the hand towel as heavy exhales leave my nostrils, and wipe my beard, which drips sweat all down my running top and shorts. If I can’t release my anger, I might as well do what I’ve always done and harness it.
Lee leans back slightly in her chair and retrieves her notepad, letting out an audible sigh. Her dark-grey trousers offset the black armchairs we’re sitting in. They’re positioned to face each other at forty-five degree angles, making her line of questioning feel less invasive.
“What matters here, Alexander, is not what I think, but whatyouthink. And more importantly, what you feel.” Lee points to her heart, refusing to tell me what I should do about Christopher or how I should handle this whole shituation.
But that’s the whole problem. I don’t know what to think.
I’m unable to trust or decipher the thousands of conflicting thoughts simultaneously entering my mind. And as for trusting my feelings, that didn’t go very well up onstage at the VMAs.
Usually, the silence is never awkward with Lee, like it could be with the first two therapists, but today it feels different. There’s a palpable energy between us. The maternal nurturing figure I’ve grown accustomed to has seemingly stayed home today. It’s been replaced with a sturdy, more forthright Lee.
“But I’m due to see him on Sunday, and I don’t know how to handle it. You’ve got to help me.” I rub my hands together between the legs of my grey sweatpants.
Lee notes something down in her notepad before returning her attention to me.
“What I’m more interested in, Alexander, is why you need others to make decisions for you, rather than you making them for yourself. Why you constantly need reassurance.”
Her gaze traces my facial expressions, forcing me to look away.
Resentment starts to fester inside my lungs.
Each breath becomes shorter, sharper.
When I don’t respond and the silence becomes unbearable, Lee continues.
“Part of my job here is to support and help you. But I wouldn’t be a good therapist if I didn’t call you in. To look at what’s causing you to always ask others for help. I’d just be enabling and colluding with a pattern of behavior that, at times, seems to be problematic for you.” Lee’s tone softens, the curvature of her lips rises when I look back at her.
“I just feel like I’m a broken man,” I say.
A lump forms in my throat, followed by a quick flash of light in my mind.
“Can I borrow your pen for a second?” I reach out my hand,not wanting to let the moment pass. I never know when inspiration will strike, or how quickly it will fade if I don’t grab it.
“Sure.”
Lee passes over the pen with a confused look and I write down the wordsI’m A Broken Manon the palm of my hand before handing the pen back to her.
“What was that about?”
“An idea for a song title.” My gaze drifts out the window to the late afternoon sun, falling behind the bare-branched trees outside.
“Well, that’s encouraging,” Lee notes, writing something down in her notepad once more. And I wonder if she’s encouraged that the writer’s block I complained about seems to be passing, or if it’s something else.
“Talking of ideas, let’s discuss what you’re going to do once you get out of here.” Neither one of us has yet to acknowledge that this is our last session together. Maybe I’m not the only one in this room with an anxious-avoidant attachment style.
“I’ve been thinking about starting a foundation for survivors of childhood sexual abuse.” The heaviness of my words causes me to exhale sharply.
