Page 18
No, no, Mitch, you cannot become one. Not one of anything. You could never be what a woman needs.
I stand abruptly, my conscience reminding me to keep my distance from anyone who makes me feel… anything. “Anyway, I have to run. But think about it and let me know at the next practice?”
I slowly inch my way toward the door and she watches me in confusion.
She stands from the bench, seeming confused. I leave before she can respond.
* * *
Tuesday, after practice with my Eagles teammates, I drive over to Dr. Curtis’s office for my second therapy session. The room is quiet and calm again today, with the same comfortable looking armchairs and couch. Today, it’s not raining, and I notice the view offered by the large window. I can even see the Washington Monument from the window.
He‘ll probably ask me more obnoxious questions today… questions about myself and my family, questions I didn’t want to answer then, and will never want to answer. Good luck figuring out the code to this safe, doctor. I locked myself up and threw away the key a long time ago.
I’m staring out the window when he breaks the silence with a question that surprises me. “Mitch, what’s something you like about yourself?”
“My charming and outgoing personality,” I say dryly, looking back to the window.
He chuckles. “Alright. Anything else?”
I think for a long moment, having a hard time coming up with something I genuinely like about myself besides being good at hockey. But I don't think that answer would appease him, and if I answer this simple question it might be good enough for me to get through another session without him grilling me about my parents again. I need him to believe he’s magically pried open the vault inside my chest… that I’m really opening up and making progress, or whatever.
Finally, I sigh and turn my attention toward him. “I’m a hard worker.”
His face brightens. “Good, good. I can see that about you. It’s how you got where you are today.”
I relax a little, and try not to feel smug at how pleased he is I answered his stupid question. I tilt my chin in a barely noticeable nod.
“Can you think of anything you dislike about yourself?”
I scoff loudly before I can hold it back. Dr. Curtis tilts his head to the side in interest.
“Do I really need to say it out loud?”
One of his eyebrows curves in question. “Say what out loud?”
I throw my hands in the air, already feeling frustrated at this nonsense. “There are a million things to choose from,” my voice is raised, I can feel the familiar fire of anger starting in my gut and making it all the way up to my ears. If it was scientifically possible, steam would be shooting out of them. I don’t even need to look in a mirror to know my earlobes are bright red. “But most of all, I hate my temper.”
Dr. Curtis doesn’t react to my outburst, he’s calmly glancing at me and writing a note on his tablet. “Thank you for your honesty, Mitch,” he sets his tablet on the side table beside him and crosses his ankle over his knee, studying me. “What’s interesting is you said there are a million things to choose from.”
I stare at him blankly. I offered my feelings for the day. Now I’m done.
“Why do you think it’s easier for you to think of negative things about yourself than positive things?”
His question genuinely catches me by surprise, causing my unaffected mask to slip. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I think back to my dad and when he started using recreational drugs to numb himself after my mom left. Which quickly turned into illegal drugs. The things he said to me when he wasn’t in his right mind, either drunk off his ass, or high. The things that seemed like truth to my eight-year-old self.
You’re a bad kid. Your mother would’ve stayed if it wasn’t for you. If you weren’t here, we’d still be together, and I’d be happy.
I push the thoughts deep down, rage rising in my chest. These are the things I don’t think about, the things I block from my mind and put at the bottom of my proverbial lock box. And this stupid doctor is trying to dig it all up again.
“Why don’t we try some breathing exercises? You seem upset.”
At the sound of Dr. Curtis’s calm but concerned voice, something inside of me snaps. I can’t do this. Can’t sit here and talk to this man I barely know about the ghosts of my past, week after week. This is a special kind of torture. Do people actually do this voluntarily?!
I rise from my seat in the armchair and walk out of his office. I don’t even bother to grab my coat.
He doesn’t come after me.
The satisfaction of storming out of Dr. Curtis’s office deflates quickly, because fifteen minutes later, I’m stuck in back-to -back traffic. I feel like a caged animal again, like that freaking circus tiger. Like everyone and everything is circling around me, waiting for me to either jump through that damn hoop, or go rogue and gobble up the circus performer. My knee bounces up and down with pent-up aggression, I glance over and see a popular bar. It’s a Tuesday afternoon and it doesn’t look busy, and for a moment, I regret the fact that I don’t drink.
