The Outcome Of Things

There it is. That fluffy little thought bubble that pops up over my therapist's head as he looks back at me with his make-me-want-to-puke, earnest look. His lips are moving. He's slowly twirling a pen between the thumb and forefinger of his soft left hand. He's saying something like, "Do what you feel is best for you...Acceptance...Blah, blah...". But scrawled in bold font across the bubble, now bobbing ever so slightly in the soothing office light, are the words I've seen a million times before: "I don't have a clue what to say, so I'll just deflect back to her..." That's psychology 101 right there.

I look back at him. Sensible brown leather shoes - Clark's, I think - Dockers, and a collared shirt with extra pens in the pocket - same outfit every week. A nice enough guy, low-key and safe, like toast and butter - the antithesis of me - a frayed, jumpy string of Chinese firecrackers, unreliably popping off, depending on the day. He's jotting something on the yellow legal pad balanced on his lap; his penmanship is straight-up Catholic school, Palmer Method. A stone Zen fountain on the bookshelf gurgles in the background, and a white-noise machine by the door is set on continual "shush" for privacy. On the coffee table he probably brought from home when his wife re-did the living room,  a box of cheap, rough tissues is strategically placed for easy patient access. I bring my own Puff's though, because really, I can't see adding to my pain by scratching my eyes raw with generic tissues, all while trying to fix myself. Tonight, I'm sitting on the brown leather love-seat in the same spot I almost always pick; although sometimes I like to toy with him by opting for a different chair, just to keep him alert, and me in control.

He's quiet now, having delivered an open-ended question, meant to make me reflect. Being comfortable in silence - that's what we're doing. I look down at my feet, tapping lightly on the Mexican throw rug. He really needs to put a pad under that thing. I reach for my water bottle to keep myself in check. My heartbeat pulses in my ears and my forehead is clammy - any minute I might unravel. Those diplomas, proudly framed over his desk don't mean anything to me, because I'll bet he's never had to prepare for his child's death, like I have to. I wonder if he's planned his child's funeral in his head - to bury or cremate? That is the question. He hasn't watched his child be handcuffed, face in the dirt. He hasn't seen his kid OD or get Narcaned back to life, (a verb you're going to see in Webster's pretty soon). I'm sure he hasn't spent countless years, completely powerless, as addiction sweeps his child up in a riptide of toxins, dragging him, along everyone who loves him, ever closer to bottomless Hell.

Out of the corner of my eye, I check the clock, placed just-so, to keep engaged, talkative patients on the fifty-minute track. Thirty-seven minutes in, thirteen left to kill, and neither one of us has anything useful to say. I'm thinking that the escalating noise in my head might be audible. He's trying to remember when he last had an oil change on his Prius.

At the end of our session, he suggests I remain open to self-help groups, spirituality and mindfulness - all great ideas if they actually changed the inevitable outcome of things. And, of course, he tells me that I have to take care of myself - have I tried yoga or meditation? I look like I'm listening, but I'm already writing out the co-pay check, reflexively nodding my head, believing in nothing and hoping for anything.

When the door clicks shut behind me, he'll go to his tidy desk to write up clinical case notes. He'll list a few bullets all about my reactive anger issues, resistance, and maybe some worn, tired catch phrases about enabling, denial and hitting bottom. He'll tear the page of notes from the legal pad, and place it in my manila folder, neatly filed in alphabetical order until next week - as if anyone can stop time, or put a life away for later. He's not going to write that he has no idea how to help me live in this world without my son. I'm guessing there's no training for that.