“It’s not that simple,” I said.
“Oh, this modern age,” said she.
I am sitting on an overstuffed love seat. It feels freshly uphoulstered, but not new. The fabric on the cushions has the faintest smell of bleach. She, my therapist, is sitting on a well worn wicker rocker. It’s upholsterery— a couple of threadbare seat cushions, is obviously not new, and probably smells not of bleach, but of years of wear and tear, especially on the part where she rests her elbows when she leans in to give the appearance of paying her clients rapt attention.
She’s leaned in on her elbows now, and I assume she’s paying rapt attention to me— because that’s what her body language tells me. And, I assume, that is actually what she’s doing, too, or else what am I paying her for?
I am, I should note, not crazy. I chose to come to see my therapist. For me, it is a great value. As she was lamenting the modern age with feigned distress, I might have guessed she was frustrated with the back seat that her profession had taken to technology in recent years, but I thought I knew her better.
In todays world mood regulation was a product bought and sold freely, and, for the most part, without regulation. Calm. Serious. Studious. Compassionate. All brand names of highly regulated super drugs. Party sold best on Thursdays, oddly enough— but I digress.
So, why then, do I find myself, week after week, returning to my therapist- when a simple twice-daily cocktail of Relax and Work Hard would probably suit me just fine. Oh this modern world.
I already said, I find it a great value. I like to pay someone to listen to me. And I think she likes to listen. Or, at least, she does a great job of _appearing_ like she likes to listen.
“It’s not that simple,” I say again. “I just want to know who I am.”
“We all do, Peter,” she said. “We all do.”
I notice that there is a new box of tissues on the counter between us. It carries the Ely Lilly logo on one side. I wonder what this could mean, but then It comes to me.