IMPACT

IMPACT

“Babe, I really think you should see somebody.”

That’s what she had told him. His hands gripped the wheel tighter as he nodded along agreeably. He tried to focus on the music emanating from the car radio. Anything to make this moment feel less real. She was right, of course, he was getting worse. Seemed the closer he got to his dream the more rapidly he fell apart. It couldn’t hurt to try. 

So, here he was. Seated on the leather couch opposite the therapist’s chair. She had large stylish glasses, a pantsuit and blonde hair which had thinned somewhat with age. They appeared to hit it off. She was professional and he was quick to share.

The conversation had been going on for a while now…

“I mean, I consider it every day. I know that’s not healthy, that it's wrong, but- to be fair -I usually don’t realize I’m doing it.” He said.

“How seriously do you consider it? Is it just a feeling or do you find yourself planning it out?” She asked.

“Usually just a feeling… usually.” He conceded. “But, truthfully, its more than that. It’s pathetic to say out loud, but…” He studied his own feelings. A man of words searching for the right ones. “If it was like a light switch, something I could just flip on and off, I probably would. Just switch it off and go away for a while. It’s really only the fear of pain, the fear of absolution, that prevents me from doing it. I’m not really afraid of it ending, if it wasn’t for the fire in my stomach, that restlessness in my bones, I might even welcome it. It’s thinking about the moments just before and all my lofty goals for the future being left undone that dissuades me.”

He did his best to maintain eye contact, something which he had always been good at.

“You said, restlessness. Let’s explore that. What do you mean by ‘restlessness?’ Describe that feeling for me specifically.” She spoke calmly.

He considered how best to put it.

“It’s like I have somewhere to be and I’m already late. Like I’m terrified that somethings chasing me and no matter how quickly I run its going to catch me. It’s a shaking in my bowels, a tightness in my stomach… a shallowness to my breath. And it never goes away. I imagine that’s why I puff out my chest and keep my chin high, probably why I’m constantly analyzing everyone, I don’t want anyone to see me for what I really am.”

Weak. He thought. Brittle. 

His words were genuine, disarmingly honest for someone with such an elusive weight on their shoulders. 

“And you think this ‘restlessness’ is the result of you needing to accomplish something? Something you feel you haven’t done yet.”

He nodded slowly, believing her to be about half right.

“It’s not something I need to do, it’s something I’m obligated to do, something I’m meant to do.” 

“Okay.” She assented. “And you want to do this thing?”

“Yes.” He replied assuredly.

She crossed her legs and straightened her posture, as if having come face to face with something that would require more effort. Something she had anticipated but had yet to surmise a solution for.

“Why?” She asked. “Why do you want to do it?”

He looked at her askance.

“You’re asking me why I write? Why I want to be a writer? What it means to me?” 

“Sure.” She assented. “Why do you write? Let’s explore that.”

A ponderous smirk dawned his face. He considered which dishonest answer to supply, which half truth felt most fitting for this conversation.

“Because I’m good at it.” He said simply. “At least, I hope I am.”

“And you think it’s the only thing your good at?” She asked.

He was surprised; her questions were becoming bolder; she was beginning to draw her own conclusions. Good. He thought. Define me.

“No, I’m good at lots of things. Just nothing I’m proud of. I’m good at smiling through my teeth at people, even though I’m in constant pain. I’m good at laughing at shit I don’t find funny just to make other people feel interesting or comfortable.” He smiled. “Flirting, I’m really good at flirting without making it feel like I’m flirting. I’m good at people, at reading them, summing them up and then making them like me even though they don’t know me at all. In other words, I guess I’m a really good liar. Making good stories, things that people can hold on to long after they finished them. That’s the only thing I’ve ever done that felt meaningful. Everything else is just a mask, something I present to make people like me.”

“Did you ever consider that people like you because you’re a good person? Because you’re a considerate person who makes others feel seen and important?” She asked.

“Sure.” He said.

“But you don’t believe it?” She asked.

“Sometimes I do.”

She looked as though she was about to ask another question but then stopped. She adjusted her posture again, legs still crossed. He stirred and moved to mirror her.

“Let’s shift gears back to your writing. You say you consider yourself a good liar. Do you think that somehow this connects to your propensity for story telling? That making up stories in your head is preferable to dealing with problems in the real world?” 

He laughed modestly.

“No. No, I don’t think that’s quite right. If anything, I’m constantly reminding myself to be honest when I write. If ever I feel my fiction is drifting into the realm of dishonesty, I reign it back in. I told myself a long time ago, that if I was going to do this, I was going to do it all the way. No lies. I want to really share myself, leave myself in the pages. No matter how disturbing or fantastical the subject matter. If people want to get to know me, the real me, then they can read my shitty stories.”

She nodded understandingly, “So it’s an outlet for honesty. The one place you’re willing to be vulnerable.”

He nodded, again with a wincing look as though she was painfully close to the truth but not quite there yet. She had found the right vein, pressed the needle in, but she was struggling to thread it.

“Mostly.” He said. “But I never just hand it over or give it up. I’m always guarded, no matter what. No matter how inviting my body language, how genuine my smile or how kind my words, I’m always holding something back. Everything I do is calculated and every conversation I have is planned out. By the time you ask me the next question I’ve already thought of the many different answers I might give you and all the directions that might take us. It’s a defense mechanism. One that I never switch off because I don’t know how.” 

She nodded, not wanting to interrupt him. He continued.

“You know, I used to think that I was writing out of some desire to cheat death. Maybe if I put my soul inside some several thousand pages, part of me would endure after I was gone. But as years have passed by, I think that’s no longer completely true. I won’t say it’s wrong, but it’s not all the way right. Sometimes, I think I only value myself when I’m putting words on paper, when I’m working. Only by writing my stupid little stories do I ever feel alive. Like I’m actually here.” 

Now she stepped in, feeling he had reached as far as he could without another prod. She was unorthodox but she was good. 

“You keep calling them ‘shitty’ or ‘stupid’ stories. Have you considered that the way you talk about your work, might negatively impact your perception of it?” 

“Of course.” He replied matter-of-factly.

“Don’t you think that having your work published is a very real sign that maybe you no longer need to deride your work? Maybe you can begin to feel some validity in your words. You can call yourself a writer, an author, and it would be true.”

He looked at her with deep disappointment. As though, with one question, she had become as painfully predictable as all the others.

“The moment I start to see it that way is the moment I stop growing. Complacency kills. If I start to pat myself on the back for every meager achievement, or non-achievement, then I’ll never become a fraction of what I want to be.” His tone was deadly serious before melting into a moment of levity, a painful smile streaked his face. “Did you know I used to be the ugliest fucking kid on the planet?” 

“I doubt that.” She replied.

“Well, I was. Or I may as well have been. I certainly saw myself that way. No fashion sense, gaunt, braces, wearing the same sweatshirt day in and day out just to hide my pathetic figure. Girls never looked my way and guys only liked me because I made them laugh. Do you know how I eventually changed that?”

“Tell me.” She said calmly, not put off by his serious tone.

“Pure self-loathing. Everyday I raked myself through the coals. Through sheer hatred and will power I changed myself from that weak little shit into what I am now. But I’m still not good enough. That was the exchange I made for confidence. I promised myself I would never say, enough is enough, because it never is.” A look of remembrance flashed across his face. A memory from those years of metamorphosis which left their invisible scars all across him. “I used to open the window in the dead of winter and sleep without any blankets, shivering and shaking all night, because I wanted to be stronger. I wanted the pain to kill any weakness that was still inside of me. I would get migraines all the time and tell no one, or I would refuse medication because I wanted to prove I could handle it myself, even after I finally puked up my dinner. I wouldn’t wear jackets in winter. Why sleep in a bed when I could sleep on the floor? I deprived myself of everything and learned to live that way, now I don’t know how to give myself anything.” 

He looked at her, realizing she was the first person in the world outside of his inner circle whom he had told that to. 

He continued, “Now, it’s the only way I know. I still press myself against the coals everyday and tell myself I deserve it; I deserve the pain until I’m something better. Until I learn to grow again. Until I learn to be more.” He placed his hand over his face. “You know what its like? This is going to sound so contrived and stupid out loud…”

“Go ahead. I’m listening.” She said.

“It’s like…” He sighed, feeling annoyed at the grandiose metaphor in his head. “It’s like a meteor falling to Earth. Giant celestial bodies colliding with the planet, except that’s never what actually happens, at least not since the dinosaurs. They seldom survive the atmosphere, the heat and pressure break them to bits and rarely is anything consequential left by the time the pieces reach the surface. We’re bombarded everyday by small debris, but we don’t even notice. It’s just like any failed artist, out of luck and out of time; no one ever even knew they tried. I guess, for the sake of brevity, I just hope when I finally collide that someone notices. I hope, after grinding myself into pieces, that when I finally come to the end there’s enough of me left to make a real impact.”

This time, she observed him, his eyes had trailed off as he spoke. When they returned to hers, there was the faintest of smiles teasing at her lips. 

“For someone who fancies themselves a liar, I’d say you’ve been exceptionally honest since we started this session.” 

He shook his head, “For all you know I’ve been lying to you this whole time.”

She cocked her head to the side. 

“Have you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, assuming you’ve told me the truth, I think you have a bad habit of exacerbating your failures and minimizing your successes. If I may, I don’t think that type of thinking is sustainable. As you say, you’re grinding yourself into dust by never giving yourself the positive reinforcement you so desperately crave. You’ve internalized this idea that any positive reinforcement is undeserved and only breeds weakness or complacency. Every time you achieve something, no matter how desperately you wanted it at the start, you tell yourself that it meant nothing in the end and move on to the next goal without appreciating what you’ve already managed to accomplish.”

“Because I haven’t accomplished anything.” He said coldly.

“Yes, you have.” She replied firmly. “What you’ve done is conflate constructive criticism with destructive criticism.” 

He stirred; this time visibly uncomfortable for the first time since entering her office.

“Look I’m already aware of all of this. Knowing why I’m fucked up doesn’t make me any less fucked up. In fact, I’d argue it's part of the problem. I see straight through everyone, even myself, and I hate it. And, I know I’m constantly changing the goalposts, I feel myself doing it. If someone says they like my writing, I just find myself wishing they loved it and if they do love it then I just wish it was their favorite. Then, assuming somehow that actually manages to be true, all I think is, one down and eight billion to go. I’ll never be satisfied, and I don’t want to be, there’s no fixing that.”

“Only because you don’t want to fix it.” She said.

“Yes.” He affirmed emphatically.

Now she shifted uncomfortably. It was a wall; the same wall she had feared they had hit several minutes ago. She adjusted her glasses and considered how to proceed. Nothing. Often, she found when words failed, silence was likely the best alternative. He was not here to be interrogated, he was here to talk, to share.

Several moments of silence passed between them. Furtive glances and a forced sense of welcome slithered like static in the air. At last, he spoke up.

“Do you know why I chose to come see you?” He asked. 

She gestured for him to continue.

“My girlfriend thought I should get help. See somebody and maybe they could help me deal with some of this stuff.” He said. “But, the reason I picked you specifically, and I don’t mean any disrespect. It was because you were a woman, and you were attractive. What does that say about me?” He asked, a smirk masking his shame. “That all I want in this world is for a beautiful stranger to save me. Like this is all some bullshit fairytale. Maybe it’s just too many movies and TV shows, some angel that swoops into your life and saves you. That’s not how the real-world works. I don’t even have any ill intent, it’s nothing sexual. I just want the words that I can’t say, the answers that allude me to come from someone beautiful.”

“There are actually a lot of studies on this.” She said to make him feel more comfortable. “Sometimes men feel more comfortable sharing their feelings with other men because of shared experience, but other men prefer women because they’re afraid of being judged on their masculinity. You don’t like being vulnerable, you don’t like showing weakness.” 

“It’s not that.” He said. “I don’t know what it is…”

“Your girlfriend, the one who suggested you see someone, how is your relationship? Would you describe her impact on your life as positive, as healthy?”

A warm, loving smile brightened his face as he looked to the carpeted floor thinking about her.

“Yes. I love her more than anything in the world. She is my world. Probably the one good thing I ever did for myself was ask for her number.”

“So, maybe she’s- to follow your metaphor -the angel you’ve been looking for. She was a stranger once, but now you know her intimately.”

He considered it, and not for the first time. Then he shook his head.

“It’s not her job to save me. I’d never put that weight on her shoulders. I’ll gladly carry her burdens, but I won’t make her carry mine. She deserves better than that.”

“But she would if you’d let her?”

“Yes.”

“Then, shouldn’t that mean something to you? Shouldn’t that be proof that someone loves you for who you really are?”

“Sure.” He conceded.

“But you won’t let her help you? You won’t let her carry that weight with you?” She asked.

“No.” He sat upright; his arms folded.

“So even when someone loves you and you know they love you, you still won’t let them help you? You still won’t let them find help for you?”

“No.”

“Let’s explore that.” She said.

“Let’s not.” He said defensively.

I don’t know why I thought this would work. His mind raced. It would never work.

As if on cue, the timer beside her chair rang out three times. She looked over at it and then back to him with a look of vague disappointment. 

“I’m very sorry. I would say we could talk a bit longer, but I do have other clients. We were already on shared time. We’ll pick up here next week if you like?”

“Yeah, sure.” He nodded and stood up.

Then, everything melted. Dissipating into nothing, he felt himself fall backward into reality. His hands tight on the wheel, his eyes directed out the windshield. A familiar voice was speaking out next to him, a voice he loved, masked by the music blaring out of the speakers.

“Babe? Did you hear me?” She asked.

He turned down the music.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked if you were okay? You look sad.”

“I’m fine.” He said with a smile.

“Babe. Please don’t lie to me.”

“Really.” He assured her. “It’s nothing new, nothing I can fix right now. I’m fine.”

“Okay.” She said meekly. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” His smile deepened.

She wrapped her hands around his arm and leaned on him as he drove. He felt his heart steady somewhat at her touch. Tender were her hands, but colossal was the impact of her skin on his. The restlessness, the fire in his chest, subsided briefly. 

“I still think you should see somebody, babe. We can look for someone in the area together if you want?”

“Sure.” He lied. “We can take a look later. Maybe when we get back. There’s gotta be someone out there who can handle all this crazy.”

She laughed and beamed up at him.

With that, he turned the music up again and slipped back into his head.

END