"So, how are you feeling today?"
"Really? Do I really have to say it again? You've known me for five years, doc, you know how much I hate that question."
She stares right at me and taps her pen on her mouth, a habit she can't erase. "It's a perfectly reasonable question."
"Yeah, if you could skip the pleasantries, that'd be great," I wave. I lift my legs on the couch and put my hands behind my head.
"Is it just me or does it seem like you are in quite a grumpy mood today?"
"You know me like the back of my hand."
"Of course. I get paid for doing this, you see. It's really quite a convenient way of making a living."
"Must be tough though, huh? Listening to all these people and their petty problems that probably mean nothing to you."
She shakes her head. "Quite the contrary. I find tremendous joy in listening to people talk about things. The very fact that I managed to wind up doing this kind of work is a miracle unto itself. I wouldn't mind doing it for the rest of my life even if I were not paid."
"Listen to yourself. You talk like an android."
She snaps a paper onto her orange clipboard, the same one from our very first meeting about four years ago. "Okay, that's enough small talk, I believe." She pushes her glasses so that they're perfectly perched on the bridge of her nose. "First of all, is there something you'd like to tell me?"
"Nothing new. Her voice is still in my head. I've only had six hours of sleep in the last three days. I still remember everything down to the details." And then I hear myself laughing. I don't even know why I'm laughing. I didn't think I would. The doctor doesn't humor my sudden change of behavior. Instead, she stares at me with that same piercing look. Her I-will-show-you-why-they- call-me-a-therapist look.
"My main objective in being your personal therapist is to make sure that you can go back to living the way you used to. In this case, we are referring to the time before you acquired PTSD. Any other side effects of your illness — for instance, your detailed memory of your past days — are not included in my job description as something I have to help you with — unless it is hindering you from living a normal life, in which case, I'll have to revise my methods — and therefore, is not my responsibility. My main concern right now is your sleep deprivation and the constant voice in your head. You simply cannot lead a normal life with these things haunting you. We need to do something about that."
"How do you get rid of something that has no physical form?"
"You don't. Time does."
"Five years isn't time enough?"
"I'll have to remind you again that PTSD affects people in different ways. Some have it for less than five years and for some, unfortunately, the grief becomes an inextricable part of them. I can only hope you don't belong in the latter category, Ryan."
"You and me both, doc. You and me both."
"How are you doing with your friends and family?" She writes some notes with the clipboard resting on her thigh.
"Oh, they're jolly. Colton is getting married, for starters."
"Have you still not made up your mind about contacting Kim?" she looks up.
I sigh audibly. "I know, I know. I still don't know if I can see her. Kim reminds me too much of her."
"And Emma's parents? Surely you'd want to know how they're doing, don't you?"
"I do. I want all of those. I wanna meet Kim too. Hey, that's strange. Aaron hasn't told me anything about Kim."
"Certain types of agony need to be confronted, Ryan. Hiding behind a safety net will not help you recover. Graduating from college is a result of facing your fears, right? Or are you going to deny that too?"
"You know, I've been wondering. Do you talk this way too outside of these sessions?"
"Ryan, don't change the subject." Her chin is resting on her fist now. She is serious. You can't tell from her expression how her general mood is, but the body language gives it all away. I've learned that this applies to most people I've met.
"Yeah, you're right. I get it. It's a lot easier said than done, though. You've had your share of that anguish. I don't need to lecture you on it."
Her gaze drifts for a moment and then it's focused back on me. It was only a fleeting moment of weakness on her part, but I saw it all too clear: that vacant look in her eyes.
"Let's not make this about me. As I was saying, you need to expose yourself to the pain. It might not make sense to dive headfirst into the deep end, but it really is one of the most effective — and frankly, least costly — methods of therapy."
"It makes a whole lot of sense, actually. It's just that the mind is only sensical when the situation doesn't call for the mind itself to be the one to carry out the idea."
"What do you mean?"
"It's always easy to give someone advice. But when it comes to ourselves, can we really do as we advise other people to do?"
"The mind aims its energy outwards. It's not self-reliant, it can only fix those outside of itself. This is why humans cannot survive completely alone. That's what I believe, at any rate."
I press my hands on my temples. My head feels weirdly heavy all of a sudden.
"It will pass eventually, Ryan. Believe me. If it's the last thing you do, believe it."
Not without struggle, I tilt my head sideways so I can look at her. "Are you talking about my headache or my sickness?"
She puts the cap back on her pen and smiles at me. "The answer to that is entirely up to you."
