Listen to the Casual Reply: A Collection of Short stories

Therapy. Visit number unknown.

What is love.

"Do you what to know what's really fucked up?"

My therapist nodded. But of course he did. I can just imagine how this guy gets his rocks off. Hearing the fucked up shit of people's lives.

"What's really fucked up is how when you are genuinely happy your mind pictures all these really fucked up scenarios."

He writes something down on the paper in front of him. "What sort of," he coughs through this prompt, "fucked up things?"

I roll my eyes, he is scrutinizing me, as always, I don't care. "Not like cutting myself, or shooting someone."

His eyebrows shoot up like they were electrocuted.

"I mean," I continue as if the eyebrows weren't distracting, "like, the good shit."

"Like, that I could be happy. That were gonna have a fucking cute little family. Family photos with all the kids wearing matching clothes and were all smiling and shit. Like Facebook gold. You gotta know what I mean."

He nods as if he even knows that the hell Facebook is. Like he's the kind of old man that doesn't keep a worn piece of paper next to his computer with all the logins and passwords in order. Like he hasn't crossed them out and scrawled another, longer, more complicated password. Like somehow he knows how to do more than share a meme and has created decent original content.

No. This man doesn't know. He doesn't know Facebook. But he probably does know six-figures a year. He probably knows the photos I mean and he probably has them framed on the wall of his millionaire dollar penthouse. He legit knows and he nods at me like he gets where I'm coming from.

This is the most fucked up part of therapy.

The talking about the shit, the trying to make sense of all of it, the reading, the writing, the sharing, the group time- this is the most fucked up part. That this guy who spent more than half his adult life in classrooms so he can become a mental health professional and help me figure out what's wrong with me— is the fucking part that's wrong. But I go. I go and I try to work my shit out. I have to know that the dream I have envisioned is possible, even if I can't see it at this time.

"Being in that relationship fucked up my brain. You think if you're genuinely happy you'll get it all. You fall in love and fall into the dream life. The house, the car, the job, the kids, the life you see in the movies and you think nothing can take away this feeling- until you see it slip away. The bills come faster than the paychecks and the the one-striped tests confirm it'll just be the two of you and you have to swallow that sadness. And the job stresses you to the point the only reason you're even fucking anymore is the relief of passing out and the escape from reality, because the reality isn't the dream life, it's a nightmare."

He stares at me like I am the one who's wrong. He doesn't have a clue. He doesn't know me. My life. My struggles. He doesn't get it.

His mouth opens and I swear if he says how does that make me feel- I'll kill him. I'll take that paper in front of him and shove it down his throat.

He licks his dry lips and says, "what are you doing to escape reality now?"

This. This is why he gets paid the big bucks. The real questions. He knows I don't want escapism. That I ran from my marriage, from the job, from the life I had because I wanted more. He's good. The bastard.