"That's fine. However you're comfortable."
I sat in a chair in the corner of the room. She had a clipboard in her lap and I had a bottle and a half of wine in me. I had made this appointment a month back, at the recommendation of a friend. It was cold out and I had my apartment windows open all day and I shook small and involuntarily. I didn't know if she was noticing, but I would have.
She was flipping through the intake packet I had filled out before coming in. At the back of it was a section "Are you experiencing any of the following...". Nineteen items were listed and I checked off sixteen and thought maybe Sacha was right about making this appointment.
"How are you? Right now?" she asked.
"Fine. You know. Good. Cold."
She half smiled and I did too and being in the room wore away at my resolve and I thought an hour might be too long.
"I'm just, you know, going over the packet here."
"Yeah."
"You want to start small?"
"Whatever. Either way."
"Okay. Well... Let's start with, you checked off that you are impulsive."
"Yeah."
"Often?"
"What does that mean? I guess."
"It means, do you sometimes do things randomly, without thinking about the consequences."
"I don't think that's what it means."
"No? Why's that."
"I mean, I make snap decisions all the time. Doesn't mean I don't understand the consequences. immediately. I don't need an hour to figure shit out."
"Right."
"Sorry. That was rude."
"No, it's fine. You're being honest. Let me reword it. Let's say you're at a party, someone offers you coke. Do you do it?"
"What does that have to do with anything? That's like asking if I want a sandwich. That's not impulsive, it's just a decision. Do I want a sandwich. Goddamn right. Do I want coke? Slide over."
She mashed her lips together in a crooked grimace. "You're right, I guess. Okay. Well, do you ever consider yourself recklessly impulsive?"
"Like, just leaping off of a porch without reason?"
"Yes."
"No. I reason everything."
"Okay. There we go." She smiled a bit. "I'm going to skip forward a bit."
"Sure."
"You checked suicidal."
"Yeah."
"How often?"
"How often what?"
"How often do you feel suicidal?"
"I'm not sure what that means either. Always? A constant whisper."
"Now?"
"Yep."
"An actual voice?"
"No. Just where my brain goes. Where it lives."
She scribbled shit down.
"I haven't yet though, so that can go on the back burner."
"Is that how you feel about it? It's unimportant that your mind dwells there?"
"I'm not dead. I must not be that persuasive."
She nodded.
"You use drugs?" she asked.
"No. Not really."
"Alcohol?"
"Yeah."
"How often?"
"Constantly."
"Morning to night?"
"Most of the time. I run out."
"Has it always been like this?"
"No. I mean, it kind of picked up over the last few years, and then recently really, um, I don't know, took over."
"How recently?"
"January twenty-sixth."
She looked up at me. "What happened January twenty-sixth? The date sticks out to you."
"Wife left."
"How long were you married?"
"Eight years."
"Well, that happens. It's destructive behavior, but, it's normal."
"It's fucking stupid."
"Why do you say that?"
"I know how fucking normal it is. I know this is nothing. I know person A was unhappy and then they rectified it by moving along and me, person B, is more than capable of observing it all and doing the math and coming out the other side. It's fucking stupid that this shit still echoes. It doesn't make any fucking sense. I'm not mad at her. I'm not sad about it. I'm not mourning, I don't feel anything."
"You don't think that in itself might be a problem?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your wife of eight years left and you don't feel anything?"
"I don't feel anything about people getting robbed, or sinking ships, or peoples fucking parking tickets either."
"Eight years isn't a parking ticket."
"No shit. Would have been a lot less hassle."
She nodded, wrote more down.
"If it's all right, can I ask why she left?"
"She was unhappy."
"Is that your normal answer?"
"Yeah."
"Is there a different answer?"
"Not today."
"Okay."
"I don't want you to think I'm here because of that," I said.
"No?"
"No."
"Okay, let's move down the list."
"Okay."
"Restlessness."
"I took that to mean not being able to sleep."
"Do you have trouble sleeping."
"Usually."
"How much sleep do you get?"
"Between an hour and four on a good night. A couple weeks ago I got fifteen. I think I was catching up."
"You usually get between an hour and four a night?"
"Yeah. I'm getting these fucking bags under my eyes."
"I can't see them."
"I know."
"What keeps you up?"
"Some nights it's stress. Normal life shit. Bills, deadlines, failures. Some nights I'm just not tired."
She nodded. It seemed to be her move. She looked up at me.
"So, why do you think you're here?"
"I was told I should probably come."
"You just took the suggestion?"
"I trust the person who made it."
She gave a questioning half smile. "You don't think it was necessary?"
"Well, my immediate answer is no. But, I'm here. I could be home right now. That must say something."
"It does."
"Let's keep rolling that list."
"Okay," she said. "Well..."
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