Dealing (Gall CD)
Dec 31, 2019 9:54:03 GMT -5
Post by nealdurden on Dec 31, 2019 9:54:03 GMT -5
“Life is as cold and lonely as a glass of scotch…”
The walls are adorned with an assortment of paintings and pictures, even some certificates and diplomas. The window shows the expansive Newport below, we must be like on a nine or tenth floor. I’m sitting there, more like reclining, on a black chair with my psychiatrist looking at me like a caricature of her own profession. I never come here well dressed, which contrasts with the tone of her office, always well kept and tidy. My tattoos look more as graffiti on a plain white canvas.
“That’s what my father used to say whenever I caught him outside staring at nothing on some windy afternoon. I would usually just lower my head and brace for impact – it wasn’t usual, but from time to time what followed that comment was a beating for whatever reason. I was a problem child if anything, so for a long time I felt like most of the beatings weren’t unfounded; if anything they molded the kind of person I am today.”
She writes on her tablet, I know because I hear the click-clack of the various keys she’s pressing as I speak. I can’t stop but to think being here somewhat reverses the norm. I’m usually the one who stays in silent as others speak for me… here, it’s her who stays in silent as I speak. It almost feels weird to be in this position.
“I often think of myself as this sort of stone faced five foot eleven welsh golem; but if I’m allowed to be honest for a second, the golem is the man that has guided me through my career thus far. I’m nothing more than a kid with an aversion to speaking in public and, often, in close quarters. Talent? That’s something reserved for a few… I just have a lot of luck. Sometimes bad, sometimes good… but always luck.”
I move from the reclining position to look at her, almost as if I wanted some validation or to see some semblance of understanding from her eyes. I wanted that, probably. Admitting I don’t like speaking, while speaking about my life, seems oxymoronic enough that I didn’t want to make things more awkward than they needed to be. I’m awkward enough as it is.
“Like, I came to be a wrestler by chance. No one ever told me I could be a performer. I didn’t like sports or contact. I was good at running, but what kid who gets constantly beaten up by everyone around him isn’t good at that? What I’m saying is that luck is what has me here. In the position I am of being able to support myself with what I earn and live. Sure, it’s not the life a lot of my peers get to live, it’s not the most perfect of lives… but, I live. That’s what’s important isn’t it?”
I could sense a desire to interrupt me grew inside my psychiatrist, but she said nothing. Instead she directed a glare at me. I knew what it meant, I’ve seen it a couple of times already to decipher it’s meaning without her having to say anything. The first time I expressed something similar, she lectured me about how there’s a lot of people willing to help me and support me; that there were a lot of reasons to be alive. I knew that was what she wanted to say once more, of course, if I were to die my monthly visits wouldn’t support her income any longer… but who am I to judge.
“See, the new year brings a lot of new opportunities and new aspirations. I want to be better, you know. I need to be something I’ve never dared to be before; even if it hurts a bit.”
I turned once more to look at her, trying to get her to look at me.
“You know you can speak don’t you?”
I received no answer, as per usual. In the end she’ll say this is for my own good, that she doesn’t speak because I need to get everything off of my chest and if she interjects, then she’s the one driving the session and she doesn’t want that. Once a month I open up about random things in my life: my father – like this one –, my love life, my mother, my career, my friends, my acquaintances… every time is a different topic. I feel I need to heal, but, I just ramble without rhyme or reason, just for the sake of it.
“Well, if you insist… Do you think things will change?”
She let out a deep sigh, then she turned her iPad off and put both of her arms over the desk. Giving me a deep look she nodded, but said nothing. I knew the session was over right then and there, so I got out of the chair and headed out. I gave one last look thru the window before heading out of the office and towards the secretary where every other matter, economic – mainly –, would be resolved.
The walls are adorned with an assortment of paintings and pictures, even some certificates and diplomas. The window shows the expansive Newport below, we must be like on a nine or tenth floor. I’m sitting there, more like reclining, on a black chair with my psychiatrist looking at me like a caricature of her own profession. I never come here well dressed, which contrasts with the tone of her office, always well kept and tidy. My tattoos look more as graffiti on a plain white canvas.
“That’s what my father used to say whenever I caught him outside staring at nothing on some windy afternoon. I would usually just lower my head and brace for impact – it wasn’t usual, but from time to time what followed that comment was a beating for whatever reason. I was a problem child if anything, so for a long time I felt like most of the beatings weren’t unfounded; if anything they molded the kind of person I am today.”
She writes on her tablet, I know because I hear the click-clack of the various keys she’s pressing as I speak. I can’t stop but to think being here somewhat reverses the norm. I’m usually the one who stays in silent as others speak for me… here, it’s her who stays in silent as I speak. It almost feels weird to be in this position.
“I often think of myself as this sort of stone faced five foot eleven welsh golem; but if I’m allowed to be honest for a second, the golem is the man that has guided me through my career thus far. I’m nothing more than a kid with an aversion to speaking in public and, often, in close quarters. Talent? That’s something reserved for a few… I just have a lot of luck. Sometimes bad, sometimes good… but always luck.”
I move from the reclining position to look at her, almost as if I wanted some validation or to see some semblance of understanding from her eyes. I wanted that, probably. Admitting I don’t like speaking, while speaking about my life, seems oxymoronic enough that I didn’t want to make things more awkward than they needed to be. I’m awkward enough as it is.
“Like, I came to be a wrestler by chance. No one ever told me I could be a performer. I didn’t like sports or contact. I was good at running, but what kid who gets constantly beaten up by everyone around him isn’t good at that? What I’m saying is that luck is what has me here. In the position I am of being able to support myself with what I earn and live. Sure, it’s not the life a lot of my peers get to live, it’s not the most perfect of lives… but, I live. That’s what’s important isn’t it?”
I could sense a desire to interrupt me grew inside my psychiatrist, but she said nothing. Instead she directed a glare at me. I knew what it meant, I’ve seen it a couple of times already to decipher it’s meaning without her having to say anything. The first time I expressed something similar, she lectured me about how there’s a lot of people willing to help me and support me; that there were a lot of reasons to be alive. I knew that was what she wanted to say once more, of course, if I were to die my monthly visits wouldn’t support her income any longer… but who am I to judge.
“See, the new year brings a lot of new opportunities and new aspirations. I want to be better, you know. I need to be something I’ve never dared to be before; even if it hurts a bit.”
I turned once more to look at her, trying to get her to look at me.
“You know you can speak don’t you?”
I received no answer, as per usual. In the end she’ll say this is for my own good, that she doesn’t speak because I need to get everything off of my chest and if she interjects, then she’s the one driving the session and she doesn’t want that. Once a month I open up about random things in my life: my father – like this one –, my love life, my mother, my career, my friends, my acquaintances… every time is a different topic. I feel I need to heal, but, I just ramble without rhyme or reason, just for the sake of it.
“Well, if you insist… Do you think things will change?”
She let out a deep sigh, then she turned her iPad off and put both of her arms over the desk. Giving me a deep look she nodded, but said nothing. I knew the session was over right then and there, so I got out of the chair and headed out. I gave one last look thru the window before heading out of the office and towards the secretary where every other matter, economic – mainly –, would be resolved.