"I've figured out a way to express it, Doc," I said, slouching down in the stiff, noisy leather chair trying to get comfortable. 'Do shrinks just not do couches anymore? Is that just too cliché or something?' I wondered, wishing to hell that this shrink had a nice, comfy couch and not this rigid, pretentious chair.
"Oh, that's great, Scott," he said, smiling. He never wrote anything down, which convinced me that he wasn't really listening to anything I said. Don't shrinks take notes anymore? Also too cliché? "I'd love to hear what you're thinking."
"Well, it's like this: My life is like a supermarket..."
"Ahhhhh," he sighed slowly, nodding.
"What?" I was surprised that he got anything from that. That wasn't the point I was trying to make.
"Oh, nothing," he said. "Please, continue."
"Okay." I closed my eyes and spoke on. "So, my life is like a supermarket, but all the doors are wired backwards."
Nothing. He didn't say anything at all. The door part was my actual point, but he didn't react at all.
"See," I continued, "the doors are backwards from regular doors. With regular doors, they're always closed. Then, when you walk up to them, they open."
"Doors do that?" he asked.
"Sure they do." I couldn't help furrowing my brow a little in frustration. "I mean, doors in a house or an office don't do that, but supermarket doors open up when you get close to them."
"Oh, sure," he agreed.
"Right. So, anyway, in the supermarket of my life, the doors are backwards. They're open while I'm shopping around, doing what I need to do. I see them open and feel invited to go through them. When I'm finished with what I have to do and I walk over to the doors, however, they close."
He sat there for a few seconds silent and unmoving. "So," he said finally, "you feel like the doors are closing when you try to go through them. And this frustrates you?"
"Well, yeah. It frustrates me. Sure it does. I mean, that would frustrate anyone, wouldn't it?"
"Would it?"
"Yes," I said. "It sure as hell would."
"It would," he agreed, nodding.
"So, I got to figure out how to keep the doors open."
"Oh, you can't control the doors," he said. "You have to be honest with yourself about that." His face said he was very pleased with himself for making this point. If he'd had a notebook he'd have written something down for sure.
"I can't control the doors? Okay, so... Okay, so... So what? I just need to shop forever?"
"What is shopping again?" he asked. "What does shopping represent in your metaphor?"
"Life. Responsibility. Job. I don't know. All the things I have to do."
"You have to figure out," he said, pausing in the middle to think, "how to go through the doors without approaching them."
It was like someone punched my brain in the stomach. "What?" I suggested, questioning his sanity. "I have to what?"
"Look," he said, frowning a little. "Let's not get caught up in this metaphor."
I'd had such high hopes for this guy early on, but I could see the doors sliding shut between us. "Get a fucking couch," I said on the way out.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
