There's a lot of countries that do not have 911.

What I mean here is in the event of an emergency - you do your best.

I think of this a lot whenever I have anxiety, which might seem counterintuitive, but it actually helps me relax. Because I have a magic number I can dial to summon help, 24/7. Does it matter if they get there in time or I can afford it? Nope.

For a brief period of my life I lived without this magic number. Not only no magic number, but very little safety net whatsoever. We would probably classify it as a third world country; I was in a car accident (van tipped over, jostling everybody inside not wearing seat belts, crawled out the busted windshield after trying not to fall on the people below me) and had to call colleagues to come pick me up from the side of the road at 2 AM. Luckily no injuries; that coulda been harder to handle.

Yet strangely nobody really had anxiety there. Not like here where we stress over paying the rent or making a difference in our career. Those weren't even considerations. You just lived. Like a can getting kicked down the road, life just happened - you didn't have to think about it that hard. It would work out. You asked people for help when you needed it, you did what you had to do, done. There might be a sense of "Gosh, life could be better," whenever you watched the media and saw all those richer countries portraying their cultures and big, shiny homes; but your choices and options were limited so there was no sense of "Man, I'm not making it because I don't have that." You enjoyed what you had and you seized opportunities as they came. So much simpler.

I forget that sometimes as I'm getting older now. I forget that I can actually just sit back and do the bare minimum, and life will keep going. I don't have to think about it or stress about it; I just get up again tomorrow. I can enjoy what I have and seize opportunities as they come. It's not really more complex here it just feels that way sometimes.

I've struggled lately and thought I should try to get some therapy. But, similar to that magic number, I've had trouble getting therapy for most of my life. Would it be nice to have that psych sitting there and helping me out? Sure.

But if it doesn't happen, meh. Life will keep going.

I'll get up again tomorrow.

Eventually, slowly, I'll enjoy what I have.

One day, maybe awhile away, I'll seize an opportunity.

Meanwhile, for now, I just remember my magic number. I remember how nice it feels to have one. And I remind myself that even when I didn't have it, everything worked out okay. Because I can handle life. It doesn't require that much thought.

And maybe somebody else who can't see that needs that psych right now more than me.

I am... for the better part, here.

Here?

Really?

Yes.

I am here.

Against my will.

Americans love to spout about freedom,

but a quick label of 'incompetence' is all it takes to bind you.

Cream colored walls.

No shoe laces.

Grippy socks.

Big metal heavy doors,

and a few bald headed security men to stuff you back into your bed for your happy juice.

I think I heard an old woman scream down the hall.

It's lovely.

Real- quaint.

How I ended up here?

Funny story.

I have a wild imagination.

Sometimes serious,

sometimes over exaggerated.

I told my therapist that I dream.

I dreamed of murder.

I dream of things I would not do.

Other times, I wish I don't wake up.

She said it was concerning.

She asked if I would ever go through with it.

Ah.

The trick question.

I stupidly said 'sometimes,'

and that was enough.

A red flag on my file.

I left that day.

I mentioned my family to her.

Mentioned if we ever crossed paths.

Even incidentally, it might end in bloodshed.

She probably believed me.

I believed me.

But that's not what did it.

I had cast aside the notion of them.

The strangers who didn't know me any longer.

The people I no longer associated with.

The people who told strangers that I 'eloped' and 'ran away' when they did nothing but chase me away.

Me.

The literal black sheep.

The only black thing in the family.

The one who - in name - I wished died sooner.

The one who - in name - threatened to end me several times over.

Crass, evil, vile woman.

Ugly with her dentured teeth.

Grinning from ear to ear as they wore too large for her lips to cover.

No.

That was not it either.

What was it was my turning over my possessions.

My anger and wanton for the woodsy life.

To give up my possessions within society.

A woman screamed over me.

She thought me to go to the road.

Oh, what be.

No.

No.

I didn't plan to die that way.

No.

No.

I had other intentions.

And then the officer came.

And then the pretender came [the suicide aid].

And I told them all I was done.

What they made of that?

I was trying to run into traffic.

No.

I just needed my councilor.

I just needed to sit down with them again.

To express how truly desolate things felt.

How angry I was.

How done I was.

How much I wanted to just stop struggling and fighting and live quietly.

Key words.

Quietly.

But no.

No.

No.

No.

I looked like I was ready to play in the street.

No.

I looked that way.

Thankfully I didn't go completely postal.

Now I'm back where I wanted to be.

In that very chair.

My hands are shaky.

Sweaty.

My eyes won't meet her.

I'm feeling flighty.

What?

So I can have someone else misinterpret my intentions.

What?

So I can visit that place again where I fight these giggly nurses,

robust security,

and placid doctors?

HA!

If you can even call them that.

Still.

Still.

Still.

It is nice.

This is where I ought to be.

Talking to a stranger.

Venting my thoughts.

So I know I won't go postal.

This is my tithe.

This is my way of climbing back down the rope to reality.

So this is it?

Having a look around everything seems very symmetrical now, like in a looking glass: 2 chairs identical, wall to wall carpet, 2 twin portraits equidistant on either side of the entrance/ exit.

"Please to sit down."

"umm... which chair?"

"Either, as you please."

I had my little black notebook, the doctor had a little black notebook.

I cleared my throat; the doctor did also-too (as is said locally).

"...do I begin or do You?"

"You," was the ambiguous answer.

The space was dimly lit, with a reassuring air of nondisclosure.

So I started again:

"I am afraid."

"Of...?"

"My fiction."

"Mhmm.." writing it down clearly, I could easily read it upside down:

Fears Fiction

The capitalized letters reaching back out towards me like the scrawny fists of an unwanted infant. I heard a wailing siren advancing from the distance.

"I'm afraid of what's in here."

"Aha..."

"And I don't know why."

"Isn't Fiction one thing in life you control?"

"So I've been told. No, I don't believe."

"Why not?"

"Because the subconscious is more insidious than the conscious."

"Then filter what you don't want."

"The subconscious raises what it wants..."

"Then send it back!!"

"I can't."

[Pause]

"Well...? Doctor?"

"I think you and the babies will be alright."

03.29.2023

There, in the Psychologist's Chair challenge @Last

Tied to the chair

For the 3rd week in a row

My momma said it’s good for me

But I don't really know

“When did it all start”

“Tell me about your childhood”

The cliche phrases

About everything that could

Cause me to be angry

Or scared, or depressed

“Elaborate on that”

You should know the rest

But I’ll enlighten you anyways.

He writes on his notepad

The look that’s on his face

Says all I need

I look at the blot on the page

A massacre I see

“Well it seems that you're depressed”

As if I didn’t know that already

Trauma in my head

Doesn't pay his rent

Nestled in the corner

Doesn't get better than this

“So, doctor”

I say

“Thank you for your time

But I think ill find my help

Off of videos online”