Bad Baby Goes to Therapy (Part 4)

Therapy sucks. I hate going. I hate talking. I hate discussing all the fucked up things that have happened to land me in therapy in the first place. I hate delving into the inevitable WHY of my crazy. But apparently therapy is a thing that Grown Ups Do. When you have a mental breakdown and then quit going to work for 4 months, apparently they expect to see you Making the Effort. In today's world where people strive to become the people they look like on Facebook. Where self-help books are acceptable gifts, and everyone is doing yoga, practicing mindfulness, and anal bleaching. Improving yourself has become one of America's favorite pastimes.

It's not like I'd never given therapy a chance, in fact, therapy had identified the origin of my issues. A hateful, narcissistic mother with a drug habit, incapable of love. A father who smacked us kids around like he got paid to do it.

It’s just the incessant talking and talking and talking. I have a very hard time with that. Not to mention I hate hearing words like delusional, codependent, self-sabotage, and inappropriate sexual behavior.

But broken girls like me are expected to go, we’re expected to Make the Effort. So I go to silence the boyfriend and the 1 or 2 friends that remain. I’m sitting on a musty couch in a musty waiting room on a Thursday morning. The stereo next to me is obnoxiously blaring Contemporary Christian music. There's a man singing about Jesus' great big love while the blown out speaker is statically punctuating every word. The K-Mart coffee table in front of me is full of old issues of Good Housekeeping and Redbook. The Crazy Women's Guide on Pretending to be Normal.

The inner door to the office opens. Corrie is patting an overweight woman on the back. She's got greasy hair to match her grease stained sweatpants. The woman's face is puffy and red, probably from crying. How do people find this helpful? She shuffles out of the room, never once lifting her eyes or her feet from the ground.

Corrie turns her attention to me. Her cornflower blue eyes are already probing. "Hi," she says in her soft voice, cocking her head to the side. She makes the word last approximately 2.5 syllables.

I follow her into the room. She takes her usual spot in the flowered recliner. Her cup of tea still has a teabag floating near the top. I look at the too-soft blue sofa. I'm positive there's a grease stain in my usual spot. I force the thought away and sit on the opposite side of the couch. If Corrie notices this change she doesn't say anything, at least not yet.

She leans forward attentively. Folds her hands in her lap. She takes a sip of her tea and as she places the cup back she cocks her head to the side again. "How are things?" she asks with concern. "Tell me, what is happening?"

Now the thing about Corrie is that she remembers everything I've ever told her, but I've never seen her write one word down. I've often scanned all over trying to determine if I was somehow being digitally recorded. Didn’t appear to be. I’d adopted the notion that she was recording me in her own head with her piercing blue eyes. When I spoke, she never looked away, never breaks eye contact. For a girl like me, who can’t hardly talk, the steady gaze is quite uncomfortable. Corrie's cornflower blue eyes burn like lasers right into me.

I open my mouth to answer, promptly shutting it again. In the window behind Corrie's head, a familiar gray face is peering in at me. Bad Baby, now the size of a 6-year-old is here. He spots me and waves, grimacing in what I consider to be his version of a smile. I’m confused, when I'd left the apartment earlier, he'd been contentedly dismembering a large teddy bear while watching the View.

I hear the outer door open. I am staring at the inner door knowing Bad Baby approaches for nothing good. Every outing he's made has resulted in mayhem or murder. We've discussed (sort of) the times that he'd leave the apartment to assist me. Bad Baby scratches against the door like a cat. A yellow talon appears beneath the crack at the bottom of the door.

I'm watching that talon as it wiggles around, I can hear my voice start stammering. Corrie tells me to take a deep breath as her cornflower gaze follows mine with concern. The talon slips away unnoticed. I'm starting to shake; I can feel panic starting to slide its icy fingers over my throat. The panic attack is creeping up, Corrie walks over and puts her face very closely to mine. "You're fine," she says firmly. "Everything is okay. Tell me what is bothering you about the door." She repeats this several times.

Weirdly, my mouth opens and a flood comes pouring out. I tell her about Bad Baby. About how the Heir of Darkness was grown in my womb, that I am mother to Satan's child. The gang rape by the hounds of hell that resulted in his conception. How The Darkness entrusted Bad Baby to my care to keep him safe and growing until he reaches maturity, at which time he'll join his Father in ruling the Kingdom of Hell. This is an unusual occurrence, to have words flow from my mouth with such ease. I'm telling her how Bad Baby is the living testament to my insanity, conceived in rage, hatred as flesh. How even though his conception was the worst night of my life, he's still partly me. I love him and fear him equally.

Motherhood is complicated.

I thought Corrie would praise my voice. My therapy homework usually consists of exercises to that encourage speaking (appropriately!) I am crestfallen the moment I see the doubt in her eyes. I can almost see the wheels turning, she is considering what medication I should be put on next. I become agitated, I’d been dealing with people who didn't believe me for 2 years now. Friends who thought I was making wild stories up to cause trouble, or thought I was crazy enough to be locked away. But Corrie had always believed me... until now.

"I believe you see Bad Baby," she says in a placating tone when I call her out. I instruct her to open the door, allow her to see for herself. Her blue eyes never leave my face as she unlocks it and opens the door. There in the doorway, Bad Baby is sitting crisscross applesauce. His red eyes flash as he jumps to his feet with a feline quickness I was unaware he possessed.

Corrie's eyes finally leave mine as she gets her first look at my demon son. And what a sight he is to behold. Gray leather skin stretched taut over a frame the size of a kindergartener. Red soulless eyes, gnarled fingers that end in yellow talons. A forked tail peppered with the buddings of sharp razor spikes. I see the moment her mind snaps. I'm not surprised it went so quickly. I've always held the opinion that therapists are probably the craziest motherfuckers of all.

She stares at Bad Baby as she sinks back into her chair. She's slightly rocking and picks up her tea. Bad Baby and I communicate silently; he is not thrilled but he'll compromise this time. He sits back down on the floor in front of her, grinning at her with his huge piranha teeth.

I lean forward attentively, I fold my hands serenely in my lap. "Tell me now, Corrie," I begin, cocking my head to one side. I'm speaking in the same soft tone, using the same inflections I've been listening to for a year now. "Would you like to live?" She nods her head yes as her cornflower eyes fill with tears. I tell her that all she has to do is answer one question correctly, and she'll be free to go about her day.

Bad Baby glares at this, but for now, I'm still (mostly) in charge. "What movie is this from?" I ask, and then I deepen my voice and it echoes, startling all three of us as I loudly order "STOP LOOKING AT ME SWAN!"

Corrie shakes her head in sadness. I tell her to just take a guess. She looks up with hopeful eyes and says "The Goonies?" For a moment I'm touched that she remembered, I mentioned my favorite movie to her once.

Impressed with her memory, I feel a little twinge of guilt. But that's short lived because at her wrong answer, Bad Baby once again sprung to his feet with disconcerting agility.

Before I could even blink, he had hopped on Corrie, he was straddling her lap. His witch hands were pressed to the side of her head, she was making a weird keening noise.

I look away, I can't watch this one. But I can't stop it either. Maybe if she'd have believed me things could be different. There's a wet pop and my stomach turns. It sounds like someone stomped a tomato. Another wet pop and I giggle, because that's another thing I do, I laugh at inappropriate times. I look over and Bad Baby is on her desk. He's got a cornflower blue eyeball at the end of his talon and he's licking it like a blue ringpop. Corrie remains in her seat, unchanged, hands folded serenely in her lap. But those probing eyes are missing, and blood looks like trails of tears where it poured down her cheeks.

I stand up off the stupid too-soft couch. Regarding her sadly, why didn't she know? "No," I tell her as I'm beckoning for Bad Baby to come. "It was Billy Madison." Shaking my head I repeat it. "Billy Madison."

Bad Baby approaches, I notice a bloody vein dangling at the corner of his mouth like a spaghetti noodle. I wipe it away with my sleeve. But still a bloody mark has crusted on his chin. So I hold his head still with one hand. I lick my index finger and thumb and start to clean him up. He is squirming trying to get away from my mothering, like any boy.

Satisfied with my efforts, I stop and take his hand. He reaches into his pocket and pulls the other eyeball out. He pops it in his mouth like a gobstopper. We leave the office together, as we climb in my car I feel the relief I do every week that the session is over. Pulling out of the lot, Bad Baby and I meet eyes in the rearview mirror. He grimaces (smiles) again, licking the last cornflower traces off his talons.

I return his smile and throw in a wink, suddenly in a very cheerful mood. He giggles, knowingly.

I really, really hate therapy.