I assumed my usual position to the far left of his fugly sofa and like always, he sized me up with squinty yet piercing blue eyes. Without ado or delay, I summarily began whining about how I'm sick of talking about things that nobody can fix and whining about whining about The Fucking Manny all the time. Who the fuck is this guy and what has he done with Boyband? And why do I care?
"Pft, I don't care," I tell Scrams as if he were the wall to my wail. "I don't care about any of this shit. Being all alone is safer for me, and everybody else apparently. A lot of good caring about my husband brought me. If I stop long enough to wonder or care why I was deposited on the curb like Thursday's garbage and left for somebody else to clean up, I'm donezo. That's the kind of shit people kill themselves over, for fuck's sake. And all of the people who could or would have been in a position to lend a hand or a heart at that time either couldn't or wouldn't. But in any case, I don't fucking care. " Sob. Sob. Sob.
"You say you don't care so you can protect yourself from being hurt, and I have to admit you're getting pretty good at that. But if you don't care then why are you crying?"
Sob. Sob. Sob.
"I'm crying because I can assure you that the only thing worse than actually being alone is being surrounded by people who make you feel entirely alone. Sob. So quit telling me that you care about me and that you worry about me. Sob. You're paid to do that, you asshole. Paid very fucking well, might I add. Sob. Sob. So unless you can sit there in your fancy fucking suit and tell me how to solve my housing crisis, my economic crisis, promise me that the custody evaluation will land in my favor, and assure me with actual numbers in actual bank accounts that everything is gong to be all right for me and the kids in perpetuity, then I beg you to quit telling me that I care. I can't. I'm crying because I can't care that I can't fix any of this myself or I will crumble. And I can't crumble. Can't you see that?" Sob.
"I'd like to think that you coming here to see me is helping making things better somehow."
"Define somehow. Because last time I checked, nothing is 'better'. Furthermore, I do all the talking. And the therapy. Do I ever roll in here without a clear view of the problem -- my problem, and a thoughtfully pre-considered and insightful sociological and psychological determination of how I arrived at the problem, how others impact the problem, and my impact on others based on the problem?"
(pause, pause) "Fuck." (pause, pause) "No. You don't. That's why you're such a fascinating patient."
"So let me get this straight: I come here to you for help, I talk, you legitimately agree that I am well aware of my shit -- all of it, I amuse and fascinate you, you can't fix one of my fucking problems, and yet you get all the money -- the only thing that can solve any of my problems. Please tell me you see how this is very fucked up."
"Arguing with you is a pain in the ass."
"Now that, my friend, I hear all the time."
* * * * *
And the truth is, I am a pain in the ass. I used to be a good kind of pain in the ass. Enough redeeming qualities to keep around. Nowadays I'm a liability to everyone I encounter. So I'm going off the radar for a while. I don't feel like baking or thinking or writing or even talking to anyone. I think this is what it feels like to give up but I'm not totally sure. I'm not depressed, just disappointed in myself. Not so much the weird genius I always fancied myself. Come to think of it, almost everyone who has ever called me any kind of genius eventually tells me I'm actually just a pain in the ass. So I'm going to keep my ass pains to myself for a while.
The other day an associate told me that she never would have guessed my life is such a blazing fucking mess. I'm always so smart and funny and positive and put together. Except for I'm not. That's just what I want everyone, including myself, to think. Doubt c