Her office is painted a very pale shade of brown, nearly off-white. There is one window, on the far side of the room, across from a wall lined with bookshelves. To the left of the bookshelves is her desk, and the one, large chair she sits in. Across from that is the door. And next to the door is the couch.
The couch is the bane of my existence. It is the ugly, plaid fabric-covered thing that I am driven a half-hour south bi-weekly to go sit on. It’s a loveseat, but you gotta wonder who could possibly fall in love with seats that were about as soft as concrete.
Her name is Dr. Teresa Parish, a name as drab as her straw colored hair and long, pale face, and as formal as the gray pant suit she wore.
I could tell you that she preferred being called the less formal nickname of Tess, and that she often wore sexy red dresses and did something to her hair that made it look less like it belonged to a scarecrow, but that would be lie, and Dr. Parish is trying to break me of that habit.
She started the session the same way she always did. Ever notice that shrinks are like that? So… habitual. Kind of like business tycoons. Anyway, she pulled out a yellow legal pad and a ball point pen. At the same instant, I pulled out a blue marble notebook and a pen I’d “borrowed” from her the week before. She sat in her easy chair, and I on the couch.
“How was your week Charlie?”
Until I had to come see you? Well enough. I convinced my lit teacher that I needed an extension on my research paper because I had been so worried over my dog, who had gotten injured in a fight, despite the fact that I had finished the paper weeks before and my dog had sustained no injuries in the fight. Yes, there actually was a fight. I played football and destroyed the dress that my mother insisted I wore that day, and told her that I had been attacked by wild dogs. We now have a rabid animal watch in the neighborhood. That just goes to show what happens when you leave a bunch of housewives alone all day in suburbia.
“Just fine Tess, really. How about your week?”
“Why do you have a need to call me Tess, Charlie?” she asked, furiously scribbling on the legal pad.
“I find that first names have a sort of power, as do nicknames, so in calling you Tess I ultimately may cause your doom. A truly sad event I must admit, but we all must suffer in the name of science.” Her eyes narrowed and the scribbling went faster.
“Charlie, as I’ve told you before, you have no need to lie. Try telling me the truth. Lets start again. What did you do this week Charlie?”
“Do you have something against lying Tess?” I scribbled in my own notebook as I spoke.
“Do you have something against telling the truth?”
“What is the truth but accepted lies?”
“Why lie when the truth is easier?”
“Why take the easy way out?”
“Is there something wrong with the easy way?”
“Is there something wrong with a challenge?”
“Is there a reason you deliberately make things harder for yourself Charlie? Perhaps something is wrong at home?”
“Is there a reason you don’t? Perhaps aliens have taken over your brain and made it so that you are incapable of original thought? Or perhaps this is really all some kind of trick to get me to tell you that last week my mother hit me, or that my dog died, or that my parents ignore me?”
“Is that your way of telling me that they do?”
“Do they?”
“You tell me Charlie.”
“You’re the expert Doctor.”
“But its your life Charlie.”
“But you’re prying into it Doctor?”
“Is that what you call these sessions?”
“What d’you call them?”
“We’re talking about you Charlie. Can you see what we are dealing with?”
“What are we dealing with Doctor?”
“Why don’t you tell me Charlie?”
“Well, Dr. Parish, I just don’t know what to tell you, I mean, is there a reason you want me here?”
Her voice was soothing, mine was overly sweet, and we both continued to scribble on the pads. I figure she was probably doodling by the way her hand moved, and that’s not a lie.
“Charlie, we don’t seem to be getting anywhere?”
“Ah. But where are we going?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I would think that where we go and where I go are separate, wouldn’t you?”
She changed topics again. “Charlie, have you given any thought to ending your life?”
“Well, gee, Doctor, I thought we had decided I was a compulsive liar, not suicidal. Is there a reason you think everyone is suicidal? Are you yourself suicidal Doctor? Should this session be more focused on your mental health?”
I struggled not to laugh. I could hear the woman grinding her teeth.
“Let’s return to why you lie Charlie. You do know why you do it?”
“Possibly its fun? Yes, that could be it. Or maybe I enjoy it. Maybe I feel compelled to do it, or the voices in my head tell me to?”
“Are there voices in your head Charlie?”
Yours for one, Lady. “I don’t know Doctor, are there?”
“Why do you feel the need to make everything a question?”
“Why do you?”
“Charlie, this is about you.”
“Is it?”
“Yes Charlie. Now, who have you lied to this week?”
“You want me to count?”
“That many?”
“Perhaps.”
“Charlie, I want you to write down every time you lie. I want to know who you lie to, what time of day it is, where you are, how you feel at that time, what the lie is, what the lie is about, and how you feel after lying. Alright?”
“Gee, Doc, that’s a lot to remember.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you a chart.”
Now it was my teeth that were grinding. She had turned the tables on me.
“Your mother will be making sure that you update the chart, and we can skip your session on Thursday and just meet again in a weeks time, so that you have ample information for your chart.”
“What makes you think I will have ample information?”
She didn’t answer, just looked at me for a minute. Then the timer went off, and she was shooing me out the pale brown door to the room where my mother waited.
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