The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(33)
I find her reaction odd. She’s acting like she doesn’t believe me. Or doesn’t want to believe me. Is it because she’s afraid I’ll stop visiting? After all, that was the reason for my getting into therapy when I was growing up—my so-called delusions. But doesn’t she realize that that’s not why I’ve been seeing her since I moved out of my moms’ house? Then again, how would she know that? I don’t even know why I’m still visiting her, or why I have this standing appointment that I so seldom keep, but pay for. My shrink tax, as I always jokingly think of it.
She gives me a penetrating stare. “I think something else is going on with you. Something like denial, perhaps? Maybe you met a young woman and want to seem sane for her? Whatever it is, I’m very curious to learn more about it. Some people think mental illness is like an infection: take the right antibiotic, and you can be cured. The truth is that there’s no such thing as mental illness to begin with. Just different people with quirks and traits, some of them maladaptive. When it comes to these problematic features of the psyche, we usually have to treat them on an ongoing basis. There are few silver bullets in my profession. Catharsis is a myth of fiction. But then again, yours was always a special case. My biggest question is: if you’re cured, what are you doing here?”
“That’s unusually insightful,” I say, impressed. “Almost creepy. I have met a woman that I’m interested in, but that’s not why I say I’m cured. As to your last question, I’m not even sure why I’m here. I guess I have some new issues on my mind, and I feel most comfortable discussing them with you for some reason.”
As I say it, I realize it’s the truth. The irony of this doesn’t escape me. I’m someone who has always been a huge skeptic about psychology as a treatment for anything. In fact, I always doubted it on a deeper level, going as far as to call it pseudo-science, though never to Liz’s face. Of course, the fact that I came for therapy today doesn’t prove the earlier me wrong. I just think I’m here more to talk to someone who’s known me for a long time and who’s acted like she cares about me. Here I can talk about things that I don’t think my friends and family are equipped to help me with.
“I’m flattered that you feel like you can discuss things with me. Maybe a big change has occurred within you after all. And I’m very excited to hear about your relationship,” she says, sounding sincere. If my meeting a girl makes her jealous on any level, she’s extremely good at acting happy for me instead. So good that I concede that perhaps I was wrong about that whole business of her wanting to sleep with me. Then again, wanting to sleep with someone is not mutually exclusive with wishing him a happy love life. There are lots of Victoria’s Secret models I wish I could sleep with, but if I learned that they had a great guy in their life, I would wish them luck. I think I would, anyway.
“Yes, the girl thing is interesting, but that’s not exactly what I wanted to talk about either,” I say. “At least not at first. It’s this other thing. I did something to a man to save her when she was in big trouble. Mind you, I was morally justified, but the thing that happened to the man as a result was very bad, and now I’m feeling guilty.”
Therapy has this effect on me. I say things there that magically put me in touch with my true feelings as soon as I say them, even if I didn’t fully register those feelings until that moment. The skeptic in me would, of course, say that this doesn’t justify the institution of psychotherapy. He would point out that I could’ve probably used a pet parrot instead of Liz to bounce words off of in this capacity. Regardless, it feels good to talk to her like that.
“Okay. If that’s what you want to talk about.” I notice she stops writing in her notebook and is looking at me with an unusual intensity. I rarely express feelings this way, and something about what I said must’ve resonated with her.
“I don’t know if it is,” I say. “There are other things that happened. I witnessed something terrible, and my life was in danger a few times. It’s all difficult to deal with, especially when I can’t discuss it with my family.”
“I see.” She gives me an encouraging look. “I can tell you have a lot going on. Just start at the beginning and tell me whatever you feel comfortable talking about. Start with this man you mentioned. What exactly did you do to him?”
“I sort of persuaded him to do something that ended up causing him great harm,” I say. This is the closest approximation of the truth I’m able to come up with at this time. Even this, once I say it, I regret. It’s risky. What if the Readers decide to Read my family and/or therapist for some reason? They might understand what sort of persuasion I’m talking about.
“You guided someone to hurt himself?” Liz says in a strange tone. She sounds almost excited. It’s not the reaction I would’ve expected at all. “This is very important, Darren. Can you tell me as much as you can about this event?”
Something is off. My heart starts pounding in my chest, and I phase into the Quiet to give myself a moment to think. Liz’s reaction is really odd. Now that she’s frozen in that moment, I see her eyes gleaming with very non-shrink-like excitement. I’ve never seen her react this way, and I’ve told her some crazy shit over the years.
Is this some weird thing for her? Does she get off on stories of patients doing something shady? That doesn’t make sense at all. Doesn’t seem like her. However, there is something I can do to figure this out. I haven’t done Reading for a while, and now is as good a time as any.