the heel press

    “So, do you wanna go get some caramels?”  He looked at me, his stringy, greasy hair hanging down over his forehead.  

    “Umm…I…..well, I would love to but you see…”  As I was trying frantically to think of an excuse, he spoke once again.  

    “It’s fine.  Another time.”  He turned to leave but suddenly turned back to face me.  “You know, next time you should grow some balls and just say that you don’t want to hang out with me.”

    As he turned his back to me once again, I started running after him.  “Wait a minute, that isn’t it.  Seriously.  I’m just really busy right now.  I have…stuff.  You know.”

    “No, I don’t.  I’m one of those loser kids who has managed to avoid any responsibility, remember?”  He turned and practically ran out, slamming the door behind him.  Although he still managed to maintain a bit of his “I don’t give a fuck” attitude, I knew that he had at least felt something in this last session.  

    Seth is one of my patients.  I’ve been seeing him for about six weeks now, ever since his parents decided that he needed to be seeing a “therapist” after he had wrecked his car on the border of California and Nevada, coming back from a week-long extravaganza, filled with gambling, drugs, and whores in Las Vegas. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s still coming to these meetings.  Then I remember that he wouldn’t be if he parents would continue his trust fund without a weekly telephone conference with me.
    Role playing was one of the few techniques I had recently discovered could work wonders with Seth.  He refused to talk about anything serious, but this method had allowed me to search a bit beyond the surface level cocaine and vicodin-infested young adult who appeared to be fucked up beyond reason.  Pardon my French.
    We concluded all of our meetings with this same scene, a scene that somehow had managed to perpetrate his dreams and thoughts, a small glimpse into what he claimed was the jenga piece that caused the rest of his life to crumble around him.  An ex-girlfriend of only 8 months had caused this kid to drop out of college, alienate friends and family, and turn instead to a new gang of kids who were going nowhere, choosing to pop uppers and downers simultaneously in an extreme effort to feel nothing.  At all times.  It’s hard to believe, I know.  Even harder to maintain.  I’ve tried.   

    I’m actually not a certified psychologist.  I’m simply an intern, attending graduate school in the vain hope of gaining a doctorate degree, because after all, that will most definitely grant me, what?  A job?  Guaranteed happiness?  Or simply seven years of my life that I’ve wasted?  It doesn’t really matter.  I like seeing the patients.  School has never really been a problem for me.  And most importantly, this allows me to continue to shun anything related to real life, which is something I’ve wanted to do since I was about eight years old.    

    My name is Maggie, and I’m a 26-year-old avoider of life.  That’s it.  That’s my disease.  Because of this, I feel like it's my calling in life to help others confront their fears and face their lives.  Somewhat hypocritical, I realize, but I really don’t give a shit.  I suppose you could say I’m one of those cynical people who manage to find joy in bursting other people’s bubbles.  An optimist would say that instead of bursting the bubbles, I’m the magic duct tape that repairs the shattered bubbles.
   At eight years old, my parents divorced.  My mother, a diagnosed schizophrenic, was committed by the time I turned nine, and my father was remarried before my mother was even committed.  While I was “allowed” into his new family, I think I served as the constant reminder of the fact that he had spent eight years of his life with a nutcase, and this particular daughter of his will probably suffer from the same disease, which he never let me forget.  His new family, however, was "oh so perfect".  The trophy wife, who achieved total perfection during the Christmas holidays of 2001, with my father’s present of a boob job, liposuction, and a nose job.  Then there are my two half siblings.  The word sibling always reminded me of an alien in outer space, and these two creatures very well could be aliens from Mars as far as I’m concerned.  Caroline (isn’t that so sweet and southern?  Nope, it probably just made you puke a little in your mouth.  I totally understand.) and Jeremy are the two youngest members of this family unit.
      From the minute Caroline was born, my father and stepmother were convinced that she was going to be a child star.  After using every connection he could think of and when this failed, burning every bridge in his vicinity, Caroline is now an eighteen-year-old whore who is almost always high out of her mind, screwing any guy that says he will introduce her to Clint Eastwood’s agent.  Or any agent, for that matter.
    Matthew is another story.  He might actually become successful one day, and while he has the potential to be tolerable, like everything else in my life, he isn’t tolerable and we hardly ever talk.  He’s attending law school and has convinced himself that he’s going to be the next Johnny Cochran.  He’ll probably end up defending his own sister after she killed some punk who refused to give her drugs, only instead of winning the case, he’ll lose.  She’ll end up with a life sentence, and he’ll die with the reputation of killing his own sister.

    I looked at the clock, noting with some dread that it read 9:56 PM.  Shit.  Time to go home.  I slowly gather up my belongings, noting that I really need to remember to bring some more pillows and blankets.  It’s getting colder and this old office building has no central heating.  Patients tend to have difficulty concentrating if they’re cold, and of course, I need about 10 blankets myself—I’m always cold.  

    As I walked down the dark hallway towards the creaky old steps, I hear someone on the stairs.  No one should be in the office at this hour.  I would ask myself who could have gotten into the building, but who am I kidding, this office building is located in South Central, and pretty much anyone can just walk in anytime their heart so desires.  There is no doorman.  There isn’t even an elevator—I walk up five flights every single day on stairs that feel like they are going to collapse beneath my weight at any second.  At least I don’t have to go to the gym.  
    As I’m creeping down the stairs, I see a man’s shadow at the bottom of the staircase, pacing back and forth.  For a brief second, I consider returning to my office, bolting the flimsy lock that wouldn’t actually keep a fly from entering, and calling the police, who will make me hold for half an hour, only to inform me that a someone pacing in an office building isn’t enough of an emergency.  Then I realize that I need to just face whoever it is.  Maybe this guy is waiting for someone. 

     As I near the bottom of the stairs, the footsteps quickens, seemingly in harmony with my own heartbeat.  “You can do this, you can do this, you can do this” are the only words to this surprisingly intense song.  

    I decide to just walk past without saying anything and hope for the best.  I practically run down the remaining stairs, keeping my eyes focused on the door to the outside.  Just as my hand grasps the door handle, I feel a foreign, strong hand on my shoulder, forcing me to turn and face the unknown.

    “Ahh” I involuntarily gasp.  “Jesus Seth!  What the FUCK are you doing here?”

    “Whoa, calm down.”

    “Well what do you expect?  You scared the shit out of me!  Your appointment ended over an hour ago.  Why are you still here?”

    “I just wanted to see you.  I needed to apologize.  I didn’t mean to run out like that and not come back.  I just wanted you to know that I was okay.”

    “Ok.  Seth, look, this has got to stop.  I’m your therapist, not one of your friends who stopped talking to you after you pulled a knife on them while high out of your mind.  I know you aren’t okay, so there is really no point in trying to prove to me that you are.  Go home.”

    “Aren’t therapists supposed to be encouraging?  You basically just implied me that I’m fucked up beyond repair.  Maybe I should just go home and kill myself now.  Then you’ll see how fucked up that comment was.  You’re a fucked up shrink.  Maybe I should just stop coming in.”

    Sigh on my end.  “Please. You are on the road to recovery.  You know this as well as I do.  You have good friends now.  You’ve cut out the old ones.  Not to mention the fact that, in the end, you’re going to do exactly what you want to do.  There really isn’t anything I can do to stop you.  But I do care about you.  And this will pass, trust me.  Go home, get some sleep, call me tomorrow if you need something, and I will see you next week.  Good night, Seth.”

    This may seem incredibly harsh.  What if Seth does go home and commit suicide?  The only thing is, I know that he won’t.  When I said he was on the road to recovery, I meant it.  He will get past this.  Not tomorrow, but he will.

    I made it home in a record-breaking twenty minutes.  One good thing about Los Angeles is that while people don’t have day jobs of any kind, they definitely know how to party, meaning that 10 PM is one of the best times to be on the road.  All of the girls are still prepping for their “fabulous” night out, where they are sure they will meet the guy of their dreams, who just so happen to be wealthy and dashingly handsome.  Where are the guys at this hour, you might be wondering?  Oh, they have already starting drinking with their buddies, preparing to spend the evening convincing these women that they are worth sleeping with.  
 
       I jiggle the lock on my door, which always sticks, and am greeted by Otis, my adorable French bulldog.  Otis is my only true love, and he has no idea how cynical I am.  My answering machine beeps continuously, determined to let me know that I do indeed have a message.  I already know who it is.

       “Meet me at the bean.  We have to talk.  Please.  You owe me this much at least.”     

        What if I’m tired of talking?  Not possible.  It’s never possible to be tired when it comes to Jeremy.  I just can’t resist putting myself through the ringer each and every time, even though it’s a movie I’ve seen about a million times.  

       Nevertheless, I run into my bedroom, throw on some faded jeans I’ve had since high school, a ripped blue Hurley sweatshirt that belonged to a roommate in college, and flip flops.  When attending these meetings, it is imperative to give the impression that I simply don’t give a damn.  As I run out the door, I remember that I’ve forgotten something important.  Sighing, I turn around, run back inside, and grab a red bull from the refrigerator.  

      Caffeine, how I love thee.    

         As I enter the coffee shop, I see him immediately.  He also believes in the importance of pretending not to care with his adorably ancient flannel shirt, jeans that should probably just be tossed out, and moccasin shoes that I’m pretty sure were meant to be slippers.

        “I’m so glad you actually decided to show up.  You haven’t been returning my phone calls.”  His piercing baby blue eyes desperately tried to read my body language, attempting to predict how this night would play out.   
    
         Hopefully giving him no insight, I slide into the booth, attempting to keep my “emotionless resting face” intact.  “I’ve been busy.  Anyways, I thought you said that you didn’t want to speak to me ever again.  Forgive me for taking you seriously.”  

       “Maggie.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean what I said that night.  You know that.  You know me, whether or not you want to believe it.  You’re the only one who truly understands me.  I’ve been under so much stress lately.  When I said what I said to you, I was beyond myself, angry at myself, and completely depleted.  Please forgive me.”

      “That sounds so rehearsed.  Good delivery, though.  Listen, Jeremy, I think maybe you were right.  Maybe we shouldn’t see each other anymore.  It’s been two years, but the past two years have been some of the highest highs and lowest lows I’ve ever had.  I just don’t think I can do this anymore.”  

        “Give me another chance.  I didn’t mean any of the things I said that night.  You are one of the best things that ever happened to me.  Please give me another chance.  I can’t live without you.”

       “I don’t have the energy for this right now.  I just can’t do it.  We need a break.  You’re too stressed out, and I have a lot going on too.  This patient I’m seeing, I think he may need real help.”

      “Well, I’m sure you’re giving him the help he needs.  You are a therapist, you know.  And you’re good at what you do.  People want to tell you all of their dirty thoughts.  They practically give you their skeletons in gift-wrapped boxes.”
    
       "Yes.  And that is the trick to therapy, isn’t it?  Once they tell you all of their secrets, you can scream ‘I win!” in their face and walk away?  Is that how it goes?  Or is that just your role in our relationship?”

      “Cut the hostility.  I was trying to give you a compliment.  I said I was sorry.  There really isn’t anything else I can say.”  

       “You’re right.  There really isn’t anything else you can say.  And for that matter, there really isn’t anything else I can say.  It’s over.  We’re done.  And believe me, I’m serious about this.  I didn’t have a bad day, I’m not depleted or beyond myself.  I’m just done.”

        Without even waiting for a response, I headed to the door.  As harsh as this seemed to my inner-self, I knew that I would also be okay.  Jeremy was my simultaneous upper and downer, my attempt to feel nothing.  The first step is recognition.  The second step is exorcism.