I sit in an old recliner; you know the kind that almost every grandpa has in the whole world. Worn and faded, it holds me – almost tenderly, you know? But I don’t want this. I’d rather sit on one of those hard, plastic chairs they put in the lecture halls. I don’t deserve this comfort.  This is punishment. It’s not meant to be soft or comfortable.

  This man across from me, Dr. Cornelius Robinson (doesn’t that sound like a shrink’s name?  what’s the name of that old Roman idea that names predict jobs? Like dentists with the last name Payne. I know it’s not tabula rasa – that means blank slate. Dammit. I use to remember so much, now I can remember crap. This has just taken me over and what I was is lost.) says he is here to help me. Part of me wants to laugh in his face. Him, help me – right, who wants to help a washed-up useless piece of shit like me.  And part of me wants to know why? But I won’t ask that because I’m terrified that it will be because of the court order and I’m just another number. I’ll think that no matter if I ask or what he’ll tell me.  

People don’t help others or do things for other people unless there is something in it for them. The whole world runs on the all-mighty me – what do I get, what’s in it for me? Even supposed “altruistic” acts are based out of greed. Humans commit acts of kindness because they get a high out of it. Brains wired to give us a shot of endorphins every time we help out. What’s the bloody point? Well it means that no one ever does something that is purely selfless. All about me, babe.  

Fuck, that’s depressing. 

So, Dr. Robinson wants to know why I’m here. Seriously? I know you’ve the file in front of you, old timer. Don’t try that shit with me. Read the file, waste my time and let’s get these sessions over with so I can go do the job properly this time (Fuck, I feel like such an idiot about that – how hard is it really to kill yourself? Can’t even do that right). I just shake my head. I’m not answering this question. 

Maybe I should tell you about this guy. So he looks like a cross between Woody Allen and Ian McKellen. Like short, sunken cheeks with that weird old people skin that is really soft and malleable. Silver wire rimmed glasses perched on his nose, plaid shirt tucked into too-high khaki pants, scuffed and worn loafers. I doubt he’s bought a new pair of shoes in a decade. He has an old watch, loose on his wrist, one of those I’d always loved – white face, gold case and a leather strap. I’d have worn one if I could find it. And a thin wedding band, sliding loose on the last joint between his hand and bony knuckle. I wonder if his wife (husband?) is still alive.

I’ve always wondered why people get liver spots. Weird, I know,  but haven’t you figured out yet that I’m awfully strange?

He is telling me about his education and experience. 25 years, PhD from McGill, specializing in clinical depression, yadda yadda yadda. Why does this make him qualified to help people? How can years of “education” rote learning and regurgitation make someone the right person to help? I respect that he did all of that, but how can that help me? How can he understand my experience? Sure, I can understand empathy. It’s not that hard to identify, on an intellectual level, with someone. But understanding? Don’t get it.  

He says to me “ so, tell me why you’re here? I know you don’t want to talk about it. And that’s okay. I’ve got your file and it tells me a lot, but I really want to find out from you why you’re here. Tell me your version of events.” 

Still don’t know where to start. I just sit in this comfortable and punishing chair waiting for the hour to be over. I just lower my head, staring into my hands and hope that it would all go away. I’d rather be anywhere than here, talking to this old guy about me. We could talk about anything else in the world, even, just not me. Please.