Therapy Session

I feel like he's gone.

I hate going to professional advice, and getting it--the ol' "you deserve better," and variation on theme.

From there, they point to me. What was lacking in my psychology to make me cling so hard to someone who is so obviously unavailable?

IN this, we (Morpheus and I) are both at fault.

From there, they only dig a little deeper and say that I like it this way, mourning and grieving for what is gone because better gone than clinging back at me. Better sorrow than love.

That is the box they fit me in.

After MOrpheus, I will find another man just like him. "Nevermind, I'll find someone like you..." Adele, "Someone LIke YOu."

He's not gone, they say. He'll come back. Or they won't say anything at all, staring at their paper because it's not important if he comes back. There's a pause and then they'll move on to a different subject.

"Does he love me?" I'll almost ask.

The silence is short. WE talk about my feelings. What are my feelings? Name them, one by one.

"Are you sure he's coming back?" I'll almost ask. It's right there. The question.

"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to pacify you with an answer even though I don't know?" The therapist almost says back. Her head is down, watching the paper closely.

"What if I'm different?" I want to say.

"But you're not." She wants to say. She's seen a case like mine before. A little girl all grown up, still looking for a daddy. Grow up, or you'll be stuck with the distant, father figure forever. YOu know? Alcohol, barely pays attention to you. Morpheus is not special.

"What if we're in love? What if it's forever?" I want to tell her over and over again. Therapists never see love. They never respect love. YOu walk into a therapy room, they will tell you 1,000 love went wrong. I wait for a little jerky remark about getting a dog. Or something cliche like "Morpheus won't be the last man in life you'll ever love." Sometimes I respect silence. Respect what love does to a heart, makes it hurt so bad that no words will be believed. You can't talk a heart out of love. You can talk it to death.

In my mind she points to all the bad ways Morpheus has influenced my brain. The voices, the mood swings, the psychotic break. What the fuck is next? IN reality, she's just sitting there in her chair, not at all concerned with Morpheus.

Talking people out of love, I've realized, is like talking them out of delusions. The more you talk the less people trust you. Who doesn't love love? And yet, there are people on the planet, therapists are a good example, who go around criticizing love as profession.

"HOw do you know he won't cheat on you?" The therapist asks. A real question, one of her first.

I was caught. MY grandmother in the room. The real answer was silence because I didn't know. NO one knows for sure. I loved a gamble. I openly admitted that. Did that make me a bad person?

"You deserve better," I hear the therapist saying as she sits in her chair, silent. d YOu didn't need voices for that shit.

"There's no one better," I want to say. I never have a chance to say it. I sense the therapist inwardly mocking me. YOung love, blind. WE will find and replace, easily. Give me six months. A few years, tops. I'm pretty, I stay in shape. I'll walk into a bar once, and find Mr. Right. I'll regret the extremist statements I've made about MOrpheus.

"He has baggage..." She almost says. "Three kids is a lot of work. Time away from you. All that responsibility even if he does get his separation. And he deals with his problems by drinking."

I picture my stepfather's alcoholism, and the environment. IF I ever want to leave that. If it's possible. CAn you believe someone is the greatest man in the world if he's an alcoholic too? Or does that make you at fault?

Does it make you at fault every time he was supposed to do something and disappointed you because you know what type of person he is?

The therapist wasn't interested in answering those questions as she sat in her chair.