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That afternoon in my therapy session, my head is still on Lottie.
“You seem tense today,” Dr. Seymour says, observingly. “Have you been doing those breathing exercises we discussed?”
“You mean that kumbaya meditation spiel you told me to do? Nah, Doc. I told you before. Meditation isn’t for me.”
“As I told you the last time you said something similar to that effect, meditation doesn’t have to be you sitting cross-legged on the floor, chanting. You can meditate on a run or on a morning stroll. The purpose of meditation is to have you focus on your breathing and clear any negative thoughts plaguing your mind,” she explains patiently.
“I wish breathing in and out could magically make every negative thought I have disappear. Just not that simple, Doc,” I groan.
Besides, I don’t want to erase the memory of Lottie coming from my mind. And, yes, I’m very aware of how masochistic that sounds.
I would rather hold onto a figment of my imagination than remind myself that it’s just that—my imagination and nothing else.
“Anything happen in practice today that you’d like to discuss?” Doc interrogates.
“Nope. Everything is peachy,” I retort, throwing her two thumbs up sarcastically.
“Then why are you so tense?”
“Got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”
“Let’s talk about it. Maybe I can help,” she insists, not reading the room or how much I would just like to be left the fuck alone.
“That’s the problem right there. I have too many women in my life that want to help. I’m not a charity case.”
“No one said you were, Nate. Although I am interested in learning who thesewomenin your life are.”
“Hmm, let’s see,” I retort, pulling up a finger for each woman who somehow has taken the reins over my life without my say-so. “I have my sports agent calling me up every day just to bust my balls and make sure I do everything she says. I have my team captain’s wife popping over at my house with food, afraid that I’ll starve to death if there isn’t a woman there to feed me. I have you trying to psychoanalyze the shit out of every little thought that pops into my brain. I have my matchmaker playing games with my head, and then I have my mother texting and calling me nonstop, wanting to talk. So, five women, Doc. Five. And I don’t know how good your math is, but five outnumber one, which means I’m fucking screwed no matter how you look at it.”
“There’s a lot of rage and resentment there that we need to unpack, don’t you think?” she asks, not even bothered that her name also made the list.
“I’m not resentful,” I rebuke, sounding slightly bitter.
“You sound like you are. How about we start with your mother? I wasn’t aware that she has been calling you.”
Fuck.
Did I blurt that shit out?
Damn.
My mouth always finds new ways to kick me in the junk.
“Forget I said anything,” I grumble.
“Forgetting what you say in a heated moment is not the job, Nathan. It’s a breakthrough worth discussing. Tell me, is there a particular reason why you don’t want us to talk about your mother?”
“I’ll give you a big one. My father,” I confess evenly.
“I see. And why does the topic of your father bring up such rage inside you?”
Yep, I’m not going there.
Nope.
“He’s nothing to me. Not anymore. So there is no rage, Doc. Just drop it and move on.”
“No rage? Are you sure?” she insists.
