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Present Day
I hate that dream.
Wrong.
Exactly. For once, I agree with my inner voice. I hate that nightmare. It’s the worst thing ever. It’s like I’m Dorothy and I’ve clicked my heels several times but can’t wake up. It plays out until it reaches its end. I wake up feeling like I’ve been clawing at myself. Everything in it feels so real but I still can’t place it. I can’t make it connect to anything else. It’s the most frustrating thing.
I’ve relayed most of the pieces of the dream to the people who are supposed to be skilled at making sense of it all. I’m waiting for someone to shed some light on it. Make it not feel like I’ve no hope of figuring it all out. I want to know what it all means. Each one of these people has made it seem as if it is me. I’m the problem, the reason why I don’t know how it fits into my world. I keep going to these meetings with a renewed hope that this time I’ll get my breakthrough. Every time, I find I leave more disappointed than when I arrived.
Silently, I sit looking out the windows. In my hand is a bouquet of flowers. I watch as people live their lives. They are happy and I am not. I haven’t been in a very long time. My normally long, brown hair is reddish orange. Today it is sprinkled with blonde and has springy curls due to my mixed heritage that I’ve put up in a wild bun. I’m dressed in burgundy scrub pants and a pink, off the shoulder shirt. I’d forgotten about this session, so I was in the middle of dressing for my weekly workout session when I rushed here to make it just in time.
Returning my focus to the windows, I watch people as they go about their lives. They are walking towards their intended destinations while I remain in this stagnant space.
One false move and rotted wood gives way. I slam into the ground. When I land, I crash onto my hand because I’m holding my baby girl closely. I don’t want any part of this touching her.
I knew I didn’t. I fought hard for her.
“Yes, you did, Ms. Emory,” the psychologist tells me.
I have to blink. For a moment, I was back there. In the dream ... the nightmare. I could feel the heat of the flames around me, smell the smoke that billows and surrounds me, and see the fear. It is ... was like it was an extra body in the room. All of it feels fresh. As I think about what happens after, a wave of nausea and pain simultaneously wash over me.
I hear the doc’s voice again and know that what’s happening is real. It’s not part of the waking nightmare that is my life. I don’t hear this one’s words any more than I’ve heard the words of the previous five psychologists before her. They all say the same thing and I know none of them can help me. They don’t know what I’ve had to endure. They have no real clue what it takes for me to wake up every morning and attempt to have a semblance of an existence.
If it weren’t for the people whose livelihoods depend upon me showing up and doing my job, I don’t know where I would be today.
Thirteen months.Thirteen months, technically eight doctors, and a bevy of men to lose myself in and under have allowed me to continue to be the great pretender I have become. Her words reach my ears. The words that give me the strength to pull myself together.
Standing on wobbly legs, I make my way to the sink to rinse out my mouth then wash my hands. Leaning on the counter, I straighten first my hair then my clothes. I nod to my reflection as I give myself one last once over. Turning, I walk out of her private restroom then to the chair next to the one where I’d been sitting. Gathering my things, I ignore her as she speaks. Her words are white noise in the background to my exit.
This one says something about the session just beginning. I chuckle as I walk to the door.
“Our sessions have permanently concluded. You cannot help me. As much as you think you can, you can’t. It’s sad because you came highly recommended. You can clear your things out of this office. Another will replace you shortly. My assistant will see to your payment.” I open the door then turn to face the shocked woman. “I’ve made no progress. None at all. Oh, and my title is Dr. not Ms. Emory. Have a nice life.”
Just like that, I’m moving on to doctor number nine.
I’ve lived through several travesties. None as heartbreaking as the one I can’t seem to face. Every “doctor” who I’ve crossed paths with has said they can help me. Each has subsequently failed. I’m tired. I probably need to take the edge off before heading to my therapy session, but I don’t have time to get to the range or the club.
You did this on purpose. You scheduled the appointments like this so you wouldn’t have time to go there.
I have a secret. It’s nothing like the one my gran once kept from me. In fact, mine is the total opposite of hers. It’s all about how I get my men. I can’t even think about it, or I won’t go where I need to go. It’s the one good thing I have going in my life. I should say the one thing I’m proud of accomplishing. Everything else is an act but this isn’t.
I make up my mind. To work I must go. It’s solidified when my phone rings five minutes later. I answer on the third ring.
Noelle Embers calm voice screams louder than any other person’s silence could. We’ve been working together since we were twenty-three. She’s one of three people who know my entire story. She knows everything. Since she’s not only my colleague but one of my best friends, nothing is sacred. Which means, she’s calling me to reem me a new one about firing yet another one of her friends. If it’s not about that then she’s calling to remind me about my other appointment and the meeting I have after it.
“Emory.”
One word and I know I’m on her shit list. She’s not interested in my explanation because she’s getting tired of this inane process. Noelle doesn’t have to speak the words for me to know just how pissed she is right now.
“Embers. Tell me Dr. Violet Brown was not just given her walking papers after six sessions with you?”
“Dr. Brown wasn’t given her walking papers after six sessions. She was given them after five. The last one can’t be counted as a session. I’ve told you, many times before, no one else has been as helpful with my issue as you have. We should continue our ‘girl chats’ and see where they take us.”
I’m being a bitch, a needy bitch, and I know it. I’m an only child who is spoiled by her grandmother. A grandmother who is probably pissed at her for not calling to check on her. It’s been forever. Part of me is afraid of how she will respond to my phone call. I wonder if she’s still pissed at me.
A sudden searing pain hits me before a flash of some image then I’m back in the present.
“Embers, I can’t keep doing this with you. As I’ve told you before, I can’t be your psychiatrist and your psychologist. I can treat you by giving you the medication you need but you need to see someone willing to treat your mental block. There are things you need to deal with, and you know it. I swear you’re fighting me on this on purpose.”
