Tag: Therapy

ON THE BRINK

The Sicilian Storyteller

Today she would find out if her entire life was a lie.

“Where to, Mrs. Carmichael? Shall I call for your car?” asked her ever-attentive doorman, Harold. 

“Not today, thank you. Just walking up to Brooks Brothers to buy an anniversary present for my husband. It’s our 15th.”[Note to self: stop at your psychologist’s office first]. 

“Congratulations! You have yourself a nice day.” 

Claire Carmichael smiled at Harold and walked the short distance to her therapist’s office on Earl Street. Ringing Dr. Brink’s doorbell, she waited for his ubiquitous snobbish greeting of “Enter!” 

“Welcome, Claire. Last time you were here we discussed your suspicions that Jeremy was having an affair. Why don’t we pick up from there” he suggested. 

Clearing her throat and adjusting her skirt she began. “I’m no longer convinced Jeremy’s cheating on me. I’m not saying that he’s never had affairs but something is different. Things have changed between us. They’re better. Jeremy’s calmer, more attentive, grounded. He’s home every night by 6:00 and we enjoy our weekends together. No more overnight out-of-town business trips and I’m actually happy for the first time in years.” 

“Interesting” Dr. Brink acknowledged. “And to what do you attribute this change in Jeremy’s character?” 

“We had a heart-to-heart the other night and he confided in me that he’s been having panic attacks for quite some time. He finally started seeing a psychiatrist who’s helping him tremendously. He’s on medication and skips lunch twice a week to see his doctor.” 

“And you believe him?” 

“I do” Claire replied, uncomfortable with his skepticism. 

“Did Jeremy happen to mention his psychiatrist’s name?” 

Feeling rather nonplussed she replied “No, he didn’t and I didn’t ask. That would be prying and information I didn’t need to know. Now I really must get going. It’s our wedding anniversary and I have plans to make.” 

“Good luck, Claire. Ever vigilant!” he called after her. 

When Claire stepped outside there was a chill in the air and leaves were swirling about. That session unnerved her and she lingered for a while smoking a cigarette wondering what Dr. Brink meant when he said “Ever vigilant.” Muttering “shrinks!”, she wrapped her coat tightly around herself and quickly walked to Brooks Brothers. She chose a pair of monogrammed cuff links; they were elegant and ridiculously expensive but Claire wanted Jeremy to know how proud she was of him. 

Leaving the store Claire decided to go across the street to their favorite French restaurant and arrange for a special anniversary dinner to be delivered to their apartment. Looking up Claire’s heart skipped a beat and she felt dizzy. 

Exiting the restaurant was Jeremy, his arm around a captivating young woman. They were laughing, embracing and kissing as they walked. 

Disheartened and furious, Claire threw the cuff links into a trash can and hailed a taxi. 

“Where to, your highness?” The driver was uncouth with a big mouth, both physically and metaphorically. He chomped noisily on cigar and Claire could smell his disgusting breath from the back seat. But he probably never cheated on his wife, she thought. 

“Just drive” was all she said and he smiled greedily as he flipped the meter. 

NAR © 2019

Originally written in 2019 and revised on 9/6/22 for Fandango’s Story Starter #62.

LONG STORY SHORT

The Sicilian Storyteller

Windsor Kelly entered the Washington Square brownstone and walked to the elevator. He tapped his toe impatiently, waiting for it to arrive. Finally the wooden doors opened and he entered, pushing the button for the fifth floor. 

Exiting the elevator, he slowly walked to the staircase, his footsteps echoing through the hall as his shoes made contact with the marble floor. He then climbed four flights of stairs until he reached the ninth floor. He walked to Suite 9D, glancing at the name on the bronze plaque on the door: Dr. Eugene Balthazar, Speech Therapist. He rang the bell before entering, as the sign on the wall indicated, and sat quietly in the waiting room. A few moments later the doctor opened the door to his office, inviting him to have a seat. 

“So tell me, Windsor. Have your been practicing the instructional syllables I demonstrated last week?” 

“Yes, I h-h-have, but i-i-it’s been s-s-six long w-w-weeks and I h-h-haven’t s-s-seen much of a d-d-decrease in the f-f-frequency of my f-f-frustrating s-s-stuttering; h-h-however the vulgarism is m-m-much b-b-better”, stammered Windsor. 

“Well, as I mentioned at the beginning, it’s a process. Keep practicing and I’ll see you next week.” 

Windsor did as instructed and returned the following week. His goulashes made squishy noises as he sloshed through the rain. Closing his umbrella, he entered the brownstone and took the elevator directly to the ninth floor. Again he sat in the waiting room until Dr. Balthazar called him in. 

“Windsor, before we begin I’d like to ask you a question. There are security cameras set up on every floor of this building. I can see everyone enter and use either the stairs or the elevator. I’ve noticed you usually take the elevator to the fifth floor, exit and climb the remaining four flights of stairs to my office .. except on rainy days when you take the elevator directly to the ninth floor. Why is that?” 

“Oh, you noticed that, did you, you little dickwad? Well, shithead, have you noticed that I’m a fucking dwarf .. all Goddamn three feet of me?!?  If you’d pull your noggin out of your ass, you’d realize I can only reach the fifth floor button. But with the tip of my umbrella, I can reach the ninth floor button. Get it, dipshit? Hey! Whatthefuckedness?! I didn’t stutter once! It’s a bloody miracle! I’m outta here, you pompous asshole! Process that!”

NAR © 2018

MINDGAMES

The Sicilian Storyteller

“Melt away the fears and anxieties in your mind. Feel them liquify and allow them to slowly trickle down your face. Relax as tiny rivulets flow down your neck, shoulders, back, thighs, legs and finally your feet where they silently fall away into the ‘Well of Anxiety and Panic’. Keeping your eyes closed, cover the well, lock it in place trapping your anxieties inside. Inhale. Exhale. Open your eyes and allow the calmness and peace to envelop you.”  

After six long months of listening to my therapist repeat the same litany in her soft, sing-song voice, one would think I was well on my way to living a life free of worry, what-if scenarios, anxiety, panic attacks and Xanax. 

Oh, I have my times of quiet lucidity … weeks of stress-free bliss when I can enjoy a lovely dinner with my husband or a carefree shopping trip in Manhattan. Nights when I fall asleep quickly and easily and wake up refreshed and at peace.  

Then just as I’m getting used to this ineffable comfort zone … WHAM BAM THANK YOU MA’AM!! … the panic machine is back with a vengeance, coming out of nowhere with all the subtlety of an 18 wheeler, taking over my life for days upon weeks upon months only to suddenly, spontaneously run out of gas and coast away down the road leaving me in a safe haven until it reaches a rest stop where it can take a break and refill its gas tank for the next assault. 

It’s a cesspool of what-the-fuckedness, the grasping, squeezing dragging down quicksand of fuckedupedness! 

Some Einstein once said “The intuitive mind is a sacred gift; the rational mind is a faithful servant.” 

Note to self: read that daily: 

MIND – Noun: a beautiful servant; a dangerous master. 

NAR © 2017

Inspired by Fandango’s #FOWC, anxiety