Therapy by Phillip Smith

I sat up on the psychiatrist’s couch.  No, I didn’t lie back.

“How are you today, Stephen?” Dr. James asked.

“I’m great.”  That’s how I respond to anyone who asks how I am.

We talked about my “worry diary,” because I was diagnosed with GAD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder.  I have anxiety, but I don’t bite my nails.  Nail biting is below me.

We also talked about my mother and father.  My mother was a worrier, and my dad cared, but didn’t show outward affection.  Nothing there except I got my anxiety from Mom.

“They loved me very much,” I told him.

He tried to work in the Oedipal Complex, but I block him by saying I never thought of my mom in that way.

We both finished the session by saying, “I’ll see you next week.”

I think, Pinch, poke, you owe me a Coke.

On the way home, I paused by a playground.  Didn’t want to stay too long and look like a pedophile.  I started to step on the grass, toward the swings, wanting to swing, and jump at the last second, but stepped back and walked home.  I’m not a pedophile.

Next week, Dr. James began with questions.

“You’re 50.  Why haven’t you married?”

“I haven’t found the right woman,” I replied.

“Ah.”  He paused.  “You want a woman like your mother.”

“No,” I quickly said, getting too defensive.  “I just…” and I trailed off.

“You’ve got to come to terms with the complex,” he said.

“No, I want to find a woman I want to have kids with.”

“Stephen, let’s be honest,” he rebutted.  “You’re too old to have children.”

I had no response, and the rest of the hour we talked about Oedipus.

A child was crying.  Probably tripped and scrapped his knee on the sidewalk in front of my house.  An old oak tree moved the concrete like an ice-breaking ship.  I looked out, but no one was there.  The crying went on to sobs, then murmurs, to nothing.

I opened the paper.  On the front page, below the fold, was a story about another missing child.  As I read about his parents pleading to the kidnapper to “just bring him back safe,” I began to cry.  I hated hearing about missing children.

My appointment with Dr. James was cancelled.  He was on vacation.  Probably in the Philippines.  Someplace I’ll never go.  They don’t treat children right.

Another child, laughing hysterically, must have run past the house.

My next appointment, Dr. James still was talking about the Oedipal Complex.  I finally break, said, “You can’t say that.  Mom and dad loved me.  I loved both of them, equally.  Mom cut up my hotdogs.  Dad asked me how my day went, and we would play catch.”

“Hmmm,” was all he said.

That night, I fixed nine grilled cheese, thinking about putting cut up hotdogs in them, but deciding not to.  With the sandwiches stacked on a plate, I walked past the basement door, up the stairs and into the single room.

“Time to eat,” I said.

The nine blindfolded children reached out their hands.

# # #

Phillip Smith graduated from the University of Evansville with a major in English and minors in journalism and literature. In the spring of 1993, his stage adaptation of the Stephen King novel Rage was presented for three weekends. His stories have appeared in Jake Magazine, Inscape Magazine, Chicago Literati, Literally Stories, Comic Carnival Zine and Scarlet Leaf Review. His poem “23 Years Sober” will appear in the Summer 2018 issue of Measure: A Review of Formal Poetry.

Photo: blair yang

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