more micro

Continued from "micro" (page one of short stories; this is page two ... it's just that it isn't as pretty. But if you're still reading, well, here you go. And thanks!)

COGNITIVE ... (continued from p. 1/"micro" section) ...

“Funk,” I muse softly, with a loud chuff. “I wish I meant funky in the good way. Like the R&B group I heard at Mort’s last night.” Nice, Liz, I mentally chastise myself; the first serious sentence into your therapy session and you’re already going off on a tangent and trying to be goofy.

Dr. Lesley is accustomed to this, shall we say, not-so-effective stalling/derailing tactic. Sometimes she’ll let me run with it for a moment. “I take it you haven’t written any songs lately.” I shake my head no. “So, if you were writing any, what would they be about?” Like I said, just for a moment. Clever lady steers me right back on track.

“My stupid biological half-brother. Angry songs. Funky, bass-slapping, rock-your-world songs. Leave-me-the-#&(%-alone songs. Pardon my French.” I know I can technically say anything in here, but I feel the need to be somewhat polite, restrained, civilized. You know, so she doesn’t think I’m totally immature. Or crazy.

“So, there you go. Write the songs. It will be cathartic.”

“Ugh. I know,” I say in frustration. I look down and see that I’m unconsciously clutching one of the stupid pillows. It’s soft, kind of like cashmere. So now I give in, and hold onto it. Like a guitar. Okay, fine, like a teddy bear. I give up. “I know, I know. It’s not writer’s block or anything like that. It’s just that I don’t even want to think about it. I don’t want to deal with it. And I don’t know why.”

“So let’s figure out why. Obviously, a part of you does want to deal with it, since you’re here and bringing it up.”

“It’s because I know that I probably should. It’s the adult thing to do.” I say “adult” as if it’s a distasteful thing in my mouth. Well, it is.

“It’s the supposedly healthy thing to do,” I continue. “One of those things I don’t want to have to regret later on when I’m, maybe, actually mature. And I want to get past it—I do. I really am stuck. Stuck in this resentful, hateful place. And I realize it’s kind of unreasonable for me to feel that way. It’s not as if this guy has done anything to me, or against me, per say. So what; he made up some random stories about ‘my’ life with goofy web memes. He was just trying to be funny, and I suppose I will laugh about it sometime. But I just feel so, I don’t know, violated somehow. Because here’s this stranger who thinks he knows me, just because he’s older, and he was aware of my existence a few decades before I ever knew about his. But he doesn’t know me! He just thinks he knows me—he knows who he wants me to be. What he wants me to be: like him.” I shudder. “It’s just so disturbing. I don’t want to be like anyone else.”

She nods, scribbles a bit on her pad. How I’d like to see those notes. I’m sure I have some patients’ rights that would allow me to see them … but, then again, maybe I don’t really want to.

“So let’s look more closely at these thoughts,” she urges. I shift on the couch, trying not to audibly whine. “The good news is that you can change the way you think, and to feel better even if the situation does not change.”

I shrug. “This is what I pay you the big bucks for, I guess. But I apologize in advance for being a stubborn patient. Because there’s a huge part of me—the big baby part, I suppose—that really does not want to do this. This is like that ‘fearless moral inventory’ stuff all my ex-drunk-and-junkie friends do. I admire them for it so much, and lord knows I know I need to do it, but it sounds like torture. I’d rather clean toilets for an hour than do ten minutes of soul-searching if I think it’s going to lead me to dislike something about myself.”

She wrinkles her nose at the commode reference. I suspect she’s a tad OCD … maybe more than a tad, since she won’t diagnose me with it and I’m sure I’ve got it. “It is difficult,” she agrees. “That’s why a lot of people don’t do it. But it doesn’t have to be hard. So here’s your homework assignment—this is going to be easy. When you have those thoughts of your brother—”

“Biological half-brother,” I correct her.

“That guy,” she agrees. When you have those thoughts that usually make you feel uncomfortable, just observe them. Like meditation.”

I almost interrupt her again to tell her about the nauseating experience I had with what was essentially “forced meditation” at this hippie nonprofit where I once worked in College Hill, but then decide to be a grown-up in this moment, and not project that experience onto this one. Besides, at $150 an hour, she probably knows what she’s talking about. Let’s hope. What the heck—I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt, even.

“Just sort of look at that thought as it passes through your head,” she continues. “Don’t judge it. Just say ‘hey, there’s that thought. It’s back again. Hmm. Well, isn’t that interesting.’ Don’t allow yourself to get all worked up about it. Just acknowledge its presence and tell yourself it’s okay. Then move on to another thought.”

“Happy place,” I say.

She nods. “See? Easy.”

Easy for her, anyway. She’s not in my head. Or so I’d like to believe.

—Julie Ann Baker Brin, 2nd place, 2020 Kansas Authors Club District 7 Prose contest

(Excerpt published in the 2021 Kansas Authors Club Yearbook)

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