Undream the Echoes
I think I'm a masochist or something
Liam
11.07.2004
“Why are you here today, Liam?" asks the doctor.
“Very good question,” I say pointedly, as if I really don’t want to talk about it, even though I obviously do because then otherwise why the hell would I ever drag myself to this place in the first place? He is a psychiatrist, after all. Psychiatrist. In all my years I’d never thought I’d end up in a place like this. I thought it was just for the crazies. But now I know it’s for people with all sorts of problems. And I have problems, lots of them. Or maybe I really am just crazy. I wish that was it. Then I could pretend I was imagining everything.
I shift uncomfortably in the dark green leather chair and it squeaks beneath my jeans. Just the sound alone echoes in the room, acting like a verbal indicator of my turmoil of inner emotions. I try to pretend that the squeak the chair had made wasn’t from me being nervous; instead I stare out the window and pretend to be extremely interested in a bird, as if I am perfectly at ease, as if everything is okay and I am okay and the world is okay and in reality I'm not actually here right now.
“You must have a reason for coming.” The doctor has a strict tone in his voice which makes me look sharply at him. His hair is gray, almost white, although I can tell from his eyes that he really isn’t that old. It’s the things he’s seen, the things he’s dealt with, that makes him look this way. The horrible stories people have told him have shaped him this way, have made him age faster; the suicide attempts, the awful childhood memories, the dark secrets, all of them have passed through this man’s ears. But he looks old only because he has heard of them, not because he has experienced them. So in a way he isn’t really aged at all, well not really. He doesn’t have a good enough excuse being this wary, at least that’s how I think of it. You have to endure something like that to be so worn out, to be so broken and damaged. You have to live it. You can’t just listen to it.
A long silence ensues and I begin to think that maybe I won’t talk at all. Maybe I’ll just sit here and wait until our session is over. And then I remember I am paying ridiculous sums of money by the minute so I finally blurt out, “I am here because I have a secret.”
“Oh?” the doctor inquires and leans forward in his seat. “What is it?” Ha, he really thinks I can just say it? He really thinks the words are going to come out so easy? I am mute. My secret refuses to escape my lips. Fortunately I have a solution to this, however.
“I wrote it down, actually,” I say and begin to rummage through my pants pocket. “I wrote it down on a napkin in Lucy’s Café over on 5th Street. Have you ever been there? The coffee is fantastic.”
“No, I’m afraid I’ve never had the time to stop by before. I’ll be sure to give it a chance. I can never miss out on the opportunity for good coffee.” The doctor smiles and I can’t tell if it is genuine or if it is just there to try to make me feel better. He is still sitting on the edge of his seat and I realize that he is waiting for me to pass over my secret.
“I wrote it a month ago,” I informed him, cautiously handing the thin white napkin into his youthful, unwrinkled hands, hands that did not match his face at all. “The day I found out. The news was so overwhelming that I couldn’t keep it inside me. And I didn’t want to tell anyone. So I wrote it down on this napkin, hoping that now it was out of me that I could forget it and the terrible secret would never be in my mind again. But it’s still there. I still know. I keep the napkin with me all the time, just in case, in case I ever forget, so that I can pull it out and read it again. Because even though I want to forget I really don’t. I think I’m a masochist or something.” At that I let out a feeble laugh, but I don’t think the doctor is listening.
He stares at the napkin for a very long time. I don’t know if he is reading the short sloppily-written sentence over and over again, or if he is just trying to avoid eye contact. When he does look up, he is staring out the window and not at me.
“Well, Liam," he says, and that is it. I wait for him to continue but he doesn’t for several minutes. I want to scream at him, You’re wasting my time! You’re wasting my money!” but then I realize I don’t give a damn about the money. I do give a damn about the time, though. I really don’t have that to waste. You can earn money back, but time? No. Time slips through your fingers and darts away before you can cling on to it and hold it close to your heart and keep it forever.
“Have you ever considered chemotherapy?”
He already knows the answer but I tell him anyway. “No. I like my hair too much.” There are other reasons, not as vain as that one, but I am not going to talk about them. I am not even going to think about them. I run my fingers through my chocolate colored waves. I have refused to get a haircut in the past few months so it tickles my ears and the nape of my neck. I’ve been too lazy to shave the past two days as well and I don’t need to touch my chin to feel the rough stubble on it. I can imagine I look something like a hobo.
“Who knows your secret?”
“You do. I do. The doctors do.”
“No one else?”
“No one else.”
“You should tell someone.” He doesn’t sound like a very good psychiatrist. Not to me, at least. Aren’t they supposed to be supporting, helpful? His tone of voice is too bossy for my taste. I’ve never enjoyed being told what to do.
“Nah.”
“Are you married?”
“Yeah.”
“Kids?”
I don’t answer. I don’t really want to talk about it.
“You should tell your wife, at least,” he says, and finally he turns to look at me. His gaze has changed now that he’s looking at a dying man. It’s funny how an oncoming death not only changes you but the people around you, the world around you. It’s like I’m already a ghost and everyone knows it, everyone pities the poor see-through spirit that is hardly seen. They don’t view me as a living, breathing man anymore. A ghost. It’s truly what I’ve become. “Tell your wife,” he repeats.
“But doctor,” I object, and a smile forms over my lips as I speak, not a real smile but a smile nonetheless, “if I tell my wife I know she’ll kill me.”
And the doctor is sensible enough to know that I’m being funny and then he smiles, and I smile some more, and we just sit there and smile at each other even though there is nothing really funny about this whole situation because I am dying and there is nothing me or my doctors or that asshole named God can do about it.
11.07.2004
“Why are you here today, Liam?" asks the doctor.
“Very good question,” I say pointedly, as if I really don’t want to talk about it, even though I obviously do because then otherwise why the hell would I ever drag myself to this place in the first place? He is a psychiatrist, after all. Psychiatrist. In all my years I’d never thought I’d end up in a place like this. I thought it was just for the crazies. But now I know it’s for people with all sorts of problems. And I have problems, lots of them. Or maybe I really am just crazy. I wish that was it. Then I could pretend I was imagining everything.
I shift uncomfortably in the dark green leather chair and it squeaks beneath my jeans. Just the sound alone echoes in the room, acting like a verbal indicator of my turmoil of inner emotions. I try to pretend that the squeak the chair had made wasn’t from me being nervous; instead I stare out the window and pretend to be extremely interested in a bird, as if I am perfectly at ease, as if everything is okay and I am okay and the world is okay and in reality I'm not actually here right now.
“You must have a reason for coming.” The doctor has a strict tone in his voice which makes me look sharply at him. His hair is gray, almost white, although I can tell from his eyes that he really isn’t that old. It’s the things he’s seen, the things he’s dealt with, that makes him look this way. The horrible stories people have told him have shaped him this way, have made him age faster; the suicide attempts, the awful childhood memories, the dark secrets, all of them have passed through this man’s ears. But he looks old only because he has heard of them, not because he has experienced them. So in a way he isn’t really aged at all, well not really. He doesn’t have a good enough excuse being this wary, at least that’s how I think of it. You have to endure something like that to be so worn out, to be so broken and damaged. You have to live it. You can’t just listen to it.
A long silence ensues and I begin to think that maybe I won’t talk at all. Maybe I’ll just sit here and wait until our session is over. And then I remember I am paying ridiculous sums of money by the minute so I finally blurt out, “I am here because I have a secret.”
“Oh?” the doctor inquires and leans forward in his seat. “What is it?” Ha, he really thinks I can just say it? He really thinks the words are going to come out so easy? I am mute. My secret refuses to escape my lips. Fortunately I have a solution to this, however.
“I wrote it down, actually,” I say and begin to rummage through my pants pocket. “I wrote it down on a napkin in Lucy’s Café over on 5th Street. Have you ever been there? The coffee is fantastic.”
“No, I’m afraid I’ve never had the time to stop by before. I’ll be sure to give it a chance. I can never miss out on the opportunity for good coffee.” The doctor smiles and I can’t tell if it is genuine or if it is just there to try to make me feel better. He is still sitting on the edge of his seat and I realize that he is waiting for me to pass over my secret.
“I wrote it a month ago,” I informed him, cautiously handing the thin white napkin into his youthful, unwrinkled hands, hands that did not match his face at all. “The day I found out. The news was so overwhelming that I couldn’t keep it inside me. And I didn’t want to tell anyone. So I wrote it down on this napkin, hoping that now it was out of me that I could forget it and the terrible secret would never be in my mind again. But it’s still there. I still know. I keep the napkin with me all the time, just in case, in case I ever forget, so that I can pull it out and read it again. Because even though I want to forget I really don’t. I think I’m a masochist or something.” At that I let out a feeble laugh, but I don’t think the doctor is listening.
He stares at the napkin for a very long time. I don’t know if he is reading the short sloppily-written sentence over and over again, or if he is just trying to avoid eye contact. When he does look up, he is staring out the window and not at me.
“Well, Liam," he says, and that is it. I wait for him to continue but he doesn’t for several minutes. I want to scream at him, You’re wasting my time! You’re wasting my money!” but then I realize I don’t give a damn about the money. I do give a damn about the time, though. I really don’t have that to waste. You can earn money back, but time? No. Time slips through your fingers and darts away before you can cling on to it and hold it close to your heart and keep it forever.
“Have you ever considered chemotherapy?”
He already knows the answer but I tell him anyway. “No. I like my hair too much.” There are other reasons, not as vain as that one, but I am not going to talk about them. I am not even going to think about them. I run my fingers through my chocolate colored waves. I have refused to get a haircut in the past few months so it tickles my ears and the nape of my neck. I’ve been too lazy to shave the past two days as well and I don’t need to touch my chin to feel the rough stubble on it. I can imagine I look something like a hobo.
“Who knows your secret?”
“You do. I do. The doctors do.”
“No one else?”
“No one else.”
“You should tell someone.” He doesn’t sound like a very good psychiatrist. Not to me, at least. Aren’t they supposed to be supporting, helpful? His tone of voice is too bossy for my taste. I’ve never enjoyed being told what to do.
“Nah.”
“Are you married?”
“Yeah.”
“Kids?”
I don’t answer. I don’t really want to talk about it.
“You should tell your wife, at least,” he says, and finally he turns to look at me. His gaze has changed now that he’s looking at a dying man. It’s funny how an oncoming death not only changes you but the people around you, the world around you. It’s like I’m already a ghost and everyone knows it, everyone pities the poor see-through spirit that is hardly seen. They don’t view me as a living, breathing man anymore. A ghost. It’s truly what I’ve become. “Tell your wife,” he repeats.
“But doctor,” I object, and a smile forms over my lips as I speak, not a real smile but a smile nonetheless, “if I tell my wife I know she’ll kill me.”
And the doctor is sensible enough to know that I’m being funny and then he smiles, and I smile some more, and we just sit there and smile at each other even though there is nothing really funny about this whole situation because I am dying and there is nothing me or my doctors or that asshole named God can do about it.
♠ ♠ ♠
I don't know how long this story will be. I just finished reading The Time Traveler's Wife and it is the only book that has ever made me cry. And I never cry. Never never never. Not at funerals, not when something terrible happens to me, never. And I cried today so now I have to write about something, anything. So this is it.IMPORTANT: This story takes place from 1998 to early 2006. It jumps back and forth from the past and the present. So when you see 2005 or 2006 at the beginning of a chapter, know that it's near the end of the story.