The Process
I sit quietly awaiting my turn in this circle of confessions. The sun beams through a large wall length window, looking out on an atrium filled with foreign flowers and exotic shrubs. The room’s remaining walls contain sepia toned photos of solitary trees and lonely bridges. The nervous scraping of shoes against sea-foam green carpet fills the room. Having been admitted late Saturday night, this is my first group session with the in-patient psychologist. Upon entering, Dr. Walters, a perfect example of the floundering young professional trying to navigate her way through her chosen career path, informs me, as well as my fellow weekend admittances, that openness is key to recovery. Now, here we all sit, waiting for our turn to bare our souls. I had honestly hoped for a less attractive therapy leader…one lacking long, flowing auburn hair, large green eyes, pouty red lips, and perfect legs contained neatly in a knee-length emerald skirt.
Jane, a hollowed eyed soccer-mom starts the soul stripping off by rattling on and on about her busted family. Her teenage sons have evidently discovered pot, her husband has evidently discovered online-pornography (though I doubt this is a recent development), and Jane has evidently discovered the importance of going up the tracks instead of across the street when it comes to wrist slitting. Why your sons’ preoccupation with recreational drugs and your husband’s self-gratification would be reasons to off yourself are beyond me. However, what strikes me most about Jane’s story is her lack of planning. Failing at life is one thing…but failing at death…that’s just sad in a non-empathetic way.
Dr. Walters stares silently at Jane, appearing to soak her in with her doe-eyes. Hesitant to speak, Dr. Walters taps her tooth-indented pencil against a yellow note pad before scribbling a few notes. Looking up from her pad seconds later, she signals for the next patient to speak.
A rather rotund, balding middle-ager named Thomas follows Jane. After years of failing to pick up women, failing to keep a job, and failing to manage his weight, Thomas had made a makeshift rope out of vintage 70’s T’s, strung it over a shower rod, tied it around his neck, and jumped off the side of the bathtub. However, man’s best laid plans often go awry, and in the end, Thomas found himself lying in the bathroom floor, a bulbous, purple knot forming on his brow where his head hit his unfortunately placed bathroom sink. The shower curtain rod had broken, much like Thomas’ dreams of death. Finishing his story, Thomas, another textbook case of the failed life-failed death conundrum, shifts his beady eyes towards me. His face red with embarrassment and shame, Thomas nods, subtle indication of his story’s conclusion and my story’s beginning.
I look around the room. The sexy eyes of Dr. Walters, the hollowed eyes of Jane, the beady eyes of Thomas, and the ravenous eyes of an elderly woman who has found her station at the end of this line all stare at me, attempting to size me up, diagnose me, understand me before I say a single, well timed word.
“Umm…hi…my name’s David. Three days ago I downed a bottle of Adderral, and, as planned, I ended up here before you all.”
Shifting uncomfortably in their poorly cushioned seats, the other patients seem taken aback by my opening statement. Dr. Walters slowly uncrosses then crosses her legs, runs her fingers through her hair, and quietly says “Continue.”
___
Closing my guitar case while listening to the shrill vocals of some punk wannabe showcasing his lack of talent at the weekly open mic night, I can’t help but feel disappointment. Tonight’s set was a total bomb in my book. The crowd had reacted in the worse way possible…they hadn’t reacted at all. Cheers let you know you’re on to something, boo’s and jeers let you know you’ve got it all wrong…but silence…silence tells you nothing. A silent audience can mean a multitude of things. Shock…boredom…confusion…indifference…all emotions often accompanied by silence. Having premiered three new songs tonight, silence is not what I needed. It had been a packed house. Some fifty to sixty people had stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the dimly lit makeshift stage housed in the back of Vince’s, a local coffee shop slash lounge where the trendy set tend to reside from nine to one every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday night (open mic night Tuesdays and Thursdays, local band showcase on Fridays).
I don’t hear her footsteps amongst the buzzing crowd, nor do I see her slender shadow in the dim glow of the faux Tiffany lamps resting upon small IKEA-bought coffee tables, but her presence is inescapable. Some would argue it is her sweet perfume, perforating the air around her that draws my attention to her existence. However, I know it is something different, something that goes beyond the senses, something vaguely describable yet borderline incomprehensible. It is something from deep within, resting alongside my strongest feelings and emotions. I turn to meet her gaze, and once again find myself a prisoner of my secret love and her inescapable radiance.
Looking into her soft blue eyes, I can’t help but recall the minuscule moments we’ve shared that mean nothing to her but worlds to me: An impromptu escape to the city park, where I stood silently, watching her feed white-feathered ducks and enjoy life; her accidental lifting of her shirt when removing a hoodie, where her lack of embarrassment revealed how comfortable she had become around me; a late-night trip to the only 24-hour convenience store in town ,where we agreed to spend fifteen dollars at random and where we purchased the red hula-hoop that hangs on her oak bedpost, the children’s coloring book that got her through finals, the poster of turtles playing basketball that was too random to resist, and the pop-rocks that reminded us both of what it was like to be unburdened in this world. These moments, comprising a large section of what has become a creative gold-mine, now stands before me in the embodiment of everything I love in this world: Alex.
Her smile, infectious as always, cheers me up considerably. “Nice,” she says, genuine enthusiasm emanating from her single, soft spoken word.
“They were all silent. I coulda heard my mother pouring her night cap back home had I finished a few minutes earlier.” I state, the doubt slowly leaving my mind as I stand before her.
“Silence is golden.”
“What’s gold to me?”
"Gold would have value if for no other reason than that it enables a citizen to fashion his financial escape from the state." She quips.
“Huh?”
“William F. Rickenbaker”
“Way to go miss unemployed economist. What’s someone of your stature doing in this modern day den of sin?”
“I came to see my favorite sinner…though I’d hardly call this place a den of sin. Maybe a house of slightly impure intentions…but only when you’re performing.”
We both laugh. I watch her fight with a strand of hair that’s found its way to her lips. “Lucky hair,” I think. Then, as the lamps’ low glow hits the diamond band upon her left ring-finger, sending a dazzling display of light rushing across the room, I feel Sisyphus’s boulder settle in my stomach, and I know I don’t have it in me to push it uphill any longer. My other creative muse rests on a single, smooth finger; part of a well-manicured set.
I had met Eric four months prior at an art show hosted by a mutual friend of Alex and me. He had come across as well-mannered and intelligent. His knowledge of modern artistic movements was much more sweeping than I had anticipated. Though I’d prefer to think of him as the embodiment of everything I hate about human beings (thus setting him up as a stark contrast to Alex), I can’t help but be a realist. Eric is kind. Eric is gentle. Eric is genuine. Eric stands as a stark contrast to me, and, for some reason, I find it impossible to loathe him for it.
He and Alex had met while attending a conference concerning the housing market. It being Alex’s first business trip, she had found herself disoriented and intimidated amongst her older, more experienced colleagues. However, Eric, a young, ambitious entrepreneur, took notice of Alex’s insecurity. Inviting her to dinner at some high-class New York restaurant where the menu changed day to day based as much on the season as the chef’s mood, Eric drummed up an authentic self-confidence in Alex. He had proposed six months later in his parent’s front lawn beneath a winter-kissed tree, decked in white Christmas lights, snow falling aimlessly through the bare branches. Without hesitation, Alex had responded with an excited “YES!”
Eric isn’t here tonight. I imagine him sitting silently in some high-rise, staring out of his office window, watching as the city below slows its pace. I then envision Eric swiftly picking up his plush leather office chair and throwing it through the glass, glancing at the framed photo of him and Alex that accompanied their engagement announcement, bolting through the fragmented pane, and plunging into some uncertain darkness. Its thoughts like these that keep me from reaching the level of goodness associated with Eric and his fellow personifications of positivity.
“Walk me to my car?” Alex asks, bringing me back to Vince’s, back to the coffee and sweat scented room containing a plethora of dreamers and their loner-composed entourages, back to my self-imposed prison of angst.
“Sure,” I say, placing my arm around her waist and navigating her through the cramped shop. Exiting Vince’s through the hand-print covered door, a rush of warm July air greets us. A temperate breeze stirs the sun-burnt leaves seeking refuge upon Vince’s overcrowded parking lot. Reaching Alex’s Capri Sea metallic colored Toyota Corolla, I notice a change in her aura. Her effervescence seems slightly diminished. Leaning against her door, Alex stares past me with a vacant gaze I’ve never witnessed.
“David…what do you do when you realize everything you’ve been working for is a lie you’ve created for yourself to make it easier to wake up in the morning?”
“I write a song about it and pray it isn’t received with silence.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
“Nothing is easy. If it were, I’d have stopped writing and performing after my first song.” I reply, watching as her gaze returns to me, her blue eyes shaded with sorrow.
“Had I not gone off and gotten my masters…had I not taken that job in the city…had I not thrown myself into the sea…where do you think I’d be?” Alex questions, an excitement rising in her voice.
“You’d be stuck here, possibly working as a barista at Vince’s, serving lattes to people with big dreams and little talent, people who don’t give a damn about anything aside from your efficiency at filling their order…people like me.”
A dense cloud vacates its post before the moon, allowing its tender beams to reflect off of Alex’s tear-stained cheeks. Together in the silence, we become lost. I am unaware of what to say. She struggles with spinning her thoughts into words. A new cloud takes it upon itself to veil the voyeuristic moon. Once again encapsulated in the darkness, Alex finds what she’s been searching for.
“I’d be with you. I’d be content. I’d be happy knowing that even though the people I tend to may not give a shit about me, I’d have you to come home to at the end of the day. I’d have you to love. I’d have you to be loved by.”
Something leaves me. Its absence is barely noticeable at first, but standing in the darkness, it becomes apparent. The void from which my creative juices flow has been barred up. Watching Alex throw her engagement ring across the parking lot, tracing the moon’s reflection as the ring sails through the air, embracing the woman I’ve silently loved for so long, I become whole. The need to find myself in music no longer seems compulsory.
___
“And that’s why I downed the bottle of Adderral. You see, without my muse, there could be no music. Without music, I wouldn’t have an identity. After finally having the world work in my favor, I was unsure of where to go. Alex had driven off shortly after our embrace on what she perceived to be the road to happiness. I had driven home, allowing the wind rushing past my open windows to take the place of my usually booming stereo. Reaching my apartment, I had sat in silence, contemplating my future. From my seat amongst scattered, lyric covered pages, I chose at random, reading the lines of an unfinished song, I realized something: I no longer had it in me to finish this song, nor did I feel the need to. Perplexed, I wandered to the bathroom, and, without reason, opened the medicine cabinet. It was there I found the bottle. Given to me by a hipster-acquaintance who advocated the use of chemical substances, both legal and illegal, to attain a state ideal for creation, the Adderral rested amongst bottles and boxes of common pain relievers and antihistamines for months. The time had come to give it a try. The state I was going for was near death, and, according to the medics summoned by a frightened Alex, near death was the state I attained. So now, here I am, before you all. Last night Alex visited me. Her left ring finger once again glistened. Her relationship with Eric restored to its former glory through what must have been an intense conversation. She didn’t say much, really. Just that she’d miss me and hoped I’d be out in time for her wedding. I think…I think she’ll get her song now.”
Dr. Walter’s looks at me with a clinical expression. Devoid of any real care, she seems relieved I’m done speaking. I look at Jane. She appears bored and disinterested in everything I’ve said. Thomas seems a bit more interested, but with a life as dull as the one he’s lived, he’d probably get excited over me telling the story of the three little piggies. Dr. Walters turns to the elderly woman, who has patiently been awaiting her turn in this circle of confessions. Eyes closed, the woman looks as if she is composed of skin stretched tightly over bone. “Ada,” Dr. Walters shouts a bit louder than she intends. Nothing.
Adawas pronounced dead at 3:45 this afternoon. Her aged body finally collapsed under the strain of multiple suicide attempts and a broken heart. Her husband, a consultant for the nation’s largest fitness equipment producer, had died of a heart-attack five years prior. The light of her life, without him, she had felt life not worth living. They had had two sons. However, one, a criminal defense lawyer, had been killed in a drive-by shooting, a victim of what the investigators ruled bad luck, but what most felt was occupational hazard. The other, a child prodigy whose piano playing skills had landed him a full scholarship to Julliard, had run away at the age of sixteen, leaving Ada’s once glowing household devoid of the gentle nocturnes that once filled the air. Unlike Jane and Thomas, Ada was persistent. Unlike Jane and Thomas, Ada had succeeded.