Therapist: “How does that make you feel?”
Jenny the Patient: “How do you think it makes me feel?”
Jenny the Therapist, smiling knowingly: “Like shit.”
Jenny the Patient: “You really do understand.”
Therapist: “When it comes to our parents, we all share the same burden, Jen; it’s the job of parents, to make their children feel like shit. After all, children are never what we expect, are they? Bound to disappoint in one way or another. Not as if they don’t have adequate opportunity, is it? From toilet training to raising children of their own, parents give their spawn plenty of opportunity to fuck-up. You shouldn’t take it so personally.”
Patient, feeling inadequate: “But I feel sooo guilty.”
Therapist, with an audible harrumph : “Don’t be naive, Jen, you’re sister is dying, you’re not. That’s why you feel guilty.”
Patient: “So, I should feel guilty?”
Therapist: “Guilt is pretty harsh, but you should feel awful. Do you, Jenny? Feel awful for the fact your sister is dying, and you’re not dying?”
Patient: “Well…when you put it that way…”
Therapist: “If you could, would you change places with Luba? Trade your life for hers?”
Patient: “Well...I…I…”
Therapist: “Quickly, quickly , it’s not that difficult a question.”
Patient, becoming upset: “Well…I…I…”
Therapist, in no mood to beat around the bush or to mince words: “ Breeep; wrong answer . No wonder Ed is so disappointed. You’re selfish, Jen.”
Patient: “I am?”
Therapist, emphatically: “It’s no wonder you feel guilty. It’s all about you, isn’t it?”
Patient: “I don’t know… I mean, I don’t think so.”
Therapist: “Problem with you, Jen?”
Patient, unsure if Therapist is expecting her to complete the sentence, which in any case requires from Patient a degree of self-awareness she does not possess.
Therapist: “Look at yourself, Jen.”
Patient, reluctantly, observes self in mirror: dark eye make-up haphazardly applied, hair greasy and poorly cut, nose-ring, tongue-ring, eyebrow-ring and multiple piercing of both ears.
Therapist: “Only selfish people draw attention to themselves this way. So, again; problem with you?”
Patient, understanding: “I’m selfish.”
Therapist: “ Breeep; wrong answer. You can’t be selfish with something you don’t possess. What don’t you possess, Jen?”
Patient: “Well…I…I…”
Therapist: “C’mon girl, this isn’t rocket science.”
Patient, continuing to observe self in mirror: “Looks?”
Therapist: “That’s good, that’s a start, but I would have said beauty, like your friend Missy Bitson.”
Patient, unnerved, continues: “Friends?”
Therapist: “Atta’ girl, you’re on a roll.”
Patient, with more conviction: “Affection?”
Therapist, à la Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady : “By George, I think she’s got it.”
Patient: “ Love .”
Therapist: “I think our time here is up. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about your father.”
…
Dressed in sweat pants and a tattered long-sleeved tee shirt—what for her passed as pajamas—Jenny lay on her unmade bed. Pulling herself from the mattress, she walked to the window and opened it wide. She ignited a cigarette from a package on her bedside table. Sitting on the sill, she smoked. She emptied her lungs into the chill morning air, savoring the burn, luxuriating in the slight lightheadedness she received from her first cigarette of the day. If Rena found her smoking upstairs, she’d have a shit.
Across the way, though the curtain was drawn, Jenny could see that the light in Jordy Bitson’s street-facing second floor bedroom was on, had been since she arrived home shortly after three this morning. As she’d done earlier, Jenny willed Jordy to come to the window. What are you up to, you little shit? Jenny wondered.
She’d been texting him all morning without a reply. Jenny was not pleased with Jordy, how he’d
Jenny the Patient: “How do you think it makes me feel?”
Jenny the Therapist, smiling knowingly: “Like shit.”
Jenny the Patient: “You really do understand.”
Therapist: “When it comes to our parents, we all share the same burden, Jen; it’s the job of parents, to make their children feel like shit. After all, children are never what we expect, are they? Bound to disappoint in one way or another. Not as if they don’t have adequate opportunity, is it? From toilet training to raising children of their own, parents give their spawn plenty of opportunity to fuck-up. You shouldn’t take it so personally.”
Patient, feeling inadequate: “But I feel sooo guilty.”
Therapist, with an audible harrumph : “Don’t be naive, Jen, you’re sister is dying, you’re not. That’s why you feel guilty.”
Patient: “So, I should feel guilty?”
Therapist: “Guilt is pretty harsh, but you should feel awful. Do you, Jenny? Feel awful for the fact your sister is dying, and you’re not dying?”
Patient: “Well…when you put it that way…”
Therapist: “If you could, would you change places with Luba? Trade your life for hers?”
Patient: “Well...I…I…”
Therapist: “Quickly, quickly , it’s not that difficult a question.”
Patient, becoming upset: “Well…I…I…”
Therapist, in no mood to beat around the bush or to mince words: “ Breeep; wrong answer . No wonder Ed is so disappointed. You’re selfish, Jen.”
Patient: “I am?”
Therapist, emphatically: “It’s no wonder you feel guilty. It’s all about you, isn’t it?”
Patient: “I don’t know… I mean, I don’t think so.”
Therapist: “Problem with you, Jen?”
Patient, unsure if Therapist is expecting her to complete the sentence, which in any case requires from Patient a degree of self-awareness she does not possess.
Therapist: “Look at yourself, Jen.”
Patient, reluctantly, observes self in mirror: dark eye make-up haphazardly applied, hair greasy and poorly cut, nose-ring, tongue-ring, eyebrow-ring and multiple piercing of both ears.
Therapist: “Only selfish people draw attention to themselves this way. So, again; problem with you?”
Patient, understanding: “I’m selfish.”
Therapist: “ Breeep; wrong answer. You can’t be selfish with something you don’t possess. What don’t you possess, Jen?”
Patient: “Well…I…I…”
Therapist: “C’mon girl, this isn’t rocket science.”
Patient, continuing to observe self in mirror: “Looks?”
Therapist: “That’s good, that’s a start, but I would have said beauty, like your friend Missy Bitson.”
Patient, unnerved, continues: “Friends?”
Therapist: “Atta’ girl, you’re on a roll.”
Patient, with more conviction: “Affection?”
Therapist, à la Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady : “By George, I think she’s got it.”
Patient: “ Love .”
Therapist: “I think our time here is up. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about your father.”
…
Dressed in sweat pants and a tattered long-sleeved tee shirt—what for her passed as pajamas—Jenny lay on her unmade bed. Pulling herself from the mattress, she walked to the window and opened it wide. She ignited a cigarette from a package on her bedside table. Sitting on the sill, she smoked. She emptied her lungs into the chill morning air, savoring the burn, luxuriating in the slight lightheadedness she received from her first cigarette of the day. If Rena found her smoking upstairs, she’d have a shit.
Across the way, though the curtain was drawn, Jenny could see that the light in Jordy Bitson’s street-facing second floor bedroom was on, had been since she arrived home shortly after three this morning. As she’d done earlier, Jenny willed Jordy to come to the window. What are you up to, you little shit? Jenny wondered.
She’d been texting him all morning without a reply. Jenny was not pleased with Jordy, how he’d
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