“There’s nothing to suggest those things happened. They’re just dreams.” Dreams of a sexually demented and mentally unstable psycho.
“Nothing is just a dream, Rex. Everything has meaning: your fear of letting people in, compulsion to be clean and stay organized. You don’t allow anyone in to mess up the delicate balance that’s keeping you on the right side of sane? All of that means something.”
I dig my fists into my eyes and rub. God, why won’t he stop talking?
“You crave structure, order, because it’s something you can control. Not allowing people into your condo keeps your space safe.”
Stop. Fucking. Talking!
“And your sexual habits . . . Prostitutes and easy women who allow you to get what you need and move on. That too—”
“Stop it! None of this bullshit you’re talking about is real.” I lean toward him and stab my finger into my chest. “I’m a sick fuck! There’s no reason for why I’m sick; I just am. Have you ever thought of that?”
His eyes narrow. “It’s possible, but doubtful.”
“Doubtful? My mom was bi-polar, depressed, and who knows what else.” I shake my head, suddenly irritated that I don’t have a single fucking memory of her that didn’t come from her autopsy report. “My dreams, my OCD, the shit I do to my body, maybe that’s just me and there is no excuse.”
He’s quiet, his expression blank and probably not at all surprised by my outburst. He’s heard it all before. Without concrete memories, therapy has been me chasing my tail around a big fat void.
The small office grows tight with my heavy breathing. Silence fills the space between us. People don’t understand what it’s like to not have a past, to have no roots, nothing that grounds me. At least if I had a history I could remember it would explain why I am the way I am. It’d be like discovering the germ that causes the sickness in order to formulate a cure.
A cure. I want that. “How is it possible to work through shit I can’t fucking remember?”
“Subconsciously, you do remember. Your dreams are the mind’s way of processing it.”
“No! I can’t . . . deal with that. It’s too much.” My chest is rising and falling faster, and I roll my lip ring a few times to keep my fingers off the rubber band on my wrist.
“I understand. You’re going to get there, but only when you’re ready. These things don’t happen over days or weeks. It takes years, lifetimes of talking this stuff out, and we may never get to the why of it all. But our goal is to help you deal with the now. In order to do that, you must accept the possibility that you were sexually molested.”
I cringe and avoid his eyes, more than done with this conversation.
He exhales heavily. “How about things at home? Have you had anyone over? Friends? Women?”
I lean forward, elbows to my knees, head in my hands. It’s questions like these that make me realize how far from normal I am, how fucked my head is, but more importantly, how little progress I’ve made.
“Not yet, but I did, um . . . There’s a girl who I’d like to have over. Maybe.” The thought of having Mac inside my home pulls me in opposite directions. Having her in my place might be nice. Right? I take a deep breath and try to slow my heart rate.
“A girl?” His voice is high, perked up with interest. “Tell me about her.”
With another deep breath, feeling a little calmer now that we’re on a different subject, I sit back. “She works at one of the clubs I play at. We’ve been talking and I don’t know, it’s like she’s known me for years or something. I can’t explain it.”
“That’s comforting to be around someone who’s at ease with you. You’re an intimidating guy, so I’m sure that doesn’t happen often.”
Is that all it is? I don’t freak her out, so I like her? Wait, I like her? “I guess.”
“Maybe you should ask her to come over. Not to stay long, but just stop by for a drink before you go out?”
“I don’t know.” Asking her over and out on a date? Two things I’ve been avoiding for, well, forever.
“Rex, I know you’re uncomfortable, but you’re capable of a lot more than you think.” He exhales heavily and grabs his pad and pen off his desk. “You ready for your fight?”
“Yeah. I’m down eight pounds; the rest should be easy.”
“That’s great. I’ve no doubt you’ll win. This Reece guy probably shit himself when he found out he’d be fighting T-Rex.”
I chuckle and a warm feeling expands in my chest. Not having parents, Darren’s words are the closest thing I’ve got to parental pride. It’s not much, but I’ll take it.
We talk a little longer about my fight, and before I know it, we’re both laughing and arguing over UFL stats and predictions. I appreciate the lighter conversation and the fact that he doesn’t redirect us back to the heavy stuff.
“I’m proud of you, son.” He walks me out and claps me on the shoulder. “I know it feels as though you’ve got a long way to go, but I assure you, you’ve come a long way since your first visit.”