The Shrink

He used to call me "the shrink". When he did, he would give a little laugh. He was capable of many kinds of laughs. There was the hearty, deep, throaty laugh that showed true passion and mirth, and made his cheeks pink. The chortle, which emphasized his sarcasm. He was also capable of a cold chuckle, and send the hair on the back of my neck on edge. When he laughed like that, I knew he was on the fringe of combustion.

No, he always called me a shrink, and accompanied it with a rueful laugh. He told me that I had this way of making people open up to me. He told me that when I asked him questions, he felt as though the conversation was reflective, easygoing, and calm, and that his answers would be painless. Only upon opening up, did he realize that he didn't like it. he said he only felt that way when he went to therapy, and began to remember the things he had always wanted to forget.

He told me everything. The things that robbed his soul at night. He called them

" The things that scare the hell out of you, and keep you awake at night, unable to move. You know that if you do move, your first action may be to try and kill yourself. That's how bad the thoughts are."

I knew what he was referring to, and I hoped to never go there - inside me - again.

He called me "the shrink", and told me about his dreams. We explored the means to achieve these. Somehow, it seemed we were laying railroad tracks for our own personal heaven. Possibilities appeared out of thin air, and we were given a feeling of excitement. We had hope.

They seemed possible when he and I talked. His passion and excitement made me feel like a keeper. Our conversations brought it out, you see, and I thought that it was because of me that he was able to bring these dreams bubbling to the surface. You see, when they were spoken, it seemed as if they could be real.

There were plenty of nightmares, too, but it felt okay to talk about these together. Many times, we would talk, and cry, and talk until the sun rose. Our cigarette packs would be long empty, and our throats would be sore.

A few times, he wasn't there for me when I needed him. I felt the most incredible loneliness then. It would turn into bitter anger. Why would I be given such a person, someone I could share it all with, if that person disappeared when I needed a listener? Why did I have to contemplate my horrors on my own? Where was my shrink?

I think it has been about two years since we have talked. And I admit, sometimes I miss him. I just can't live through another loss. At one time, I thought that I would put up with anything in order to have the opportunity to love him and know him. Now I believe I would rather learn to have a life without him. At least now I know that I won't feel that again, because he isn't around. The times when he leaves are just too hard, you see. My heart isn't built for that kind of rejection.

He taught me that I am a shrink. There is a reason that strangers sit next to me on a park bench and tell me their darkest secrets. When drunks in bars end up crying on my shoulder, I know why.

People talk and talk and talk, and I wonder if they feel better when it is over. I doubt it. They don't ever let me say much, or listen to the comparisons I make between their situations and one of my own. I am the shrink, you see. They allow me to ask the questions, and don't listen to any suggestions. I am the one, who by asking, leads them to their own conclusions. They don't really need my input.

I can't tell anyone my own sorrows and hurts - not like what I am told - people don't seem to put up with it. The shrink can't have feelings, or flaws. My job is to listen, not to talk. I sometimes think I have forgotten how to say the things that ache on the edge of my heart.

I get tired. I hurt for what I hear. Misery is all around us, I believe Buddha for that much. My head hurts, my heart hurts. I feel so incredibly helpless. I can only listen, I am unable to help, or ease the pain. That makes me feel so incredibly impotent. I can't seem to find reasons to wholly hate anyone, but I can sure find plenty of reasons to try and take some of the pain away.

I once thought I was a shrink, and therefore I was a sponge. I had the strength to soak it in and help them out. That may be true on some level. I sure don't feel strength right now, though. I feel like the little kid I once was. That dishwater blond girl with the string bean body, who had adults follow her, and tell her their dark secrets, robbing her of the innocence that comes with being purely naive. Who really knows anger, misery, fear or sorrow as a young child? Only the truly fucked, I am sure.

That adult knowledge, that peek into the world that children are not part of, left me saddened and deeper. Yes, I am more aware of the facets of the world, all the shades of gray. I lost that bright, luminescent sunshine part of childhood. And I miss it.