Chapter

    19

As I came out of this session, I was immediately aware it was

different. What was it? I felt unrested. My body ached. My eyes felt like graphite had been poured into them. This was not the case in the past. He was magical with his way. No, this time I was exhausted, and for the first time in probably forty or fifty sessions, I was foggy with what I had seen and experienced while under. You’re not supposed to have clear memories of the time you’re under, but in the past, I had. Now, it was different. “What did I say this time? I asked. “It’s not sitting there clear.”

“It’s not supposed to. It took fifty some odd sessions, but...I think you’re finally starting to allow.”

“Allow?”

“You’ve been coming out of past sessions able to repeat what you’ve experienced very well. Too well for someone truly under a hypnotic influence.”

“I was lying...is that what you’re telling me... “

“You weren’t lying, just expressing what was consciously on your mind, not what was buried beneath.”

The room fell silent. Our eyes were searching one another’s. He was waiting for me to respond. Always I had to respond. His bushy brows were like mutated bramble, shading the eyes that seemed to be different—different than I had ever seen them. I broke the silence. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“I think we’ve arrived at a new plateau.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to tell me what just went on?”

“It means that we should do something else right now. I’d like you to take a breather and I’d like to think a bit about it.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “The tail doesn’t wag the dog. Why the hell should you be the only one in on the know? I’m the one footing the bill.”

He stood up and walked to the window, peering out over Central Park. “Would you prefer seeking out another doctor?”

I stood up. He was really pissing me off now. “That’s a stupid question. I’ve come this far with you, so I must be satisfied. I’m just anxious. Jesus, you don’t have to be a psychiatrist to understand that. You can think up a better answer than telling me to ‘take a breather’. C’mon Mathews.”

Without turning around, he stood at the window ranting and raving like the patient, not the doctor. I never saw the face that said the words that changed everything... “Look, Charlie...Charles, whatever the hell your name is, you might as well know now...right now, I’m not your everyday shrink. I didn’t haul my ass back here because I needed to see New York or have some kind of vacation. I didn’t leave a week’s worth of appointments because I wanted to fleece the pockets of some millionaire who about right now would be willing to give it all away if he could get some answers. No, I came back here because you’ve been stuck for months. I don’t like my patients to be stuck. I’ll do anything to change that. There’s a whole God damn review board back in Los Angeles that will tell you that. They’d also tell you the Mathews you know is unorthodox, non- conformist, self-centered, pompous and arrogant. To put it another way, he’s thought of by many of his colleagues as an asshole. But he did at one time have the honor of being a Nobel nominee. So, let me throw ‘the tail doesn’t wag the dog’ cliché back in your face and let you hear the sound of the edge; when it comes to this doctor’s patients...I’LL decide when it’s time to tell you certain things and I’LL decide if you should be told at all, and if that’s unsatisfactory with you, the review board is just a phone call away. You can lodge your complaint there!”

His backside heaved with a much-needed breath of air, allowing the arch of his back to relax. He slowly turned back to me as if he’d just had a moment of meditation at the window and calmly said, “Tavern On The Green. I’m buying. You coming?”

As we walked the short distance to the restaurant in the park, I found myself desperately wishing my catharsis could be as easily realized through purging as his. Maybe catharsis was the wrong word, but for some reason, I had begun feeling that there was something very dark and murky behind whatever had left me without an identity. My emotions, too, were on a dangerous edge.

Lunch was eaten in relative silence. He was doing a lot of thinking and I was following his instructions by taking a breather. People watching in a fully sun-drenched patio setting is different than the normal dark atmosphere of a New York restaurant. I don’t know whether it was because there were no buildings, no pressured density of traffic and people to impose confinement on the surroundings or simply because the people were basically nice people, genuinely enjoying themselves, honestly allowing themselves to look like normal, caring human beings, but the ‘attitude’, the hostile and defensive expressions I’d seen earlier on the faces of almost everyone I’d encountered since my arrival, was gone. Except for their obvious better than average means—I knew eating at the Tavern On The Green wasn’t affordable for everyone—I felt like I could walk up and talk to any of them just like the regular middle class, human being that I very well might be.

So, I excused myself, telling Mathews I wanted to take a short walk and would meet him outside in 10 minutes. As I passed the tables of relaxed faces, I expressed abbreviated thoughts, pieces of poetry and philosophy I’d never thought of before.  I guess I wasn’t surprised by the reaction I got. After all, being spoken to by a stranger, even in a crowded restaurant, has to be a somewhat disconcerting, if not a downright threatening experience. But I was feeling open and innocent, and although the speaking of my mind met with guarded reserve, I felt good. I was saying what I felt. I reminded myself that I was expressing a part of me that was usually thought of only with Sara.

I felt her beside me as I walked toward the exit, muttering just two words to the patrons, “Thank you...thank you...thank you...and you too, thank you.” The reactions ranged from embarrassment, to fear. They must have been buzzing to each other, “Know him? No. Neither do I. Are we supposed to? Probably. Who is he? Someone we probably should know. Ask the waiter.” And of course, there were those who were much more defensive.

“Someone we obviously should lock up. How did he get in here?” “Creep.”

“Whacko”

“Disgusting”

As I reached the exit door and smiled to myself...Mathews was right. I needed this.