You Can't Help

A Story by C.M Grogan

A therapist, still hurt over the suicide of his brother many years before, finds a patient that reminds him of his brother...he wants to help him, for himself, and for his brother. But can he?

Became numb after being a therapist for only five years. Everything heard, addiction, violence, addiction and violence, loneliness, survivors guilt, incest, pedophilia, gender dilemmas, suicidal thoughts, homicidal thoughts…all made forget why wanted to be a therapist to begin with. Got so bogged down in it all, like someone was holding head underwater…then five years passed, they let go, and came up to breathe only to find couldn’t. Was losing perspective. Everyone who came in, after that moment, came to speak and wasn’t really listening. Soon realized, for the most part, a lot of them really don’t care if you listen or not, as long as can pretend. Helped a tremendous bit didn’t put the clock on the wall right behind where the patient sat. Other therapists do that, think they’re brain-dead. Look at the patient, at least in their general direction, not above where they’re sitting to count the minutes left on the clock. That’s when they know not even pretending. Was numb, sure, didn’t care at all, but there was an illusion to maintain and numb or not, needed the income, and though didn’t give a damn anymore, was always alright at playing cards even long after the thrill was gone. Would win a fair amount even after the sort of cards stopped meaning anything and stopped paying attention.

Most people know how to help themselves. Have their own answers, would say them in sessions, as they rambled, only to forget. So re-word what they say and just like that, they act as though they never heard anything like it before, and opened the only door along a very dark and unwelcoming corridor. When really, they’d see the light simmer underneath the door needed to take, or else self-destruct further, and only pointed, saying without really saying, “Yeah it’s that one. The one already know need to walk through.” One addict used to see on the regular would lay awake at night, knowing needed to stop, it was the only way, but said didn’t know how. And really did know he just needed someone to push him, some pretender, paid by the hour. Said, “Remember what you liked to do before drugs? Didn’t those things make you happy? Didn’t you feel less empty?” Well addict claimed to not remember but got him to talking, waited until he forgot, and near the end of the session said, “Hey what about that kayaking used to do? This weekend’s supposed to be a beauty.”

“Oh,” he said, “did used to love that, that’s right, did, didn’t need drugs, no, didn’t need them. One time, you know…” and got to crying because knew what was needed; find that freedom again, without the illusion, without being a prisoner locked within a temporary escape. It didn’t have to be kayaking anymore. Anyway, played the game well. Listened without really listening, gave advice that came from other places, and put the clock on the corner of the desk, hidden from patient-view, so could glance at it while giving nothing away, especially not the fact couldn’t wait for the 50 minutes to be up. This was routine until my brother came in. Now he wasn’t a real brother or adopted brother or a term used to address a close friend. My brother was 15 years old when he sneaked his way into where my father kept his gun collection and he blew a hole into the side of his head. Was the one who found him, that goddamn a*****e, loved him so much, and he blew a hole in his head and didn’t even leave a note. Not even a “take care of my dog, little brother, hope to see you again”…nothing!

This guy wasn’t 15. He looked to be about 26, but ever see someone who looked like my brother, 11 years onwards, it was him. Ignored first impulse. Wanted to ask him to close the door, throw him against it, say how took care of his dog, took up his hobbies, went into helping people because of him, and was numb because he’s the one wanted to help…

“Hello,” said after a minute. He wasn’t that boy. “You’re a little early but that’s nothing, take a seat, nice to meet you Calvin, Dr. Maxwell.” Calvin sat down while got up to close the door, and the session began. Wasn’t numb. Could feel fists clench, concealed under desk, heart pounding, and was faintly aware the need to fight the urge to drink about this later. “Nothing heavy today unless you want,” told Calvin, and after a short pause and getting nothing, went on, “so what’s going on? Tell me a little about yourself.” Calvin shifted uncomfortably in the seat and was sure, then, he wasn’t there because he wanted to be. Wasn’t sure why jumped to thinking that except my brother would never be in a position, forced to confront his feelings, unless Mother made him…but goddamn, Calvin wasn’t that boy and he wasn’t a child. Had my brothers face and eyes and anxiety that came out like your breath does when it’s cold out, but he wasn’t Jack. Couldn’t help Jack. Came home too late. But was going to try for Calvin. If pushed too hard, this first visit, he wouldn’t come back. And wanted him back, the second saw the familiar in the face of a stranger knew wanted him to come back. Took care of a dog, choose the path was on, became a somewhat decent guy, all for this…all to meet a man who reminded of my brother, to fix a wound that bled on, after that crap day, where came home to tell was going to run track just like him, loved him, wanted to be like him. Instead found him dead with a hole in his head and what was left of his right eye staring at nothing.

“Don’t exactly want to be here if can get that out of the way,” Calvin said finally.

“Not making you stay,” told him. Then watched, waited, and when he didn’t get up to leave…was so very glad. This was going to be for Jack.

That first session was close to a dud. Had plenty of uneventful first sessions, most are, really, but being couldn’t get squat out of my brother-look-a-like was a new one. The other times, enjoyed the silence, not having to do a lot of pretending; well was paid all the same and wouldn’t lose a nights rest or appetite about it. Just about all Calvin said, without trying to poke around…he once went to a therapist with dream-catchers all around his office.

“The guy had to have about 15 of ‘em,” Calvin explained, “so ask what that’s about and he says he’s got some Native American in him. So what the hell, I said, you sleep in all these spots or what? They don’t hang them everywhere like they’re posters!” While Calvin looked at his shoes and finished his story, glanced around office to make sure there was nothing he’d take issue with, quickly realizing didn’t know him, so no idea…but at least didn’t have any dream-catchers.

“Not a fan of dream-catchers?”

“I’m not a fan of bull-s**t,” he said.

“Did you go to that therapist very long?”

“Only time,” said Calvin, “what you think I want to talk with some phony who loves dream-catchers and hangs them around like they’re posters?” He then looked around office and sighed. “You haven’t got much going on here, huh?”

“Here to talk with people,” told him, “not to show case much of anything.”

“You do bumper-stickers?”

“Sorry?”

“Do you,” Calvin started, “do you have bumper stickers on your car?”

“And what, throw a personal opinion about abortion, who going to vote for, or how some kids are doing alright in school at the people stuck behind in traffic? No don’t do bumper-stickers.” Hook line and sinker. Calvin wanted to come back. Saw it in his eyes.

That night didn’t tell wife anything about it. Communication had died a bit and the wife thinks of me as wood, dirt, a lamp-shade, even, any sort of inanimate object, really, incapable of thought. A therapist for crying out loud. Deal with serial cheaters and hear their little tricks more often than change socks. Had sex, once, about two weeks ago, guess with that being her usual prick was on holiday. She did things effortlessly, things we didn’t learn to do together. She didn’t just pick those up from watching porn or reading about it in a book. Get ideas from things like that and the transition to getting them to work is a little awkward as it’s obvious it’s not something you’ve done before. After we finished, wanted to tell her she should’ve kept it vanilla. But didn’t feel like talking. Wife looked body over while it happened like she wanted another man and did things she could’ve learned at a circus. And then, come to think of it, there were all these damn phrases she got to using on the regular, phrases which reeked of another males influence. Won’t get into it all. Wife is cheating and at the end of the day, hope daughter won’t find out, not while she’s just a little girl. As long as wife didn’t get sloppy, she could cheat until her sex drive died away and she can’t stand the thought of being touched anymore. You’d like a wife coming at you with something new in the bedroom. But no, she learned it from another man, and only did it because he wasn’t around. Don’t believe talked much about Jack to her anyway. When first got together, he came up once. Remember the way her face looked when telling and hated it. Her eyes and mouth, they way they both twitched, got a feeling she wanted to say he was a coward or something. She didn’t but always feel she wanted to. Loved wife once and believe she loved back, it wasn’t always skeletal remains….there was flesh once but like all things, it rotted away, and remain together because financially need each other. Assume the other guy is dirt poor or married as well. But that’s enough of that. Found Calvin.

© 2015 C.M Grogan

Author's Note

This is just the first part to a story I've begun working on. I feel very passionate about it. With that being said, any feed back would be most greatly appreciated. It really would...and to anyone who just reads it, thank you.