Little Vignettes, Vol. 1

Little fragments of little stories. Dispatches from the trenches.

I.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

I’m sitting on the couch, arms curled up, staring intently at the space heater resting near the base of his chair. Black, cylindrical, it almost reminds me of an Alexa or Echo or whatever those fancy voice assistants are called. I kind of want to ask it to play Joanna Newsom; preferably one of her longer, expansive and meandering compositions, strings swelling like waves that rock my psyche, gentle but slightly seasick, the harp strings even evoking a mild ASMR-like tingle in my chest.

My therapist is looking at me, directly but gently, dressed in his usual plaid bow tie and round dark-rimmed glasses. He looks, as always, like a slightly eccentric, extremely easy-going Argentinian, which, of course he is, his voice soft with a pleasant Latin-Spanish twinge. He exudes calm but I never pick up on it; my body remains tense, my mind hovering above it, disconnected and unfamiliar.

I’ve always had difficulty opening up to men, especially men in whom I perceive some sort of authoritative or caregiver role. He is sitting across from me, slouching as though he’s settling in for a casual conversation with an old friend, but to me, I’m just a small kid, and he’s sitting upright behind the principal’s desk interrogating me tersely about some infraction like not having my shirt tucked all the way in. I can’t help it. My body and my rational brain are at odds and are not playing very well together, and it’s usually my body that wins. I roughly scratch the sides of my arm as if to ensure they’re still there.

Still, I nod my head, let out a breathy “Okay,” and he leads me down the back stairs and out into the ill-maintained parking lot. I’ve always thought it must be an especially fancy practice to have offices in an upscale building in West End. I wonder if some of their clients include music bigwigs like Jack White or Kesha; maybe they sneak in through the same back entrance that we just left. No, maybe they make house calls. I imagine Dr. B riding his motorized scooter to some mansion or other, charging $400 a session on a generous sliding scale. That’s absurd, I think. They’re probably just run-of-the-mill Nashville élites, making middle-six-figure salaries and living in one of the thousand upscale condos that have been popping up around the city like dandelions in spring.

II.

I have to keep my brain stimulated. “Stay engaged,” as my shrinks have said over the past few months. But not all stimulation is created equal; I have to find a balance. I need black tea, not coffee, so to speak. Porter, my brother’s elderly American bulldog, is curled up on the king-sized bed next to me. The flat-screen television is on, just an eight-hour train ride through the Norwegian countryside. Gotta love those Scandinavians. Maybe that’s why they score so much higher on all the happiness indices: They know how to take it easy. Our minds don’t have to be engaged 24/7. I have my laptop, too, headphones on, fancy ones, Grados, which were something of a splurge for me, but then I don’t like to skimp on that sort of thing. On the screen is a video of a soft-spoken Korean woman, quite young as best I can tell. She’s whispering in broken English and swiftly but gently waving brushes around the camera. ASMR, I think it’s called. It gives me pleasant tingles which are enough to release some of the tension in my chest, though it does little to quell the intrusive suicidal thoughts that have inexplicably become much more frequent.

I’ve sworn off social media for the day. We’ll see how long it lasts — I can’t afford to delete the apps, as I know I need them for other things (and sometimes it’s the only way people have of contacting me). But Snapchat, Instagram, they only add to the checklist of things that I know I’ll never have. And that isn’t good for me. I gave up drinking no problem; it remains to be seen whether I can also rid myself of the constant compulsion to scroll, to compare myself quite unfavorably to almost every human I’ve ever met. I’m sure the next edition of the DSM will have a couple of entries dedicated to this brand-new, completely unprecedented and unanticipated drug. Maybe there will soon be 12-step programs — FBA, or something. I’ve always hated 12-step programs, so I would have to find another way. I don’t think detox wards are very well equipped for that yet either.

I do entertain the idea of phoning the suicide hotline, but I’m not good with telephones. An old friend from school drunk-dialed me last night to tell me about her “batshit crazy aunt” or whatever, her uncle who once planted a bomb in the house after a fierce argument with his wife. His children were there, she tells me. I try to tell her about my aunt and uncle and cousins who live on a compound (yes, they really call it that) somewhere in Idaho, my cousins with the Sea Org tattoos; but she thinks her stories are better, so I let her ramble on, knowing that she can’t see me nodding and smiling, but maybe she can sense it over the phone anyway. After about an hour of drunken rambling and awkward silence on my part, I tell her that I need to go, it’s late, but in truth I don’t even start getting ready for bed until about an hour and a half after the fact. Maybe I’ll text her today and ask her if she remembers anything about the one-sided conversation. That would be fun. But I don’t think I could confide in her about the suicidal thoughts. I don’t want to test those waters yet. It makes me think of how much I miss my wacko basket buddy: She’s off the grid for Christ knows how long. I keep sending her pictures of my dogs with no idea when or if she’ll even get them.

III.

I may live in Nashville, but going to shows seems almost perfunctory, like I’m ticking a box. I’ve loved Jenny Lewis for a decade and a half, and I’m enjoying the show, swaying along with a can of PBR in my hand that I didn’t really want in the first place that I have been barely nursing for the majority of the set. But I’m really just here because I told myself that it is where I should be. I’ve waited a long time for a chance to get to see Ms. Lewis. Now I can say I have, and I can go home and never worry about it again. The Watson Twins come out towards the end of the set. “With Arms Outstretched,” I stand here with my arms up. I secretly wish I still smoked; I’m sure there’s an unwritten hipster edict against holding up lighters, but I would probably do it anyway.

No matter how hard I try
To be just one of the guys
There’s a little somethin’ inside
That won’t let me

I’ll be 30 soon enough. “Fun” is moving down in my vocabulary. I have other needs now, like groceries, medications, the occasional shower if I’m feeling adventurous. They’re not “grownup needs;” I learned long ago that those just aren’t for me. Grownup needs are things like having a job, doing taxes, getting married, vacationing to Mexico once a year. Because getting a job is the first step, and I can never keep those. For some reason, employers aren’t happy when you have to miss work because you wake up in a panic attack and can’t leave your bed until 2 in the afternoon. Something about “being reliable.” I know I’m not reliable in any sense of the word, so fuck that. Tell it to my therapist.