Lay Off the Ranch 99 Pork Dumplings
I have all this work to finish before tommorrow. I have to write a report that requires putting in long hours. Jeff has just moved into a new apartment on campus, and I'm supposed to meet him at his place to test out his new rice cooker.
I have my therapist on the phone. There is a lot of background noise because I am taking the subway to the library, so I keep asking her to repeat herself. The conversation is emotionally intense, and alternately antagonistic and sympathetic on her part.
I arrive at the library and my therapist is grilling me about something. It's very upsetting. The study area is packed with people and I feel a bit self-conscious conducting my side of a very personal therapy session in front of all these people who are trying to study. My therapist won't let me get off the phone because she knows she is about to push me to a personal breakthrough. It's mentally and emotionally trying to stay with her as she leads me to whatever new self-awareness she is trying to get me to discover, and I'm getting unbearably anxious because I need to get to work. Also, people around me are starting to follow our conversation, and are commenting disapprovingly under their breath about the things I'm confessing to my therapist.
"Justina, are you listening to me?" my therapist says. "Are you still there? I know you have some hearing deficiencies but you're really testing my patience. I need you to pay attention for once. I can't help you unless you answer my questions, and don't cheat like you've been doing."
People around me are nodding in agreement. How can they hear her side of the conversation? It's all too much for me.
"I'M TRYING SO HARD GODDDDDDAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTT!!!!!" I scream into the phone, tears streaming down my face.
The whole room looks up at me from their books and, in unison, scratches their eyebrows with their middle finger. "Fuck you," they all say at the same time.
Ten minutes later the library has cleared out except for one or two students. My therapist has managed to calm me down. Julian walks in and comes over to talk to me. I feel a rush of relief as I put the phone down and start telling him everything. He is extremely sympathetic, as he is a veteran of having his head shrunk as well. We talk with our voices lowered, because I realize that my therapist is still on the line. I pick up the phone again, and tell her that I'm okay, and that it's okay if we end the session. She concurs.
My room is cast in a weak orangeish light from the late evening sun. "I feel like shit," I say out loud, rolling off my balled up robe and bolting from my bed. I walk to the front of my apartment. I watch traffic speed by on Lincoln Avenue below, and look to the west to see if the clouds are lit up. They are glowing some dull shades of yellow and orange with some gray. I go back to my room and look at my computer screen. My IM screen is still open with Jeff's last message from earlier. It says:
fitzsimj (6:45:19 PM): woohoo! I just finally bought a decent rice cooker
fitzsimj (6:46:22 PM): http://www.zojirushi.com/ricecookers.html the NS-MYC10 exciting, huh? :)
I have my therapist on the phone. There is a lot of background noise because I am taking the subway to the library, so I keep asking her to repeat herself. The conversation is emotionally intense, and alternately antagonistic and sympathetic on her part.
I arrive at the library and my therapist is grilling me about something. It's very upsetting. The study area is packed with people and I feel a bit self-conscious conducting my side of a very personal therapy session in front of all these people who are trying to study. My therapist won't let me get off the phone because she knows she is about to push me to a personal breakthrough. It's mentally and emotionally trying to stay with her as she leads me to whatever new self-awareness she is trying to get me to discover, and I'm getting unbearably anxious because I need to get to work. Also, people around me are starting to follow our conversation, and are commenting disapprovingly under their breath about the things I'm confessing to my therapist.
"Justina, are you listening to me?" my therapist says. "Are you still there? I know you have some hearing deficiencies but you're really testing my patience. I need you to pay attention for once. I can't help you unless you answer my questions, and don't cheat like you've been doing."
People around me are nodding in agreement. How can they hear her side of the conversation? It's all too much for me.
"I'M TRYING SO HARD GODDDDDDAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTT!!!!!" I scream into the phone, tears streaming down my face.
The whole room looks up at me from their books and, in unison, scratches their eyebrows with their middle finger. "Fuck you," they all say at the same time.
Ten minutes later the library has cleared out except for one or two students. My therapist has managed to calm me down. Julian walks in and comes over to talk to me. I feel a rush of relief as I put the phone down and start telling him everything. He is extremely sympathetic, as he is a veteran of having his head shrunk as well. We talk with our voices lowered, because I realize that my therapist is still on the line. I pick up the phone again, and tell her that I'm okay, and that it's okay if we end the session. She concurs.
My room is cast in a weak orangeish light from the late evening sun. "I feel like shit," I say out loud, rolling off my balled up robe and bolting from my bed. I walk to the front of my apartment. I watch traffic speed by on Lincoln Avenue below, and look to the west to see if the clouds are lit up. They are glowing some dull shades of yellow and orange with some gray. I go back to my room and look at my computer screen. My IM screen is still open with Jeff's last message from earlier. It says:
fitzsimj (6:45:19 PM): woohoo! I just finally bought a decent rice cooker
fitzsimj (6:46:22 PM): http://www.zojirushi.com/ricecookers.html the NS-MYC10 exciting, huh? :)
posted by Justina at 8:51 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home