I’m Sorry, Dr. Jackson

Welcome; I thought I would send you a short piece of fiction this week.

“Tell me, what is it that you want? Everyone wants something. It’s all right to tell me. Nothing you say ever leaves this room.”

Dr. Jackson leaned back in their chair, projecting an air of calm reassurance and easy comfort. A smile that never seemed to leave their face permeated the room, nearly catching on Barbara’s face, but not quite. Barbara always almost smiled when she was here but could never quite bring herself to. It was just too embarrassing.

“No, Dr. Jackson, you don’t understand; I don’t want anything. It’s true. I like things, I have needs, I have preferences. But I don’t want anything. I’m fine. Content even.”

Shifting forward in their chair again, elbows connected to knees, fingertips tented and supporting their head under the chin. Moving into a more stern but still gentle and loving stance, as though they were performing some psychiatric-based yoga kata.

“That’s a lie. Why are you lying to me again, Barbara? I thought we had gotten comfortable with each other?”

“It isn’t a lie. I just… I guess I wish I didn’t want anything. Especially since every time I express a want, a longing, a desire, no matter how trivial, it feels like it’s instantly ripped right out of my grasp.”

Back again to a semi-reclining position, and this time, Dr. Jackson gets comfortable here, crossing their legs and hanging one arm over the back of the chair they are using.

“So you are afraid if you tell me this… desire, it can’t come to fruition due to this cosmic lock on your happiness… whatever, or whoever is taking things from you, might hear and come grab it up?”

Barbara spends the entire session fully reclined on the traditional psychiatrist couch in the office, twiddling her thumbs, picking at her buttons, and rubbing the toes of her shoes together. Anything to relieve the building tension as the doctor follows this line of logic to its completion.

“I know it sounds mad, Dr. Jackson. It’s just that my life has been the epitome of anti-manifestation. If I even think too hard about a house of cards, it erupts into a game of fifty-two pick-up.”

“Since you know this sounds like a load, I want you to tell me the most pointless thing you would like to have happen in your life, and not just wish for it, walk out of this office, and directly take steps to achieve your goal.”

Dr. Jackson always managed their finger-waggling with such expertise that even the most tense of patients never felt annoyed or overwhelmed—only cared for. On today’s appointment, though, Barbara was already worked up. It didn’t serve to motivate as it usually did; it just wound her up further.

“Well, I guess I might have a minor crush. I even wrote them a few notes with little poems, but I keep throwing them out. How hard can it be to walk over and hand your heart out on a silver platter? Or maybe send it out in a box, tied up with a little ribbon? No! I can’t do it!”

Getting agitated, Barbara sat up quickly, grabbed her things as they spilled onto the couch next to her, and ran out. Her only immediate relief was escaping the musty but shockingly clean office. It was difficult to imagine where the “old smell” came from when the mind wandered during sessions since everything was so well maintained, at least everything she could see.

Barbara looked into the tiny elastic folio she kept in her handbag while draped across a park bench like a left-behind coat. The folder, which was bursting with napkins, paper scraps, post-it notes, and even some candy bar wrappers. All covered in poems, letters, love notes, and declarations. They spilled out of the file onto her like an avalanche of Valentine's Day garbage. She’d been collecting them; never tossing them out, but never sending them either.

What am I even doing with these? The doctor is right; I must have been holding on to them for some reason. Without another thought, Barbara returned, left the folio at Dr. Jackson’s door, and went home. She shut her phone off, hoping to avoid the consequences of her actions for at least a few hours, and hopped into her made bed. Snuggling down into her stack of pillows and plushies, she grabbed her laptop from the shelf above her head and looked up new psychiatrists online.

K.B. Silver