I'm Not Dave

This office is really very lame. Those stupid, falsely peppy fish staring at everyone. Supposed to make us all happier. Then there’s the non-art lining the walls, just so they can hit you with a Rorschach test before you even enter Hell’s Den.
“Evening, lovey,” whispers the old man across from me, staring at me staring at the non-art, choosing freaky bug as my result. I catch his eyes and smile, like usual. My Dave. We meet at every appointment; I think the receptionist plans it that way, because every time Dave and I exchange hellos, she winks and offers a quiet room with a laugh.
Probably pushing eighty, Dave was still handsome, but with broken eyes. After sixty years of working for the railroads, he retired to take his wife to Italy on the pension checks. Dave had had quite a bit of wine, and his wife never left the highway. He still blamed himself.
But I’m not Dave, my shit is together, ducks in one happy waddling row. But here I am, every Sunday, getting asked how I feel about “that” and filling up on more useless pills. Just because my boss finds me a little “off”. raven head pops out the door, extended clip-board arm asking me into Hells’ Den. It’s going to be one long, expensive night. One last apologetic glance at Dave and I’m shut in.
“You know the drill, chickee,” she coos, lowering herself to a cross-legged position. Bitch calls me chickee just to see if I can handle it. I have names too…..
I sit same as her, right in front of her, knees touching cause she’s all about being close. Just read the “NO BOUNDARIES” plaque on her desk. Wonder if she’s ever even sat there…..
“How are we feeling, chickee?” with a smile big as Texas. Doesn’t that hurt? I so hate this “we” shit, and she knows it. I don’t think she can help herself. Returning the smile half-assedly, my sarcasm oozes as I say “just peachy”. Scribble number one. I hate the scribbling.
“How depressed are we today? Is it a shirt day honey?” with another one of her damn smiles. She pulls my shirt over my head, evaluating. She touches the cuts on my breasts and around my navel “Well,” out with a heavy sigh, “these are new.”
“Relatively,” is all I say. I’m used to it, just another drill. She pulls my shirt back over my head like a helpless five year old.
“Are we taking our pills lately?” I swear silently to slap the next damn smile.
“I don’t know about you, chickee, but I quit drugs when they quit me.” oh, my chickee hit hard. Scribble-frown.
“Honey, I worry. Are we--you sleeping yet?” and I pause.
“A bit. More than usual.”
“How much is that, dear?”
“About an hour on average. All together. Nightly. Much better than none.”
Scribble-tear wipe. “And what’s keeping you up lately?” I can’t look at her or she’ll know. I stare at the non-art.
“So the same dream….” sigh-scribble. “Any changes, or same exactly?”
I’m tired and I join her sighing disease. “Every detail remains the same, save the voice. We’ve been over this a million times.”
“Let him go, chickee. I know you love him, but he’s the root to every problem. The insomnia, the cutting; all of it dear. Delete the number. Forget the voice. He’s nameless. Erase the laugh. It will fix it all. You can’t just remain on medication forever and continue with him. Honestly, I’m running out of new drugs. He’s not yours. Every aspect of your love for him is wrong. Let go, dear,” she says, taking my hand. I remove my hand calmly, and reply.
“Let go of your husband.” she’s completely stunned, and I’m loving it. Nothing like that first-time-feeling.
“You heard me. Let go of your husband. Let go of the only man you’ve ever loved. The man who’s made you the better person you are today. Who’s opened your heart to everything he is; everything the world is. To everything you are and everything you could be. Delete the number. Forget the face. He’s nameless. Erase the laugh. Let go, dear.” By this time, my thunder speech has become incoherent sobbing. She smiles, hands me a new prescription.
“Love him.” She gives me a teary smile, and for the first time, I notice how pretty she is.
The door opens and Dave has tissues.
“Let me take those, babe,” his thumb wiping my old tears. I swat his hand away with a smile.
“Get your own, old man.”