Can You Help Me

I was in a delirious state of mind when my phone rang. It was the state that only a very drunk or very lonely, aged, and rather confused mind could get into easily. I was neither but still found myself in this state whenever Miriam had left me for too long. Somewhere in my dark oblivious state the therapist in me still dragged my unwilling mind to a somewhat conscious state while I got unsteadily to my feet picked up the phone and answered it. I drew back quickly and winced as my front desk assistant's voice exploded in my ear. It was old John, he must have been over a hundred now but refused point-blank to stop working. He didn’t believe in pension he said. He didn’t believe in much did old John except work. The tales he had to tell of his past workplaces were unbelievable which was one of the main reasons I had hired him, he had a lot to get off his chest. The other reason being that he was related to Miriam and so the arrangement gave her even more time to visit.  

I swore, realizing that I hadn’t paid any attention to what John had blasted through the phone. “Mhm,” I mumbled through the phone “Please send them in.” I cursed again when I saw who bustled her way through the door. It was that damned Mrs. Marlney with her vicious fluffy rat, Beau. All she ever talked about was the damned council and the damned neighbors who for no reason whatsoever, just hated her sweet, fluffy, Beau. I took the meeting (boring as it was) as a chance to drink in every possible detail about Mrs. Marlney and see if maybe this time I could finally discern why it was that she needed my help. After extensive examination, I had come to the same conclusion as the other 99 times we had sat like this and had a chat. She was obviously well-fed as she was on the larger side, there were no visible mishaps such as abuse from a partner or accidents leading to trauma. The only thing then that could be the possible reason for her talking to me then was for drama? Or perhaps insecurity? And even after she had bustled her way out of the room, I was still puzzling over why she came. 

I had many more visits after she left, two house fire survivors, one murderer, two people with suicidal tendencies, one mental health problem, a domestic abuse victim, and Miriam. When I left work it was already dark but that was normal, it was after all winter. I quietly and quickly slipped my way down the backstreets to the slum-like houses in New York City. There I thought about fumbling for my keys but seeing a hole kicked in the door, I didn’t bother. I opened the cupboards before realizing that I would get my paycheck tomorrow and there would be no food tonight. I briskly walked to the bathroom and swung open the cabinet door it was a regular habit of mine. First, I took out the drug that would help my hemophilia, a genetic disease I had inherited. Next came the treatment for my acid scars from when I got caught up in a riot and had acid thrown at me, then finally came my insulin injection for my type 1 diabetes. As I stood there looking at myself in the cracked, dirty mirror I wondered how I had gotten myself into this state, all my money wasted on drugs that might save my life. Might, that was the keyword here, not will, not won’t but might. The uncertainty of it all crashed into me like a wave and it kept coming.  

All-day I sat there, listening to people talk about their problems, their lives whilst I had kept my own life tucked away in a hidden corner of nothingness where no feelings or thoughts could reach. When at home I could make the swap, turn the people into nothingness, pretend it didn’t happen. However sometimes it didn’t work like that, sometimes, something someone said could latch on to me. Could make me think or remember or empathize. And from there I was done for, it all seemed real and it overwhelmed me, pinning me to the spot unable to move, unable to breathe. Then as suddenly as it came, it would go leaving me a wretched wreck with tears streaming from the eyes. Then I would drag myself down to the bar where I would order pint after pint or shot after shot depending on how bad I felt.  

The alcohol helped in the moment of course but beer-induced sleep is always hard to wake from when the nightmares start, they would always start with my dad’s drinking problem. My mother died in childbirth so my dad couldn’t stand the sight of me. Then it would continue to whirl through my life and my clients lives birling faster and faster until our lives bled together into one mangled flawed half-life and I would find myself rising from my bed, as if from a dream putting on a coat and shoes, often writing a note before I left. Not that I remember what I wrote or who I thought would find it. Then I would tread softly through the streets, shifting in and out of shadows until I came to my destination. The river. It was about then that the alcohol would start losing its effects, making me lose its twisted courage. A coward's courage. I would break down sobbing while the ducks stared then swam over the jade waters. It was always around then that Miriam found me, took me back, made me tea, sat me down to talk. It was our routine. She was a great listener, she really was. she just sat there in her long raincoat a cup of tea poised on her lap.

I was slightly surprised when this time I slept straight; I had the nightmares of course but not the side-effects. That’s why I was slightly perturbed to see the note on my door. I didn’t remember writing it, and if I went out and Miriam brought me back, she would have burned it. I turned it over it just had a simple ‘I’m sorry’ on it, but the handwriting scared me. I knew that this was Miriam’s, and I knew why it was there.  

I never blamed her of course, but I never left the trauma behind.  

So, do you think you can help me, Dr. Hilo?