The Cynic Who Could

Is it possible that gratitude has a taste or smell, Mary wondered. Mary found herself on a path of self-exploration. Some would describe her as perpetually depressed, a cynic at the core. She never quite agreed with this but with several past romantic partners stating the same, there must be some truth. She found herself in an upscale New York facility for those carrying the burden and shame of life and generations before. While her overall demeanor has been one of trudging through life she had a dark sense of humor finely crafted by decades of shit. 

As I sat in my new therapist office I judged her, I judged the diplomas on the wall, the self-help books lining the shelves, the scent in the air of “I am more messed up than I thought” all while sitting on this couch that I am sure was bought at some knock off high-end furniture store. I found myself needing to address my little, okay maybe not so little, work addiction and depression. I have managed to give all I had to everyone to avoid focusing on myself. 

“Tell me about yourself” she states. In my typical passive aggressive and oftentimes sarcastic way I ask her what version she prefers. The look I receive is not one of amusement. I wonder why I am doing this, subjecting myself to this shit. Oh yes that’s right as my recent ex-partner told me he couldn't be around me anymore, that my depression is rubbing off on him just like lint from one of his old sweaters. So, I start, “I am here because my life fell apart, I have nothing left in life or in my soul. I cannot seem to find joy, I see others have it, I don’t understand where it comes from.” I think to myself does it have its roots in something I have been destined to look at from afar, access denied.

“Do you always use sarcasm to cover your truth?” Well yes stranger, I most certainly do. She asks me a question I have often asked myself and makes me question why I am paying her the big bucks. “What is at the core of your depression?” If I knew that I would not be here. What I say is milder than my incessant internal grumpy old man voice. “Well, I am not certain, but I am thinking my brain is chemically imbalanced to start with, throw in some childhood emotional neglect from my mother and zero work-life balance.” “Seems you have some awareness.” I laugh and say, “awareness is not always the answer.” “What do you like about your life?” she asked. “I like my overpriced suit and red bottom heels.” I cannot get this lady to crack a smile. She looks at me blankly and states “are you ready to be serious?” I take a large exhale and attempt to drop the brick wall that a lifetime of trauma has built. “I’m ready.”

 I look at her and I say the words I have associated with weakness, “I’m scared.” “What are you scared of" she ask. I do not want to tell her that I am scared I’m a fraud. A fraud in life and being an adult. She then asked me what brings me joy. Silence. She states “your lack of answer is the answer. What are you grateful for?” I let her know my original thoughts, gratitude is for others, the happy people with what I presume is a fake smile masked across their perfectly quaffed face. It is not for women like me, the ones who are unconstitutionally incapable of being authentic. I was covered with thick layers of pain and hurt, I had to survive, and my protective parts built the tough girl exterior.

 “Would you be willing to try something” she asked me with a straight face. I begrudgingly state sure. “Between now and when we meet again, I recommend you write a gratitude journal.” Laughter comes before I realize, “you want me to start a what journal. I told you I do not understand how people have gratitude, and you want me to write about it.” “A gratitude journal is similar to regular journaling. Allow yourself to create your list without judgment. Does that sound like something you would be willing to do?” Yeah, I don’t think so, however this doesn’t come out of my mouth. I asked her what’s the point. “When we focus on what we have in life it can alter the course of our negative thoughts into positive. What you think about matters.” 

 A calm comes over me, this is not what I need, and I do not have to subject myself to it. I look at her stand up and thank her for her time. “What is happening?” she asks with a concerned expression. I let her know this session was helpful and over, this is not the place for me. She does not attempt to stop me; she stands up and walks with me to the door and says she will see me tomorrow. What she does not know is I am headed back to my life. I go back to my room, pack my bags and check myself out, something they affectionately call AMA, against medical advice. This feels like a power play but whatever, I got what I needed. 

 As I open the door to the busy New York streets, I inhale car exhaust deeply. My protective parts that built a wall are smiling, we do not have to open the doors to the past pain. We can compartmentalize them in beautifully crafted boxes. As I walk down the street I pass one of my favorite high end department stores and head into their fine leather collection. Sitting out is a mahogany brown leather journal, obnoxiously decorated with the brand's logo. I have to have it. As I step out of the finely fragranced store I take a drag from my first cigarette in days. 

I open my newly bought journal, smile, and write one word under the heading “My Newfound Gratitude. Cigarettes.” The therapist was right, I feel better.