Scratching the Surface

September 7

In my opinion, psychologists fall back on “mindfulness” and self-help strategies because they’re despicably unwilling to do their jobs properly. They expect us to it for them. But if we could, we would. It’s as simple as that.

Then again,  perhaps I’m being unfair; I’ve always suspected that most, perhaps all, therapists, psychologist, counsellors and what-have-yous are just profoundly incompetent.

Never assume malice where stupidity would suffice.

Who said that? I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere, or something to that effect.   

Over the last few months, my dread has grown so deep, so dark, so sticky, that I’m no longer able to leave my flat. I appreciate that there’s not much the good doctor could do for me over the phone – after all, he struggles to do me any good in person - but when he suggested journaling, I nearly hung up.

It’s been more than a week since our session, but every time I’ve picked up my pen, I’ve had to put it down again. He says that my mind is trying to solve problems that can’t be solved - or shouldn’t be solved. I drive myself crazy trying to get to the bottom of my own mind, turning myself inside-out and twisting everything up until I’m tearing at the seams. My brain is wired to look for answers, even when there aren’t any.

But if my anxiety stems from excessive rumination, then surely putting my thoughts down on paper is the last thing I should be doing. Writing is the cornerstone of any scientific analysis and documenting my every thought and feeling will simply allow me to dissect and categorize each thought with even more precision. As much as that thought secretly thrills me, it also scares me. I do worry about what I’ll find.  I feel something like an alcoholic who has been prescribed a bottle of whisky.

If I could, I would put an end to our sessions; it’s clear that this therapist has very little to offer me, although I suspect it’s not all his fault.  I’ve begun to accept that there’s nothing in the entire field of psychology that can provide me with what I need.

However, much like a child, I must bend to authority, no matter how pointless or unreasonable. Since January, the disability benefits are all that keep me afloat and it’s been made abundantly clear to me that I receive the meagre stipend in exchange for surrendering my autonomy.

Despite this, I’ve struggled to get started. It’s never been easy for me to do anything if I can’t understand the logic behind doing it. The futility of this new project has led my body to physically resist any attempt to mark the page with ink, and I’ve spent more time looking out the window than down at the page.  

But in doing so,  I’ve discovered something curious, and I’m eager to understand it more fully.  With this new subject in mind, journaling no longer feels like an insurmountable task. As I’ve said, writing is the key to proper research.

But it seems I’ve rambled on about myself for far too long. My poor hand can’t take any more.  How embarrassing. Though I suppose the doctor would be pleased with me. Or rather, with himself.

I’ll make another attempt tomorrow.

September 9

I’ve spent the last week sitting by my desk, staring out the window. I haven’t used my desk in years. Not since university, and even then, I did most of my work in bed. But it looks nice. It gives the impression of productivity and I’ve always imagined that I’ll one day grow into a person who uses desks. There’s a lot of things I’ve always imagined would just fall into place.

No matter. I don’t want to repeat Tuesday’s mistake, so I’ll get on with it.

I’ve been sitting by the desk for hours each day, trying and failing to force myself to write, finally settling for staring out the window. From my seat, I can see the road and the sidewalk, the small square of grass that’s squeezed between the streets, and a smattering of small stone houses.

Each side of the grassy square is lined with three benches that face their respective sidewalks, and from what I’ve seen, they’re mainly used as a place to rest heavy grocery bags before adjusting one’s grip and continuing the walk home.

It’s a strange feeling, watching people from up here. Sometimes it makes me quite uneasy. Even though everything I see is perfectly mundane, some things make me feel like I’ve seen too much. Like when I see two friends hug each other goodbye and walk their separate ways. 

After they say goodbye, they mentally disconnect from each other, unaware that I’m watching them both. The physical distance keeps growing between them, but they’re linked by an invisible band as long as I keep observing them. I see one friend tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she walks. I see the other friend stop to pet a dog before continuing down the street. 

They spoke mere seconds ago and now they’re completely unaware of the other’s actions, perhaps their very existence.  I find myself hoping that they’ll turn around and look at each other. That they’ll suddenly turn around and acknowledge that they both exist, even when the other isn’t looking at them. It makes me uneasy, watching them, yet I can’t bring myself to stop looking until they’re both out of view.

September 11

While I may suffer from writer’s cramp, I’ve clearly gotten over my writer’s block. It’s harder to stay on track than I first anticipated; something about this whole situation has put me in a strange mood. Perhaps I’m subconsciously avoiding the subject. Stalling, in case the act of documenting it, trapping it on the page, will break it somehow. I keep thinking of all the soap bubbles I’ve tried to cup my hands around.  

September 12

I wish I could just let it be and not pick it apart like I pick apart everything else, but life has taught me time and time again that what I want and what I get will never overlap.  If it breaks, so be it.

The benches around the grassy square outside are, as I’ve previously noted, not used very often. It’s no surprise, considering the drab environment;  there’s little else but blocky, granite houses and dry, unkempt bushes to look at. I expect that nearly everyone looking to have a seat in the fresh air prefer visiting the actual park, which is only a few blocks away. However, since I’ve started spending so much of time staring out the window, I’ve noticed something very peculiar.

At the same time every day, I see the same old man sit down on one of the benches that face my building. The one to my right, to be exact. Never the middle one, never the left. I could set my clock by him with absolute confidence.  At exactly seven o’clock each night,  he appears at the corner of the street and heads towards the bench, carrying a plastic bag. Each night, he puts the bag down on the sidewalk in front of the bench and carefully unpacks its unchanging contents: a small, plastic bucket with a lid, a spray bottle filled with yellow liquid, and two rags.

Every night, he follows the same routine. He carefully sprays the entire bench with the yellow liquid, then pulls out his pocket watch and waits exactly two minutes. Then, he removes the lid from the bucket and dips one of the rags in whatever’s inside. Slowly, he wipes down the entire bench, before carefully wiping it once more with the dry rag. He always pays extra attention to a small plaque on the middle of the bench. I assume it’s a memory bench, but of course, I can’t read it.

When he’s done cleaning, he repacks his bag and sits down in the middle of the bench and slips one hand inside his coat. Then he just sits there, watching people walk by.  Sometimes a passer-by will nod at him, and he’ll nod back and smile.  Other than that he just sits there, his hand resting somewhere along his ribs, his head turning slightly as people walk past.  At eight o’clock he gets up, grabs his bag and walks away.  

September 18

It’s been a bad week. Death has haunted me and kept me from performing the simplest of tasks. Sometimes I don’t understand how anyone finds the strength to brush their teeth or wash their hair while knowing that death is inevitable. Consequently, I’ve spent most of the week in bed. But each night, I’ve dragged myself to the window, and for a short moment, I’ve felt something other than dread and apathy.  

It doesn’t matter if it’s a Sunday or Wednesday, if it’s raining or if the sun is shining. The old man’s routine never changes. Yesterday it was pouring down, but he simply brought an umbrella.  He cleaned the bench as carefully as ever, even though the rain made all his hard work pointless. He looked quite silly, sitting in the rain with his umbrella in one hand, and the other hand hidden beneath his coat. But the sight of him evoked such a strange feeling in me that for a second there I longed to step out into the rain and sit down beside him.

September 20

              I wonder how many times a stranger has watched me without me knowing. Not just seen me, but watched me. How many strangers have seen me walking down the streets or sitting in a café and, for a second, truly watched me?

September 22

There’s something about the slow, careful way he washes the bench that stirs something inside of me. I wish I knew what the plaque says. I imagine that it’s for his wife.  I can see them sitting there together, holding hands and talking about the past. I wonder if he keeps her picture in his breast pocket. I wonder what it must feel like to love someone that much. How it would feel to be loved that much.

Dead but not forgotten. Does that really change anything? I never used to think so.

September 23

              Some days I think about going out there just to learn her name. Just take a quick peek at the plaque and rush back home. Other days I imagine walking up to him one night and introducing myself. I wonder what he might say to me.

September 26

              There’s been a new development. A few nights ago, I noticed a jogger slowing down and coming to a stop while cutting across the grassy square. The old man had just begun rubbing down the bench, and I saw the jogger studying him as he worked. After a few moments observing the old man, the jogger checked his watch and continued across the grass and down the street.

That first night, I didn’t think much of it. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him here before. There’s a handful of runners who regularly use this street as part of their run. But then a saw him again the next night. This time he came running down the sidewalk, and right as he ran past the old man, he slowed down and threw a glance over his shoulder. As he ran across the street, I’m pretty sure I saw him check his watch.

September 27

              Today, my gaze kept wandering while the old man gently cleansed the bench. As he was packing his things into the bag, the jogger came running down the street. I wasn’t 100% sure before, but now I am. I’m not the only one who’s taken an interest in the old man.

              The jogger slowed down and stopped before reaching the bench. After pausing for a second, he began slowly walking down the sidewalk while keeping his eyes on the old man. As he reached the bench, he gave the old man a nod and the man nodded back. The jogger paused, then continued walking. I think he’s working up the nerve speak to him.

September 28

This new dynamic is making me uneasy. Today, the jogger nodded at the old man again. Once again, he didn’t say anything, but I could tell it was close.

It feels strange. Watching him watching him.  I know it’s irrational, but I feel like he’s stealing from me.

September 29

I can’t walk past the window these days without reflexively looking out. This morning I was passing it on my way to the kitchen and when I glanced through the window, I saw him.   

He wasn’t wearing his usual tights and slim-fitted shirt. Instead, he was wearing jeans and light-coloured jacket. I nearly didn’t recognize him, but he was standing in front of the bench which caught my attention, and when he bent forward to read the plaque, I knew it was him.  

I felt cold, watching him.

He straightened his back and scratched the back of his head, then looked around as if searching for someone. Even though I knew he couldn’t possibly know I was watching him, I quickly stepped away from the window.

September 30   

I knew he would speak to him. After what happened that morning, I was sure he was finally going to do it.  I didn’t want to watch it. For the first time in weeks, I was going to close the blinds and not obsess over a total stranger. It was time to disconnect.

              However, as the clock neared seven, my blood was simmering with morbid curiosity. I didn’t want to watch, but I had to.

At exactly seven o’clock, the old man appeared and walked towards the bench. I watched him methodically unpack his supplies and coat the bench in a fine mist of yellow cleaning liquid. I watched as he studied the face of the old pocket watch and how he carefully cleaned the small plaque and wiped every inch of the bench. Then he sat down, placed his hand inside his coat, and gazed at the sidewalk.

              The jogger didn’t show until it was nearly too late.  A quarter to eight, just as I was starting to think that he wouldn’t  come, the jogger came running down the sidewalk. As he neared the bench, he slowed down, coming to a full stop right next to it.

              My heart was violently rapping against my ribs as I watched the jogger give the old man a nod. The man returned the nod, and the jogger leaned back on his heels.  He had his back to me, but he must have said something because suddenly I saw the old man speak. The jogger gestured towards the bench, and the old man nodded.

              I watched as the jogger sat down next to him and gave him a big smile. The jogger said something and nodded, causing the old man to look down at his coat. He raised his head again and said something. The jogger looked confused but leaned forward, and the old man leaned in as if to whisper something.

              Then, in one swift move, he drew the knife from his coat and plunged it into the younger man’s stomach.

October 3

Today, I left the flat for the first time in months.

The last two days passed in a blur. I’ve spoken to more people than I have in a year, almost all of them in uniform. And yet, I know nothing. Nobody can explain what happened. The old man chooses not to speak. The younger one can’t. I’ve read through my notes over and over again. Ten times. Fifty times. A hundred times. I could read them a thousand times and it wouldn’t matter. There are no answers there.

I left the flat this morning without brushing my hair or changing my clothes. I walked down the stairs in my slippers and made my way across the street. A name. Perhaps that would somehow make everything come unstuck. Shake everything into place. Just a name.

The bench bore no trace of what had happened there. Even the sidewalk was spotless. Somehow, this made me more unsettled than if it’d been left with stains. I wondered if anyone was watching me.

I leaned over the bench and touched the small plaque as I read it.

Property of The Parks Alliance   

I took a step back.  I walked back home.