Two
Full count, bases loaded, bottom of the ninth, game seven of the World Series- the crowd is on their feet. Millions watching at home or at their favorite dive bar on the corner in old town. Sober or not, all eyes are on me.
The pitcher reaches back his arm, turns to face me, making eye contact as he releases the pitch…right-down-the-middle, and all I have to do is swing. Everything leading up to this, means nothing if the desired outcome does not occur. This is literally a chance at redefining history as we know it. The secretary signals, calling me in by name. The doctor will see you now Mr. Weidemoyer.
I’m unable to tell whether it was her blank stare or the way in which she stated this that concerned me the most. It was as if she already knew that I was too late. A lost cause to fit into myself let alone the rest of society. I nervously went down the hall of this beautifully restored Victorian home, turned psychiatric office.
It may have essentially been one in the same with the prior residents however. The mental-state of most people that live in this town is questionable, to say the least. Me, myself, and I – a prime case for the previous statement: Exhibits A, B, and C. But before I digress, I suppose you will find that out for yourself. After all, how can you be aware of anything, if you yourself are unaware?
As I entered the room to begin my “treatment”, the only thing on my mind was the fact of how I could not afford to strikeout during these sessions…for not only would I no longer be entered into the record books, but erased entirely.
The room was filled with paintings, a comfortably crafted stitched leather chair, a beautiful view, and a liquor cabinet worthy to sit amongst the most noble of captain’s quarters. All that was missing was the beautiful girl to get this party off its feet and onto its back. To get a better view of the intricately detailed trim work, of course.
And let us not forget the doctor who was sitting patiently at her heavily guarded desk, peering out from behind her fortified structure with a fortified grin to match. All this was clouded by the question: “Was I still worth saving?”
This isn’t the easiest question to ask oneself, especially within the confines of an intimidating room such as this. A difficult question indeed… but it is one that I had to ask, and one that I’m presently unsure of the answer.
01/02/2041 was marked on the calendar. Only 24-yrs ahead of schedule, I thought to myself. The doctor asked me to imagine myself in this room 24-yrs from now, and what I would wish to say to a past me; as if I would even want to listen to a future self. I’d rather go pound the sand in the saltwater fish tank in the waiting lounge than listen to advice from this ‘other’ me.
The doctor had a pen and paper ready to jot down any useful information that could be secreted from my head – collected, examined, and processed for diagnosis. I couldn’t escape this feeling of déjà-vu in the current moment I’m faced with. It was as if I was reading from the doctor’s notes before I even began to formulate my own thoughts.
What did this all mean? I couldn’t help but to think to myself, that regardless what other steps that I would have taken in life, I still would have arrived at this very clinic, with this very doctor, in this very room.
The doctor stated that I didn’t have to answer right now, but that I should consider this question and what I would do if the slight chance that pigs ever do fly and I would actually meet a future self. The doctor then followed with the usual psychiatric practice bullshit- “How are you feeling? What brings you in to see us? Would you mind describing to me a little about yourself? May I call you by a less formal name, a nickname perhaps?”
If the doctor only knew how childish and awkward I felt sitting in this room; what is all of this shit? I don’t need any help. Just prescribe me the usual pills, warn me about the dangers of mixing with any alcohol, and send me on my way to the liquor store to visit a familiar hallucinogenic mindscape after my drug-infested cocktail meets me halfway at oblivion.
The headache the morning after would not compare with the heartache I feel after looking at myself in the mirror every night before trying to fight me, myself, and I, for a few hours of sleep. If only then I could have at least enough energy to make it through to the next day, and repeat.
