Self-Serviced

‘Doctor, Doctor, Doc…’

She turns to me as if her controller has suddenly left the room and she can speak freely for a few seconds.

‘…I can’t find myself…’

I ask her to take off her shoes, lean back on the couch and let it all come out in her own time, naturally.

‘…Sometimes I can see, you know, really see why everyone does everything,‘ she leans her head up a little to take the glass of water. A few sips then back down again, her eyes looking up at a forgotten bit of cobweb hanging from the light.

‘Other-times I don’t even know why I do things. It seems to me that people go to therapists to try to find out who they are. Who this thing is that their parents created in the big bang and stuck a name to. This self  they’re expected to pilot; this meatsack that had a unique soul pumped into it, nurtured till puberty then set-off like a clockwork toy to march through eighty years of unasked-for existence?’

She digs the nape of her neck into the cushion feeling the soft give of the cold leather as she closes her eyes and tries to locate her real self with an internal sonar sweeping every corner. Ping, Ping, Ping, all coming back as so much empty gristle.

‘Where is me? In my kidneys, in my heart, in the blood that pumps round my body? Where am I hiding…? Why am I even hiding..?’ she asks.

I watch the fine lines on her face constrict and relax, her eyeballs scanning left and right under her eyelids, processing a thousand thoughts at once. She searches for answers to self-created questions, each popping like corn in a contained steel skillet. Outside a car horn is heard as the traffic speeds past my window, human racing, taking pride in being so busy.

She tells me about the article she read in the foyer whilst waiting to be called in, she’s thinking about what it told her:  How the human body is 97% water and how that the water is replaced molecule by molecule every seven days. How every single cell in a person’s body dies and is reproduced about once every seven years.

So where is her self hiding if every atom of her being is changing on such a regular basis, she asks?

I see her hands move up over her head gripping the headrest, carefully manicured fingernails digging in.

‘Maybe this is proof of my soul, something beyond the meat, the chemical impulses and electricity?’

Our session is up. I watch her put her shoes back on and close the door gently and quietly behind her, trying not to wake any secrets from their slumber.

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Comments
  1. Thanks Ike. Yep, you can by my books through Amazon. The new one is out mid-September titled ‘Springboards’. Spread the word!
    Mike

  2. Ike Forrester says:

    I like your writing style. Are you published?

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