Post Eighteen (Fictional Short Story, Final)

"Give me five reasons why life is worth living." Dr. Suzanna Marshalls asserts.

She is sitting across from me in her eclectic office in the basement of her house. Her legs are crossed, and she is resting her focused head on her hand while leaning over her yellow notepad. Her cateye glasses slips down to the tip of her nose, and her eye contact towards me does not budge. We are sitting in an excruciating silence while I wander my focus everywhere that is not her. I have always felt as if her tchotchkes, distributed in various parts of the room, stare deep into my soul. Whether it is a bird figurine or a bobblehead of Goofy from Disney, they all analyze me and judge me down to the core. Fucking terrifying.

I've known Dr. Marshalls since I was fifteen; she is the woman who has diagnosed every single thing "wrong" with me, which is a list that has no end. I am now 22 and 'am' a junior at Wesleyan College. Last semester, I was 'recommended' to take a leave of absence by the Dean of Students. The faculty at Wesleyan believed it to be vital for me to focus on my mental health and wellbeing. Still, we all know the real reason: they don't want to deal with the liability of having a possible suicide on their record. So they got rid of me. Hence, why I'm now sitting in my therapist's office on a random Friday evening.

This is my third session with Dr. Marshalls… this week. I'm learning that the culmination of my entire laundry list of problems can very easily lead to a nervous break. I guess consistent all-nighters, sleeping through all of my classes, and only drinking sugar-free Redbull raises some obvious red flags. Depression sucks enough, but every one of my habits led me to a mental breakdown. Accompanied with suicidal thoughts and tendencies... to make it better, of course. My bad attitude towards my situation and one too many death jokes has led me into the predicament I'm in right now, having to respond to her demand. She was not asking me to answer; she was ordering me to. "Give me five reasons why life is worth living?" Fuck.

I clear my throat and muster up the courage to look at her.

"Five reasons is stretching it. I don't even have one."

Dr. Marshalls looks put together and professional as always. I, on the other hand, am not. I'm wearing my Dad's old Dartmouth sweatpants, a musty orange hoodie from four years ago, and I did not bother to brush my hair, teeth or even wash off my eyeliner from two nights ago. I'm a hot mess, but remove 'hot'; I'm a mess.

"If there isn't even one reason, why are you here sitting with me today? Wouldn't you just be gone?"

I chuckle at this. Most people, I think, would have broken down at this type of comment/question, but I just laugh. She doesn't bullshit me. She has never been that person to tell me what a 'miracle I am to this earth' and how 'I have the destiny to live out my unpaved life.' Anyone would be surprised; whenever somebody learns that you have been suicidal, they act like you are a ticking time bomb about to erupt. You are no longer a red-blooded, heart-beating person to them. It's the most isolating feeling of all.

"Do you want those five reasons next week? Is this my therapy homework or something?" I ask with a sarcastic tone.

"No, Sloane, right now. Give me your five reasons on why life is worth living."

She looks at me dead in the eyes, so I have no option but to do it. I feel as though if I got up to leave, she wouldn't let me. I have to do this her way.

"What about your other patients?" I ask, trying to find a valid excuse for why I didn't have to sit here and declare statements that feel untrue.

"You are my last patient of the day, Sloane. I have nothing but time."

"I can't afford endless therapy. Dr. Marshalls, you know you are really fucking expensive, right?"

"You will just pay for your original time slot; any additional time is by my request and will not need to be covered."

"I can totally leave right now then."

"You can always leave, but for your sake, I really think you shouldn't."

Hour One

I'm not kidding when I say that precisely 48 minutes have gone by, and I still have not made eye contact with her. I've been staring at her bird cuckoo clock to pass the time. Most therapists don't give up all their free time for one patient. Why wasn't I leaving? It literally feels as though somebody superglued my ass to this patent leather couch. I want to go, but I just can't. I wait for four more minutes… and...

"Coffee."

"Excuse me? Oh, you want some coffee?" Dr. Marshalls asks. She wasn't losing her concentration.

"No. Coffee is one reason life is worth living."

I see Dr. Marshall's eyes brighten up a bit, as though all that silence was worth it. To talk about… coffee.

"And why is that?" She asks with her dimple creasing at the corner of her mouth.

"Whenever I wake up in the morning, I can smell the pot of dark roast coffee coming from the kitchen. Even though there is the pain of opening my eyes and starting another day, I at least can smell that coffee. It means I know my parents are up. It means I can drink a mugful if I manage to get out of my bed. It tastes like a warm hug from someone that loves you unconditionally. Not to mention, there will always be coffee."

I take a breath and look at Dr. Marshalls, who isn't even writing on her yellow notepad.

"Is that not enough for you or something? Because right now, that is the best I can do."

"No, No, Sloane. That was great. Continue, please."

Hour Two

Two hours have passed by because that fucking bird has popped out of the clock twice.

With all this talk and thought of coffee, I ask Dr. Marshalls if I can use her Keurig. Dr. Marshalls only has that organic shitty blonde roast from Whole Foods, but quite honestly, that will do just fine in this situation. So I curl up on the couch with my watered-down coffee and look up at her hopper window, which only allows a sliver of natural light to come through.

"The sky."

"You making an observation there, Sloane, or is that another reason?"

I giggle at this. Sometimes this woman is oblivious; you can barely see the sky, so why would that be an earthshattering observation?

"Yeah, it's my second reason." I sigh and wait a second before I continue.

"I often feel really confined in spaces. I mean, you are the first one to know that about me. I've been like that since I was a kid."

I take a breath and sip my coffee water.

"I always found the sky to be a place sorta like home, which is really weird, I know. I know the sky isn't exactly a place, but it feels like one."

"How does it feel like a place for you, Sloane?"

Wow, I wish this woman doesn't think I'm batshit crazy. What does she expect from my fucking answers: Love, school, money, family, friendship? These big things and concepts that are meant to justify a successful life? I most definitely am doing this shit wrong.

"Well, I guess it is always there. Morning, noon, and night. It changes in beauty throughout the day, weeks, and years. Sometimes it cries, sometimes it shines. I guess I connect to it because its stages are honestly really humanlike. They are relatable. The sun sets, the sun rises. There is a level of consistency, and no matter where I go and where I am, the sky will be there."

Dr. Marshalls looks over at me with a warm gaze and cocks her head while making a warm humming sound as her response.

"Wow, I really let English major out with that one, huh?"

"You have always painted an image with words, Sloane. Your 'English major' is often out." She says with a big grin.

Hour Three

We move ourselves to her leaf blanketed patio in her backyard. It was 7:04, I could tell because I checked my phone while I used her bathroom. Powder pink with potpourri…ick. My mom sent me three separate texts asking where I was. "With Dr. Marshalls." This pithy response cleared her worry, and need for a search warrant, right up.

The sun began to set on this brisk October evening. The air smells like pumpkin spice because of the large candle that she brought out to 'calm me.' Not going to lie; the candle is comforting. This whole situation continues to be weird. Dr. Marshalls' husband got home and looked shocked to see me; I honestly don't think he has ever met one of his wife's patients, based on his puzzled glance and hesitant handshake. I assume she went inside for a bit to explain the weird-ass reason why I am here, but she comes out with reheated matzo ball soup and a glass of pulpy cider.

The warm sun began to disappear, bringing the sky to look like Paddington's marmalade sandwich. I look up and breathe in the crisp and crunchy air.

"Dogs."

"Why are dogs a reason why life is worth living?"

She is catching on to the randomness of my answers.

"I mean, how can they not?"

Dr. Marshalls chuckles.

"Very valid point, but elaborate for me."

I slurp my warm and salty soup. Wow, this soup is good: it wasn't too watery, and the broth is not bland. The matzo dumplings are rich and filling. I eat four spoonfuls and then sit up straight.

"They all just seem to know how to be the most understanding things. They are lovable, funny, warm, snuggly. Not to mention that their soft eyes completely validate any bit of shit going on in life."

"Is this just Lucky and Sunny, or all dogs?"

Sometimes I forget that this woman knows everything about my life, down to the names of my animals.

"I mean Lucky and Sunny are superior to everything, but my reason stretches to all dogs. They are all innocents and lovers to all that give them love and time."

Dr. Marshalls gave an acknowledging nod that made me feel seen.

Hour Four

It is 8:00, and we are now sitting in her living room with a burning fire and a large oak grandfather's clock. Her living room is not nearly as cluttered as her basement office. Instead, she has picture frames of babies, graduations, and weddings, all of which have huge smiles where I can almost hear the laughter. Her taste in interiors is frumpy yet inviting. The fraying fabric and faded patterns somehow all work. I kind of felt as though I was sitting in my living room. I suddenly feel total peace.

Dr. Marshalls has always taken a grandmother-Esq role in my life. Even though she is my therapist, and there are clear-cut boundaries that are meant to be set, right now, she just feels like family. She cares and wants to hear me. She wants to see me. She wants to get me. And boy does she get me.

"Long drives."

"Why do long drives make life worth living, Sloane?" She asks while sipping her chamomile tea.

"I don't know. They just do. A good playlist on an empty road always feels good."

I mean, it's true. Some of my best memories are in my 1999 Jeep Wrangler that I rescued from the abandoned section of the car dealer. It only plays old cassette tapes. When the top is popped, you can throw your hands up and defy the wind. Pink Floyd, The Stones, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young become your best friends. That's if your best friend isn't in the passenger seat with you. It is a feeling of complete infinity.

"My thoughts stop, and I am filled with the sound of wind and laughter. The speakers almost burst due to the lyrics of true geniuses, and I feel as though I am actually living."

I can't say any more.

"Actually living?"

I pause and fight the urge to cry. Trying not to cry is like holding a door open that is just getting heavier and heavier, that is, until you let go.

"Yeah," I respond, with an immediate flood of mascara-tinted tears.

Dr. Marshalls reaches over and hands me a box of Puffy tissues next to the picture frame of a school play.

"Oh, Sloane." Dr. Marshalls says heavily as she cocks her head to the side.

This is the first time I truly let myself cry. I usually cover up the gateway to my emotions with jokes and silence. I don't know why "long drives" triggered this uncharacteristic response. I just sit here. Crying to no end. On my therapist's living room couch.

Hour Five

It is almost 9:00. I know this because of my medication reminder set on my phone. I always take my Wellbutrin and Prozac at 8:45. This loud notice helps me get a grasp on Hurricane Sloane's flood.

"You know what, Sloane, you made amazing progress today. I am aware this was all too much, and I am sorry for that. We will resume next week." Dr. Marshalls states while picking up the abundance of used tissues that cascade off the couch. I assume she realizes I need a mental break, or at least the chance to entirely stop crying.

I begin to collect my things while I wipe my cheeks. I feel as though I ran an emotional marathon. I walk into her foyer with my backpack on one shoulder and dried snot on the other.

I open the door and turn around to look at her, standing in the living room doorway.

"Dr. Marshalls, it is the little things in life that make it worth living," I state quietly.

"What's that, Sloane?"

"The little moments and things that are often overlooked are what make life worth living. I mean, they do for me."

I can see Dr. Marshalls' eyes begin to gleam with the coating of her teardrops while she nods and smiles.

"The small things are what keep people the most present in their lives. These seemingly insignificant things are a constant. That is the beauty of them." She responds.

I walk up to her and give her a long hug. I've never done this before, but it just seems right.

"Thank you," I whisper in her ear. I feel her head nodding in my shoulder. I walk back to the front door.

"Haha, so I guess now I have to say more than just five, Dr. Marshalls. Shit." I say in my typical sarcastic tone.

"I guess so, Sloane. Now get home safely, and I will see you on Monday."

The moon tonight is bright orange, making the navy and cobalt sky look like a Van Gough. The leaves all crunch under my Hunter boots as I cut across her yard. The cold air feels perfect against my sniffly face, and the faint sound of dogs makes me smile.

I walk to my 1999 Wranger and sit in the driver's seat for a few moments. A few tears continue to trickle down my cheeks as I sit with my hands on the wheel. I put the key in the ignition, slot cassette in the player, and drive away.

My life is worth living.