Post Seventeen (Fictional Short Story, Draft One)

Hey everyone!!!

I am taking a short stories class, and this the first draft of one of my pieces. This piece is fictional, but has bits and bobs inspired by my life, friends and family's lives, etc. It is meant to be humorous, even through the heavy topics, but giving a trigger warning to some. It includes topics of mental health, and recovery.

Let me know what you think! It is just draft one, and I want to keep track of progress.

Much Much love,

G

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Five Reasons

"Give me five reasons why life is worth living."

Dr. Suzanna Marshalls asserted while sitting across from me in her overly-eclectic room 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 slipped down to the tip of her nose, and her eye contact towards me did 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 was 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 I assure you is a list that has no end. I am now 22 and was 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 is that they do not want to deal with the liability of having a possible suicide on their record. So they got rid of me. Hence, I am now sitting in my therapist's office on a random Friday evening in October.

This is my third session with Dr. Marshalls… this week. I have been learning that the culmination of my entire laundry list of problems can very easily lead to a nervous break. I guess a bad attitude and one too many death jokes have led me into the predicament I am in right now, having to respond to her demand. She was not asking me to answer; she was telling 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 am 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 am a hot mess, but remove 'hot' from that term; I am a mess.

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

I chuckled at this. Most people, I think, would have broken down at this type of comment/question, but I just laughed. 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.' You would be surprised; whenever somebody learns that you have been suicidal, they act like you are a ticking time bomb about to erupt. You no longer are 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 looked at me dead in the eyes as though I had 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 tell you that precisely 48 minutes went by, and there wasn't any eye contact. This is not normal. 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 wanted to leave, but I just couldn't. Four more minutes went by… and…

"Coffee."

"Excuse me? Oh, you want some coffee?" Dr. Marshalls asked; she lost a bit of her unyielding concentration.

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

I could 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 asked 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 took a breath and looked at Dr. Marshalls, who wasn'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

With all this talk and thought of coffee, I asked Dr. Marshalls if I could use her Keurig. She only had that organic shitty blonde roast from Whole Foods, but quite honestly, that would do just fine in this situation. So I curled up on the couch with my watered-down coffee and looked 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 giggled at that. Sometimes this woman can be so oblivious; you can barely see the sky, so why would that be an earthshattering observation.

"Yeah, it's my second reason."

"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 took a breath and sipped 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 am batshit crazy. What does she expect from these 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 looked over at me with a warm gaze and cocked head while making a warm humming sound as her response.

Hour Three

We moved ourselves to her leaf blanketed patio in her backyard. It was 7:04, and the sun was beginning to set on a brisk October evening. The air smelt like pumpkin spice because she brought out a candle to 'calm me.' Not going to lie; something was comforting about it. This whole situation continued to be weird. Dr. Marshalls' husband came home and looked shocked to see me; I honestly don't think he has ever met one of his wife's patients, which makes this all just weirder. I assumed she went inside for a bit to explain the weird-ass reason why I was there, but she came out with reheated matzo ball soup and a glass of pulpy cider.

The warm sun began to disappear, bringing the sky to be an inky pink. I looked up and breathed in the crisp and crunchy air.

"Dogs."

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

She was catching on; I think she knows by now that every time I say a one-word random response out of thin air, it is a reason in this fucking weird little list-game thing.

"I mean, how can they not?"

Dr. Marshalls chuckled.

"Very valid point, but elaborate for me."

I slurped my warm and salty soup and then sat 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 let out a gentle sigh and finished it with a soft smile.

Hour Four

It was 8:00, and we were now sitting in her living room with a burning fire. Her living room was not nearly as cluttered as her basement. Instead, she has picture frames of babies, graduations, and weddings, all of which have huge smiles where I could almost hear the laughter. Her taste in interiors is slightly 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.

"Long drives."

"Why do long drives make life worth living, Sloane?" She now has fully caught on to the randomness and obscurity of my answers.

"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 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 couldn't say any more.

"Actually living?"

I took a pause and started to 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 responded, with an immediate flood of mascara-tinted tears.

Dr. Marshalls reached over and handed me a box of Puffy tissues that was next to the picture frame of a school play.

"Oh, Sloane." Dr. Marshalls said heavily as she cocked her head to the side.

This was the first time I truly let myself cry. I usually cover up the gateway to my emotions with jokes and silence. I have no idea why "long drives" triggered this uncharacteristic response. I just sat there. Crying to no end. On my therapist's living room couch.

Hour Five

It was almost 9:00, and I was beginning to 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. You need a mental break." Dr. Marshalls stated while picking up the abundance of used tissues that cascaded off the couch.

I began to collect my things while I wiped my cheeks. I felt as though I ran an emotional marathon. I walked into her foyer with my backpack on one shoulder and dried snot on the other.

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

"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 could see Dr. Marshalls' eyes begin to gleam with the coating of her teardrops while she nodded and smiled.

"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 responded.

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

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

I walked out to my 1999 Wranger. Put the key in the ignition, blared the Beatles, and drove away.