The Quiet Man

Tearing off a Plaster

“John, I don’t recommend this.” Well, of course she doesn’t recommend it. Therapists believe in therapy. They believe in a full course of it, like antibiotics. No cheating, no skipping visits, no cutting the experience short. No taking a break, or stopping all together. No calling and cancelling all future visits for the foreseeable future. Oh no. You go once a week until you’re using the right language and talking about your feelings like you talk about the weather, and then you keep on going to make sure you keep it up. I can’t do it. I’m done. “I know it’s difficult for you, but now is not an ideal time to take a break.”

“I understand that.” I’m not planning on taking a break from therapy. I want to stop going altogether. I never want to see the inside of that room again. “This is what I need to do, Ella, I’m sorry. It’s not personal,” I tell her. This is like breaking up with a girlfriend. It’s not you, it’s me. Well, that’s actually true. It’s not her. I know what I need to do. I don’t need her to tell me.

“That’s your choice, of course,” she says, but I know she’s only saying that grudgingly. She’d rather I have no choice but to do whatever she commands. “But John, we’ve barely started. You’re still struggling with daily life. I’m concerned about you.”

“I’m fine.” I’ve always been fine. I was fine in Afghanistan, I was fine when I came home, in spite of the limp and the bullet wound. I was fine. Fine is surviving. Fine is still able to take a breath and let it out again. Fine is walking away from the blood on the pavement that is not yours. I don’t need to pay somebody to be concerned about me. I’m fine. And if I’m not fine yet, I will be. I know what I have to do next. I know. Ella can’t tell me, not now; she doesn’t know how far down I’ve fallen. I don’t want to tell her. It’s embarrassing. “I’ll be fine.”

“Please reconsider, John.” She sounds so serious on the phone. I can picture her face when she says it: her big brown eyes peering into me, seeing nothing. “We could set an appointment for a month from now and give you a nice long break to recoup.”

No. I won’t need her in a month. It will not help me to tell her what I’ve learned. It won’t help me to hear her say it: I know what I need to do. I know what the right answer is. It wasn’t clear before because everything was ambiguous and I didn’t know it. I thought it just felt like home. But it’s not home anymore, and I know what I need to do.

“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “Not now. I’m fine, Ella. Thank you.” I aim to use that tone of voice that means I’m going to hang up now. I’m finished. She needs to let me go.

“All right,” she says. She’s reluctant. But she can’t force me into therapy. She can’t force me to talk. I won’t. There’s nothing more to say. “Well, all the best to you, John. I mean that.”

“Yes, thank you, Ella. All the best to you as well.” Like it’s a social call, or something. Like we’re passing acquaintances rather than therapist and patient, like we have some mutual friends, or we’ve attended some of the same parties. All the best. I wonder if she tells stories about patients at parties. Will I be the bereaved ex-army doctor who couldn’t come to terms with his best friend’s suicide? Does she already know why I’m drowning in grief? Has she been sitting across from me all these weeks waiting for me to figure it out? She must have guessed. Everyone guesses, everyone assumes. She must have assumed as well. I don’t want to know. She can talk about me all she wants. I don’t care. I’m finished.

Now. I should do it now. There’s no point in waiting. I need to finish this.

I should make tea first. At least. That will help.

You’re stalling.

I know.

It’s like tearing off a plaster, John. One quick motion.