Regeneration X (5 page)

“I know! I seriously need to find an outlet. All I do is think about that stuff and more. By the way, you were right there, too. Journaling is much easier than painting, especially since I’m not a very good painter,” Charley grimaced unseen. “One thing I dig about painting, though, is I don’t feel I have to do it all the time, simply because it takes more effort. It is expression, but it’s also kind of cumulative, not one thing at a time, but a general perspective, if this makes sense.”

“I understand, since you deal with words all day long, painting is a less structured ball of wax,
for you.

“Well, it doesn’t mean you have to do one or the other. But it is more helpful when you write often. I make a point of writing two or three times a week just so I can see patterns or changes.”

“I can see that.”

Ring
.

“I have to go, my office phone is ringing. I just wanted to tell you,” Charley said as she rushed to get off the phone, but then she remembered her other reason for having called. “Wait! If you’re going to be at the shop tomorrow, I can come by around lunch time and either bring something yummy or we can go out?” The other phone stopped ringing. She’d just have to call whoever back.

“I’ll be there. Becks has the day off, but I’ll ask her to come around and we can all have lunch together. Lindsey can watch over things at the shop. Mmm, let’s go to Hurston’s.”

“Sounds good. See you around oneish. Ciao.”

“À demain,” (until tomorrow), Inez said before hanging up.

Although Charley had been hesitant to try it, keeping a journal was good advice. Just starting a new pattern had given her a glimmer of ulterior newness, as if she was keeping a secret, all those thoughts Michael didn’t know. It wasn’t so much what she wrote, it was more so the idea she could use words to express herself personally, privately, but still feel she was telling someone, an invisible presence who never got tired of listening. It gave her an odd feeling of completion, too, like following a thought to its end rather than throwing it into a swirling vat of mental juice.

Her writing style, even in her journals, was the way she thought, but it sounded so rigid.
It’s a journal for God’s sake. Who cares?
But she wanted to ask if she sounded so structured when she spoke.
Tomorrow. Anyway, the point of it is I need to help myself. No one else can possibly understand everything
. Ironically, as she thought this, she also concluded, in order to help herself she needed to avail herself finally to someone else’s assistance, a professional. Therefore, taking more of Inez’s two-cents, Charley made an appointment with a therapist for later next week. Specifically, the same one Inez saw and recommended, Dr. Baum.

Chapter Four

Now is the winter of our discontent.

—William Shakespeare,
King Richard III (1.1)

・
・
・

IT WASN’T QUITE ONE O’CLOCK WHEN CHARLEY entered the reception area of Dr. Rickard Baum’s office. She approached the desk and gave her name to the receptionist, “Charlotte Fenn.”

“Dr. Baum is just finishing up with another patient; he’ll will be with you shortly. Please have a seat. I will let you know when he’s ready,” the receptionist said. “Can I get you some water while you wait? We also have peppermint tea.”

Charley nodded. “Water would be fine, thank you,” she said as she turned to take a seat and wait. The receptionist rose at the same time, carrying records to be filed in the large cabinet visible in a small adjacent room. She quickly returned with water in a real glass, not one of those awkward paper cone thingies, which held roughly three capfuls of refreshment.

The receptionist was an indeterminable age, short and a little on the robust, rather than plump, side. She seemed friendly and competent. Again, Tanya Van der Kamp, at least this is what the placard on the desk denoted, returned to her desk and soon enough began transcribing from what looked like handwritten notes. Charley didn’t think anyone hand wrote anything now a days. As far as she knew, they didn’t even teach cursive in schools anymore. If she ever received anything in writing now it was the odd note from someone who wrote in block letters,
artless and undisciplined
, she thought judgmentally.

Dr. Baum must be old-fashioned
. Inez didn’t say much about him, except to highly recommend him, but he scored one point in Charley’s pre-estimation. Only, minus one point too since,
how he could possibly understand the world we live in today and people in it if he’s behind the times?
Basically, Dr. Baum was her twin, at least in contradictions.
Or he’s a graphologist.

The offices were so quiet that when Dr. Baum’s door opened Charley was surprised. For a moment, she had forgotten the receptionist had said Dr. Baum was with another patient. A young man came out and left.

“You may go in now,” Tanya instructed with a genial smile.

“Hello Charlotte, have a seat,” Dr. Baum beckoned with a hand gesture directed at a plain, gray-wool settee.

He was not what she imagined just minutes before. She looked around for the leather couch. Feeling awkward she said, “No chaise or leather couch? Where’s the big clock?”

Smiling, he replied, “I guess I’m a non traditionalist, but I’ve been doing this a while,” tapping the watch on his wrist. Seated on the chair across from her, he started jotting notes on his handheld device.

Already, she found him uncanny. How did he know she thought of him as old-fashioned just a moment ago? It wasn’t the power of observation; he was behind a closed door at the time and pre-occupied with another patient’s woes. Sitting upright with her ankles folded she tried to seem casual, but actually felt more tense than she would have liked. With a tiny air of drama, glancing around again she said, “I like what you’ve done here; muted tones, very appropriate and calming.”
What is he writing notes about? My appearance, my mannerisms?
I haven’t said anything meaningful yet, I don’t think
. He was making her nervous. She wasn’t in the habit of biting her nails or eating the ends of her hair, but it would be natural to have some fidgety nuance or tick right about now.

She was accustomed to virtual meetings or phone conferences, where it was easy to ignore people or carry on with something else while you were waiting. She had lost some in-person meeting social graces.
What do I do? Oh, right
. She reached inside her satchel and pulled out her journal. She hoped her
private
journal would be useful in this instance, if only to cut to the chase.

“I don’t know how this works. I’ve never been to a therapist, so I think this may help,” handing him the tablet, thinking she didn’t want to waste time explaining how she felt sometimes and not others. On one hand, she just wanted the therapy business to begin, but also felt if she didn’t make this, albeit risky, gesture of openness the meeting wouldn’t result in much progress. “I’ve opened it to the entry. It starts with a painting I did. It shouldn’t take long to read. Then we can begin from there?”

Looking up, “Charlotte? I apologize for the delay. I was just taking a few preliminary notes. I am glad you brought your journal. It is somewhat unconventional, but I understand. Let’s start where you feel most comfortable,” he said congenially.

“Charley or Charlotte, either,” she muttered since presumably his questioning tone related to his use of her full first name.

“Okay. ‘Charley’, just give me a minute while I read this over.”

As he read, Charley blatantly assessed him: thick, salt-and-pepper hair; dark blue eyes; olive complexion; slim; and relatively young, early to mid-forties maybe. He was nice-looking, clean cut; his eyes reminded her of a boy. … “
I wonder if he’s ever dated a patient.
”

Without looking up Dr. Baum smirked and replied, “No, I haven’t.”

Embarrassed she mumbled, “I didn’t mean to say that aloud, obviously.”

Dr. Baum still had not looked away from her journal, but she knew he had heard her since he replied with another discernible grin, “The polite thing for me to have done would have been to ignore your comment altogether.” Looking up and meeting her gaze directly he said, “However, as a psychologist, I thought it more appropriate to make you aware of the fact you were thinking out loud. I won’t say ‘talking to yourself’ since I’m not quite certain yet whether you do it often,” punctuating this last sentence with another half smile.

Chuckling uncomfortably, she rambled, “Doctor, I don’t really think there’s anything you can do. I don’t want a weekly supply of antidepressants. My friend, Inez, one of your patients, thought this was a good idea. I’m not quite certain why I’ve decided to listen to her.”

“I would not prescribe medications. If it is, or becomes, necessary, I would refer you to someone who can.

“Aside from Inez’s advice, let’s start with why you think you came to see me?” he asked matter-of-factly.

I wonder if I’ve offended his professional sensibilities … so much for starting on secure footing
. Somehow, she wanted to eliminate the insecurity she felt. The idea of paying someone to listen was humbling and she didn’t want Dr. Baum to feel, in any way, superior for it. He was a professional, but she felt weakened, as if coming to a therapist already meant admitting some mental instability.

She didn’t seriously think there was anything wrong with herself—perhaps she needed it confirmed. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to talk to someone unbiased who would patiently listen and understand. Sometimes when I’m talking to friends I feel like a teenager obsessing about the same old boy problems … only my broken record isn’t usually about boys … I mean my friends
and
husband probably get tired of listening to things as seen through my generally discontented point of view.”

“As I mentioned, my methods are not really unorthodox, but they
are
rather unconventional, just as is you bringing in your journal. So for a minute, I’m going to do a bit of talking to get us going.”

On this cue, Charley leaned back in the settee, still with her legs crossed and hands folded in her lap, prepared to listen, but not really knowing what to expect. She was still on edge.

“Your painting is, in and of itself, conceptually interesting. I can visualize it clearly, although I have only your written description to go by. I will offer my analysis on this portion in a moment. First, however, let me begin with a broad perspective of the crux of this entry.

“Being disappointed with the direction your life is going, or has gone, is not wrong, nor is it necessarily cause for alarm. While many people look forward to the future, others live in the past. Whenever they were most content, or imagine they will be, is the direction their thoughts usually take.

“There are few souls in this world who are completely content with their lives at all points. If they are happy now there is very little possibility they were as happy in the past or will be in the future. It is a cynical but realistic view; I do not think people are happy their whole lives through, at least not by the definition of the word happy.

“I believe our purpose is to hope, strive and, hopefully, thrive. Pardon the rhyme, but there it is. If we accept this supposition then it is not possible to be happy all the time, nor does it mean everyone must be clinically depressed at one time or another. I will say, however, being resolved of life’s disappointments and not
allowing
life to change for the better
is
depressing and can lead to a chronic condition.

“This said I interpret your painting as a manifestation of what I’ve just described. You are at the top of a mountain peak, which symbolizes a high or happy point, but you are looking out at the peaks and valleys beyond. To me this seems allied with just looking toward the future with its oncoming highs and lows. Furthermore, since this was an actual memory, you know the past and the future relative to that moment. The blurry depiction of yourself seems to reinforce that you are uncertain of your future, and perhaps you’ve romanticized the past, almost as if it were a dream.

“So now I have to ask, in reality, how determined are you that your life is going nowhere?”

Dr. Baum surprised her and suddenly she was glad of his uncommon techniques; her general discomfort was forgotten. Inez was right. He was very good. He didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear,
exactly
, nor did he just sit around, passively listening, waiting for her to reveal some deep down mental issue. She hadn’t mentioned the painting was based on a dream, but he had made another of those almost psychic connections.

Keeping in mind his comment about depressing thoughts potentially becoming habitual, Charley offered the following and hoped it wasn’t self-deprecating: “I feel as if the things I want from life are out of my control; chances have passed and now I just have to deal with the result of the ill-informed or the ill-prepared-for choices I’ve made. I don’t feel I’m unhappy; I’m just not motivated or content with a good part of my life.

“Outside of work I spend a good deal more time ruminating about one thing or another. Thinking, thinking and doing nothing. If I am being completely honest, I admit I create projects for distraction, which seems to give me a mental break for a short time, until I come up with something else to do. It’s a little obvious—my husband even jokes about it. And I have problems falling asleep. My dreams are strange and I wake up unaware of my surroundings.”

“I see. Your mind is very active, but you are not.

“We’ll get to the details later. For now, tell me of a time when you felt in control of your life and your ability to make life-altering choices. You can start anywhere—a memory of a particular moment you revisit frequently.”

Since his person reminded her of Laurens, she described the blast from the past. “When I think back to the years before thirty, I see myself as a girl, and every guy, just a boy. That’s not to say I felt immature; I just felt young, in control, and even vivacious. The summer I turned a quarter of a century old, I manned the wheel of a boat on Lake Maggiore while my friends laid on the deck absorbing the sun. I lived in an Italian villa for three weeks, each night going to a different grotto and movie at the film festival in town, and fell in love with a French-speaking Italian boy.