I’m sitting in Raff’s office trying to make sense of what’s been happening to me, this inner tumult he tritely refers to as, an ‘anomalous experience.’
Somehow the term he uses conveys to me the impression he ’s dismissing my concern. It doesn’t help he’s my best friend and probably too close to my situation to be completely dispassionate.
I’d consider going to another therapist—someone who didn’t know me quite so well, but then again, Raff and I have always shared our concerns and I really don’t want to confide to a stranger the intimate details of my life.
And to tell the truth, I want Raff to downplay my angst and convince me I’m not losing my grip on reallity.
I think Raff senses that and tries to console me while supporting me through my pain.
"You know, Paul,” he says compassionately, ”according to studies, ten percent of the population experience at least one hallucinatory experience in their life"
He was staring out his office window contemplating a huge freighter navigating the lake.
"Is this supposed to reassure me and convince me I'm not nuts?"
"You're not nuts," Raff chuckled, "You've had an apparitional experience. It happens—get past it."
"Easy for you to say, Pal, but is this how you counsel all your clients—downplay their angst?"
"Look, you're my friend, Paul, but what would you have me do—put you on anti-anxiety meds when you're perfectly healthy and simply going through a rough patch in your life?"
I throw up my hands in frustration. "No, I suppose not, but I'm just having a hard time believing this is just a mid-life crisis."
"Believe it," Raff smiled good-naturedly as he stood and walked me to the door, "Now, get out of here—maybe go for a jog and let me get on with seeing patients who really need help."
I was still simmering with irritation on the drive home.
This was the problem with having a friend who's a psychiatrist. Raff knows me well enough to cut to the chase and avoid getting bogged down in the weeds of my anxieties, but hell, just being told you're sane doesn't help when you're trying to cope with life's changes and feeling vulnerable.
Yeah, Sharon Hargraves—a girl from my past, who’s the problem—a living apparition who's been haunting me— and just a small problem, that's all.
Somehow I don't think so.
I go home and change into my sweat pants and hoodie and go for a jog with Mollie, my golden retriever who at least listens to my grumping.
That's me—so damn conventional.
See Paul run-—run, run— run through the chilly woods with a dog.
Sometimes I envy dead people.
By the time I get back to my house it's getting dark and I notice the mail has come.
I stoop to gather up the envelopes and flyers from the foyer and notice the corner of an envelope protruding from under the braided rug.
It's from the university. I check the post mark and find to my dismay that it's been lying there discarded and unseen for almost a month. I tear open the envelope and peruse the contents.
The letter is a notice from the alumni association at my old college advertising a class reunion.
I'm about to trash it when a thought occurs to me— I wonder if Sharon Hargraves attends these functions?
I check the date and it's two days away on a Friday night— that gives me time for a thousand decisions and revisions before I have to commit to action.
I smile cynically at The Prufrock allusion, but it suits me.
Dare I disturb the universe?
What am I pathtically trying to accomplish here?
Am I trying to see a living apparition, or resurrect a ghost from my past? Only time will tell.
