The Last Time I Died

by Joe Nelms

  Oh, I’ve seen this before.

  I know where this is going.

  This is exactly like the Rosenbergs from last year.

  And even if we managed to find the one super-talented counselor who could appreciate our bond for what it was, they would inevitably side with one of us or the other. That’s how people work.

  If they side with Lisa, I play the persecuted victim and nothing gets done. If they side with me, I feel like a bully and overcompensate by taking the blame for everything and then resent both of them for putting me in that position. I knew how it would go down. Without a doubt. I knew it would be lose/lose. But I agreed anyway.

  Lisa let the individual therapy slide when I said I’d think about the couples version. I can still see the look on her face when I told her. Shock isn’t the word. It’s not powerful enough. I could be unreasonable and she knew my agreement was a big compromise. Lisa was nothing if not practical. I don’t know why I caved so easily. Maybe to get my personal stuff off the table as soon as possible. Yeah, that was it. I was terrified.

  As soon as I agreed, her mood lightened noticeably. As if the problem were solved already. As if she were happy after so many months. It was a dramatic enough turnaround that I wondered if the real point all along was to see if she could get me to go to therapy. The therapy itself more of an afterthought. Gravy.

  She had the name of a doctor who had worked wonders for Michelle and her husband and would be perfect for us. Fucking Michelle. The doctor was a woman. Michelle’s husband was a broken man. I couldn’t stand him almost as much as I couldn’t stand Michelle. I procrastinated and postponed committing to an appointment for months and finally everything else boiled over and overwhelmed us and Lisa stopped asking. We both knew things had become more than what Michelle’s miracle doctor could handle.

  And here I was again with a new mandate to see a counselor. I’m aware there are worse recurring patterns to have in one’s life, but I don’t love this one. I’m going through with it because I am under the impression that I should keep my job. I just can’t think of why that is so god damned important anymore. How much of this is rote repetition of what is understood to be an acceptable American life I don’t know. Lately, when I’m not out of control, I’m on autopilot.

  I’m sure he’ll smell booze on me should I care to indulge before our session so I don’t. The inside of my head is already starting to tingle. Dying for a scotch. I told Harry I’d come. A yes for Harry and a no for Lisa.

  Sorry, Lisa.

  Fuck you, Harry.

  I don’t care what comes out of today. Arnold Rosen will never fix me. He doesn’t have the tools and Harry doesn’t have enough money. That makes this oh so much easier to swallow. Also I plan on saying nothing or lying when I do speak.

  Lying. Lying. Lying.

  Rosen sits there with his beard and his glasses and his five feet, eight inches of bald headed, soft-peddled authority. Waiting. How do they make psychiatrists’ offices so god damn quiet anyway?

  —Would it be easier for you to address me as Arnold?

  —Is that what the rest of your patients do?

  —Depends. Christian, I understand your first session can be awkward. Especially if you’ve never been in therapy before. So let’s make it as easy as possible. We’ll treat this like a first date and get used to each other’s faces.

  There’s no way for Arnold Rosen, M.D. to know this but a reference to dating from a therapist I’m being forced to see is not a great start to our relationship. At least he’s got nice shoes. And oriental rugs on wood floors. I told him I’ve never been in therapy before so he thinks this is virgin territory for me. Fuck him. Let him earn it.

  —Before we get started, do you have anything you want to talk about? Anything on your mind?

  My wife left me. I hate my job. My boss is about to fire me. I drink too much. I’ve wasted my life. I pick fights with perfect strangers. I’m worthless. If I disappeared no one would notice. I lack the capacity to feel joy. I’m thirty-eight and I miss the parents I never really knew. Hmm, how do I sum this up?

  —Nope.

  —Do you have any questions for me? About me? My credentials?

  —No. You came highly recommended.

  —Ah, yes. Well, I don’t think I’m breaking any confidences when I tell you that Harry is very concerned about what he believes is self-destructive behavior on your part. Would you like to discuss that?

  —I drink a little sometimes. To relieve stress.

  I avoid the eyes of the doctor who flosses every day and pays his taxes and probably fucking tithes.

  —So, Christian, where are you from?

  —Brooklyn. Bay Ridge. Born and raised.

  —No accent.

  —Not anymore.

  —Where did you go to school?

  —Brooklyn College. NYU Law.

  Dr. Rosen moves his forehead to affect a barely perceptible nod as he takes a moment to absorb this information and, I assume, to judge my educational background in comparison to his, the ever-so-noticeable Ivy League degrees hanging on his wall.

  —Married?

  —Not anymore.

  He makes a note in his pretentious, leather-bound, legal pad binder.

  —Kids?

  —No.

  —When did you first try to kill yourself?

  Oh, this motherfucker.

  Got to be a lucky guess, right? No way he can read me that well after ten minutes of chit chat. He can’t be that good. I hate that his beard makes him look understanding. I know he’s dying to hear the answer. And the fucking bravado of jumping in like that with a big bold question and no ramp up. He’s showing off. Flexing his muscles. Dominating. Probably has a hard on.

  —Why would I try to kill myself?

  Dr. Rosen waits for an answer. How much money did those types of pretentious silences cost his patients? What a rip off.

  His face is tranquil. A perfectly bland mix of curiosity and patience. I know he’s not going to say another word until I answer. And he’ll rat me out if I don’t. I wonder if he’s taping this for Harry. Fucking hate this guy.

  —High school.

  Lying. Lying. Lying.

  —And?

  —And it was pathetic. I didn’t even come close. Got it totally wrong.

  I pull my sleeve up to reveal a beauty of a faded scar across my wrist. I indicate the proper direction one needs to slice to get the job done correctly. Down. You have to slice vertical, dummy.

  —Can’t walk across. Gotta run down.

  My almost-suicide was dismissed by Foster Father as a weak play for attention. It wasn’t. Foster Mother didn’t know what to think. She kept asking me if I was gay.

  They never found the note I left on my dresser. I really didn’t plan it out very well. Left the bathroom door unlocked. Didn’t wait for them to leave the house. What a dope. I bled for maybe five minutes before Foster Mother came in to put some towels away. I didn’t even get sleepy.

  —Why’d you do it?

  —Don’t remember. Depressed. Dumb.

  —And since then?

  Since then, two more none-of-your-G-D-business times in the same year. Plus, I’m lying about my first time anyway. If we’re really being honest, we should count the time I tried to walk in front of a bus three months before I cut my wrists. But let the good doctor prove it. Fat chance.

  —Nothing. I’m fine.

  Dr. Rosen makes a few smug notes in the file on his lap. I wonder if he’ll have a good laugh about this with his moderately attractive wife over their low-carb dinner tonight. My head is starting to throb.

  —Let’s talk about family. Your dad.

  Arnold Rosen, you don’t have enough time left in your self-satisfied life to listen to me discuss my father. You don’t have the brain power to absorb the complexities of my relationship with that monster. You don’t have the empathetic capacities to relate to the turmoil I felt after that night until, well, now. I was there and I don’t get it.
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  To be honest, it’s kind of amusing to see you approach the subject. As if you had the chops to climb this wall. Do you know how many people have tried? My friends tried to do it and I liked them. My wife couldn’t do it and I was crazy about her. But you, I don’t like. No, not at all. So good eff-ing luck.

  —What about him?

  —Nice guy?

  —Sure.

  —Your mom?

  —She died when I was eight.

  —How?

  If only to see the look on your face. And to make sure you tell Harry I was forthcoming on some level. Here’s a tasty little morsel for you, Arnold Rosen. I hope you choke on it.

  —My father shot her in the face while she was reading me a bedtime story.

  God dammit, Arnold. How dare you sit there and not react. How dare you narrow your eyes and try to move the conversation forward. Like you’re interested.

  —I thought you said he was a nice guy.

  —Relatively speaking.

  I’ve got a headache like someone poured hot sauce on the back of my eyeballs. Why won’t this guy leave me alone? I know it’s his job, but Jesus.

  —Tell me about your parents. Before your mom died.

  —I don’t remember anything before that.

  —What does that mean?

  I hate you, Arnold Rosen. You presumptuous bastard. Sitting there acting like you care. What if you weren’t getting paid? What then? How much would you want to know the details? How much would you knit those big, bushy eyebrows and pretend to focus on me and my issues? Not much. I’m quite sure something pressing would come up. Or would you have me stay here anyway and finish my thought? What if we were fifteen sessions into it and the financial plug got pulled? Would you be okay with telling me to piss off then? I bet you would. I bet my seat wouldn’t be cold before it was filled with some other idiot dying to tell you about their uncle touching them or their husband ignoring them or whatever secrets might take up those fifty minutes of your overpriced day. You’re a whore, Arnold Rosen. Just like the rest of us.

  —I don’t remember anything before the age of nine.

  —Nothing?

  No, nothing. Oh, and no one ever bothered to address it. Not really. To answer a few of your other obvious questions, Arnold—Yes, I told my first therapist about it. He did nothing; Yes, I told Foster Mother about it. She told me to be patient; Yes, I told Lisa about it. That’s when she started begging me to get therapy. In other words, she made it someone else’s problem before I finished the sentence. I’ve been here before. Nothing is going to happen. I am empty. I am void. I am irreparable. But if you really need an answer, here’s one.

  —Apparently there’s some trauma associated with seeing your mom killed by your father. PTSD-related memory repression. I hear.

  —Well, we should discuss—

  —I think our time is up.

  My headache has become one of those freezing cold ice picks in the front of my brain. Talking is making it worse.

  —No, we still have plenty of time.

  At some point you have to know when to cut your losses. And since the doctor can’t figure out that this conversation is going nowhere and I am fully aware that there are plenty of ways to screw your patients besides actually cornholing them, I decide to do us both a favor and end the session. Fuck Harry and fuck this guy and fuck Dr. HackShag and Foster Mother and everyone else.

  I stand up and walk to the door. The doctor may or may not still be in the room. I no longer know or care. I have to leave.

  —Christian, if I’ve struck a nerve, that might be a good thing. We should explore that.

  Turns out the doctor is indeed still in the room and standing close enough to gently touch my arm. He actually thinks he might convince me to stay, the superior prick.

  —Repressed memories can be some of the most powerful—

  I grab the doctor by his somewhat expensive lapels and slam him against the wall. Our eyes meet and he looks scared.

  Well, well, well, Arnold Rosen. Looks like we’ve entered into some unexplored territory on your side. Is that something you’d like to talk about? Are there any feelings you’d like to share with regards to this experience? Do you need a hug, Arnold?

  I throw him across the room and he lands hard on his back. Good. He struggles to catch his breath like the pansy he is. I stand over him breathing hard as he holds the back of his head while he lays across a broken end table that must have taken some fag interior designer forever to find.

  The red tint of rage recedes and I’m not sure where this is going. I’m confident I’ve made my point but I’m becoming unclear on what that point originally was.

  13

  *It’s five weeks ago.

  I’m at my desk alone, crying.

  I don’t know how I got here or how long I’ve been here. Reality is slowly coming back into focus. I am a lawyer. I work in an office. This office. This is my office. I appear to be upset about something. Anxious. My name is Christian. I take a deep breath and I’m pretty much back.

  It’s not the first time I’ve blacked out sober.

  Last Thursday I woke up on a subway. The six train headed uptown. I was showered, shaved, and dressed for work. It was four in the afternoon and my fingertips were bleeding.

  Four days before that I was in a restaurant. Suddenly awake, sitting at a table for two with a glass worth of cabernet dripping down my face. I don’t know who threw it on me or why I was carrying a bottle of Xanax in my front pocket. I hate Xanax.

  A week before that I woke up in a cab headed for the airport.

  I’m in my office and I’m thinking about reconciliation and second chances and forgiveness because that’s what people do. They make up. They forgive each other. They start over. Things can work out if you really want them to. Or if you will them to. If you make them. Everything is fixable.

  I think that’s what I’m thinking. It all evaporates so quickly when I wake up like this.

  I want to call Lisa at her brother’s house, but I know that’s a terrible idea. Last time he told me I’d never speak to her again.

  As if it’s up to him.

  What I should be doing is figuring out what I can say that would have any effect on her. A battle plan. A begging plan. Points of logic. A deal memo. A negotiating platform. Luck is the result of preparation and timing. I should be preparing.

  I can’t find a pen to save my life.

  My assistant buzzes and asks if I’m ready for my two o’clock. I didn’t realize it was after noon. Or daytime. I have no idea what I was just scrambling around for. I’m not wearing a tie. I tell my assistant I’m all set.

  I don’t bother wiping the tears from my eyes before my client enters. In retrospect, that may have been a mistake.

  14

  (Ahem.)

  The evening is another smashing success.

  Inspired by the honorable Dr. Arnold Rosen, our man plays by his gut and, with virtually no plan at all, manages to succeed in the generation of social entropy beyond even his wildest expectations.

  The brassy statements of masculinity.

  The purposeful overindulgence of alcohol.

  The eager reception of so many well-placed blows.

  They all work magnificently together in an elegant symphony of chaos and destruction. If things continue along this order, this may even be our man’s swan song. His grand finale.

  Tonight’s adventure began with a lengthy bivouac at the bar of an establishment catering to a wilder crowd than our man is normally found in. Special prices for generic drinks. A dense hodgepodge of braying young men stacked mercilessly in a never-ending parade to and from the bar. A somewhat lacking representation of attractive, available women. Loud, violent music. The environment a virtual powder keg of machismo with a testosterone soaked fuse that was almost too easy to light. What is most surprising is not that our man has been beaten to utter stillness, it is that a member of the cheering audience took the time to call for medical assistanc
e when the lopsided donnybrook was said and done.

  Perhaps, the old boy thinks, at long last he will manage to make his point concretely understood by his ex-wife.

  Meanwhile, the hard working emergency medical technicians in the back of the ambulance in which he is riding employ every neuron and muscle fiber available to them to keep our man alive. It’s counterproductive to the old boy’s agenda, but this is their sworn duty.

  If you listen carefully you will hear them use phrases like ‘blood pressure dropping’ and ‘can’t find a pulse’ to describe his quickly deteriorating condition. But they also mix in some pointed critiques of his lifestyle choices including ‘What a waste,’ ‘Worse than I’ve ever seen,’ and ‘Idiot.’ Inappropriate, but accurate.

  The ambulance screams to a halt and the medics bark updates at the hospital staff as they scurry efficiently to save valuable seconds. Overhead, the ceiling lights pass over our man as if to create a countdown while his gurney and all attending personnel race from the emergency unloading deck to the awaiting emergency facilities. A gruesome parade in celebration of a feat of staggering dedication and heartbreaking majesty. According to the good people who rescued our man from the sidewalk where he lay alone outside the bar in which the altercation started, the old boy is an innocent victim of a random act of unprovoked violence. As far as they were able to determine. No one in the immediate vicinity claimed knowledge of how our man came to be in this condition and there was no time to track down cooperative eyewitnesses. The job at hand was to keep the old boy alive until arrival at the hospital and that was a herculean task even for the seasoned veterans.

  The brilliant doctors inject our man with medicines and stimulants while constantly consulting and rechecking the very latest in technology to monitor his progress. They employ stopgap measures and quick fixes, thinking only in terms of the coming seconds. It’s all they have.

  Our man has a rather different view of the affair. He is elated, although his understanding of the details of what precisely is happening within his quickly failing mortal self is fuzzy and incomplete. He’s a lawyer, not a doctor. But speaking from his general perspective of the evening’s pugilistic activities, he is content with his performance and confident that he will defy the best efforts of these well-intentioned buffoons. Huzzah!