CARLEIGH EYES ME CURIOUSLY OVER the frames of her glasses. I know she’s not trying to be sexy, but she is. As she leans back in her chair, a sigh escapes her pursed lips.
“So, you won’t talk about any of the fraternity stuff?” she finally asks, and I shake my head.
“I can’t. I’m not allowed to. It’s part of the code.” A smirk crosses my face, my tone facetious.
“Do you hear yourself?”
“Are you bein’ judgmental, Doc?” My smirk persists.
“I told you to call me Carleigh, or, preferably, Dr. Jacobs.”
“Are you bein’ judgmental, Carleigh?” I repeat.
“Well, do you? Because here’s what I’m hearing. You’re a twenty-five-year-old Army vet who served your country honorably. You started college, then joined a fraternity, you’re drinking multiple nights a week, and now you’re fighting. To me, it’s clear the fraternity has played a part in this transgression, and you’re sitting there telling me you can’t talk about it. That’s a problem for me.”
I breathe out a sigh of resignation. “I can’t talk about the pledgin’ process and what it entails. As for the partyin’, yeah, you bet your ass it’s led me to more social drinkin’. But it’s either drink out there with friends, or drink alone at a bar by myself or in my room.”
“I thought you said you were only a social drinker during our last visit?” She quirks an eyebrow.
I let out a nervous chuckle. “That may have been a slight exaggeration. But I don’t drink alone now.”
I smile, and she just laughs, shaking her head. “And how many times a week are you drinking with the fraternity again? You probably don’t have any time to drink alone.”
An abrupt laugh escapes my lips. “What can I say? I hate bein’ by myself.”
“Why do you hate being alone so much?”
“A number of reasons …” I let my words linger in the air, each reason passing through my thoughts.
“And they are?” She lifts her pen to take notes, and it irks me as it always does. Yeah, I know she needs to keep record of what we discuss, but I hate knowing that there will be evidence of my thoughts out there for anyone to read. And that’s just how the VA operates.
“I have tinnitus.”
“Okay.”
“So I constantly hear ringin’. Both ears, but it’s worse in my right.”
“And this is from the explosion?”
I nod. “That one, and all the ones before it. The firefights too. I’m really lucky to even have any hearin’ at all. But the tinnitus is no joke either. It started after my first firefight. Got worse with each deployment, but it became unbearable after the RPG. It took me months to tune it out.”
“But it’s still there?”
“Oh yeah. In silence, especially. It’s why I always have a TV or music goin’.”
“Or people around you, talking.”
“Exactly. And when I’m alone with my thoughts, especially when I’m sober, it’s like, this invisible prison. It’s suffocating.”
“What kinds of thoughts?”
“Who I was in the Army and who I am now … my childhood … the battles I’ve fought, the friends I’ve made … and all that I lost since the explosion. A future that seemed much brighter than it does now.”
“Are you ever suicidal?”
I shake my head firmly. “No, not at all. I’ve never been. Yeah, sometimes shit sucks, but I ain’t ever been the type to think about suicide. Flood the emotions with liquor, maybe a little marijuana here and there … yeah, I’m guilty of that. But I could never contemplate ending it all. Can’t even fathom it.”
“What about your childhood? Does that intrude on your thoughts often?”
I nod, my focus shifting to the sterile walls. “Yeah, it does.”
“What kind of thoughts?”
I let out a heavy breath, shaking my head. “My dad was a military man. And he did a whole hell of a lot for this country. He was my hero growin’ up. But he wasn’t ever much of a father. His expectations of me were always well above what I could have ever achieved.”
“Did he ever hit you?”
“Until I got big enough to defend myself.”
“And your mother?”
“We divin’ into all the heavy stuff today?” I ask, grinning.
“And your mother?” she repeats.
“No, my mom never hit me. But she pretended my pops didn’t either. She turned a blind eye, and I don’t know which is worse. I think she was bipolar, though she’d never accept havin’ some sort of mental defect. She’d spend days and days in bed, her door locked. She’d only leave to get food, which was few and far between. I don’t think she took all my dad’s deployments too well. But then she’d have these periods where she was the best mother a kid could ask for.”
“I couldn’t diagnose her without evaluating her, but yes, those examples do seem to sway toward bipolar.” She hesitates, the pen meeting her full lips, her eyes on the ceiling.
Calm yourself, Bishop. Calm yourself.
“Was it hard for you being an only child?” she asks.
“Yeah, it was hard takin’ the brunt of everything. Hard not havin’ someone there to cope with. We moved so much when my dad would change duty stations that I never really got to connect with anyone growin’ up. Not until he retired and we finally settled in Florida, but by then, I was already a teen. Already fucked up.”
“But in the Army you did connect with others?”
“Yeah, with a lot of people. But then, you know, you lose some guys, and that always sticks with you, and you end up losin’ others through distance. There’s only a handful I even still communicate with.”
“Why is that?”
“Guys don’t keep in touch like women do. We don’t often visit each other. The friendship kinda fades. Don’t get me wrong, if you ever see ‘em again, it’s like a day ain’t passed. But they move on with their lives, and you move on with yours, and it’s like two passin’ ships in the night.”
“How does it make you feel to not have a closer relationship with them?”
“It’s hard.”
“How so?”
“So, when I got blown up, we were at the end of our tour. We were so close to goin’ home. About a month into my recovery, they were all comin’ back, havin’ their ‘welcome home’ celebrations and enjoyin’ two weeks of leave, and then they shipped off to new duty stations. Meanwhile, I was in a coma all that time.”
“Is there maybe a little resentment there?”
“Unfortunately, yeah.”
“Well, that’s understandable. Did anybody visit you after you got hurt?”
“Yeah, a few friends from my unit, but that’s pretty much it.”
“So, you spent a lot of time alone?”
“Oh yeah. For a good two years of recovery. I had a girlfriend the last bit of it, but I definitely kept her at a distance too.”
“How did that relationship end?”
I laugh, shrugging. “Alcohol.”
“Did you do something? Hit her?”
“No, no, nothin’ like that. I would never hit a woman. She just didn’t like how much I drank. She wasn’t ready to put the work in.”
“Tell me the truth. Outside of the past two days, have you been drunk?”
“Is my honesty here gonna negatively affect the outcome of this program?”
“No, it won’t.”
“Yeah, I have.”
“How much?”
“I had some beers this past weekend. Jameson on the rocks Tuesday night, just because.”
“You didn’t go overboard though?”
“Actually, I didn’t even get drunk. Maybe a little buzzed. Just wasn’t feelin’ the social scene this weekend. I spent a lot of time hangin’ around the apartment.”
“When you do drink, is there some commonality in what leads you to it? Some feeling, or memory, or experience?”
I think for a moment; having never really thought about it before, it’s hard to pinpoint. “I think the anxiety has a lot to do with it,” I finally reply.
She nods. “And what does the anxiety feel like to you?”
“Well, I get a lot of headaches and jaw pain, because when the anxiety is gettin’ bad, I clench my jaw without even realizin’ it. I notice that my mind runs about a mile a minute. I can’t lock on to any one thing for too long. When some of the things my mind conjures up are hard memories from the past, it’s like … bein’ a boxer, takin’ a right jab, left jab, uppercut, repeat. The thoughts and memories keep comin’. Keep hittin’.”
I hesitate, but she doesn’t take the pause as an opportunity to speak; instead, she remains focused, waiting for me to continue.
“Um, there’s this ball of nervous energy, like one of those plasma balls at the Science Center. It’s electric, radiating, choking. I can’t sleep. Don’t want to eat. The only thing that seems to quell it is a substance of some sort.”
“What about medication?” she asks.
“I’m on Zoloft. And that’s after tryin’ a hundred other things at Walter Reed. It’s the only one that seemed to work even half-assed without turning me into a mindless zombie. Without it, I’m a goddamn mess. I hate myself.”
“You hate yourself off of medication, or alcohol?”
I go to speak, but the words don’t come right away. I think her question over again. “Fuck, maybe both.”
“Where do you think the hate comes from?”
“Well, I’m extremely self-analytical, so I do actually have a theory on that. I think it stems from my parents, and never bein’ good enough for ’em. Mostly my pops. I think it led me to this self-deprecation I struggle with now.”
She smiles. “I think that’s very astute.”
“I think I wanna start askin’ you some questions.”
“That’s not why you’re here. I didn’t beat a kid half to death.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Oh, c’mon now. Half to death? That’s a bit much. And can we come up with a deal at least?”
“What do you mean, a deal?”
“Like, I ask you a question, then you ask me a question. One for one.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Two for one?”
She gives a tight shake of her head.
“Three for one?”
She shakes her head again and says, “How about this? Five for one, and no extremely personal questions. That wouldn’t be appropriate, nor do I care to become the patient in my own office.” She smiles, and I chuckle at her last comment.
“Okay, deal. I think you’ve definitely already got your five in.”
She nods, motioning with her hand for me to go ahead.
“Did you just move into this office?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’ve been here awhile.”
“Why is it so barren? No photos. Keepsakes. Memorabilia.”
She grins. “Five for one, remember?”
“Wait, no, that ain’t fair! It was a two-part question.”
“I don’t think so,” she says, chuckling.
“Goddammit. I’m losin’ at my own damn game.”
“Yeah, shame you underestimated me, Bishop. Now, back to the real reason you’re here. What is it you hate most about yourself?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “I’ll remember this in four more questions, Carleigh. I think the thing I hate is not bein’ able to shake the awful shit. The shit that sticks with you. I’ve done some counselin’, read some self-help books, I’ve taken the medication and the necessary steps, but I still feel this way. Like I got nothin’, like I’m goin’ nowhere. I feel like my identity has been stolen.”
“You may not be in the Army anymore, but that doesn’t take away what you’ve done. You’re a hero, Bishop.”
“I’m no hero,” I snap. “I was just doin’ my job. I wish I was still doin’ my job.”
“But you’re not, and you never will again,” she says matter-of-factly. She lifts her palms. “So, what’s next? I know it’s hard, but you’re only stuck in this limbo because you haven’t yet started to move forward. You just need to figure out what’s next for you. Find a new passion and chase it. Besides acting, is there anything else you’re interested in?”
“I’ll count that as two questions, by the way, since you’re the one who wants to be all technical. What’s next, I don’t know. I get through these classes somehow and figure out a major. And I have other interests, but nothin’ that could be considered career-worthy. I play guitar, a little photography, shit like that. Nothin’ that’s gonna make me any money.”
“Well, technically, that shouldn’t be your biggest concern. It doesn’t need to be since you have your pension. How are your grades, by the way? Has the fraternity process caused any issues?”
“And that would be questions four and five, Ms. Jacobs. My grades are shit, to be honest. And while the fraternity ain’t helped, if it weren’t for their mandatory study sessions, my grades would probably be even worse.”
“Why are you having such difficulty?”
“That’s a sixth question, Carleigh.” I wag my finger at her.
“Just answer it.”
“Okay, but I get two.” I put my hand out. “Deal?”
She eyes my hand but does nothing. “Answer the question, Bishop.” She fights a smile on her face.
“I fuckin’ hate classes. I hate the material and just bein’ in there. Half the kids in my classes are fuckin’ morons who think they’re still in high school, and the professor is a dude two years older than me, and not a professor at all, come to find out, but a grad student. Did I mention I hate the material?” I chuckle. “I find myself starin’ at the clock on the wall a hundred times over the course of an hour. Lately, I’ve been taken back to somethin’ an old squad leader said to me once, when I was about a year into the Army. He asked me what my plans were when my contract was up. I said I wasn’t sure. At that time, bein’ an abused private and shit on by everyone, I really wasn’t sure. The freedom of college sounded intriguing. He asked me, ‘How did you do in high school? Did you like it?’ I said, ‘My grades were shit, and I hated goin’ to class.’ He laughed and said, ‘Stay in the Army, son.’”
We both laugh.
I lift my hands. “So, at the end of the day, maybe he’s right. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out for this school shit.”
“Or maybe just not the classroom environment. Have you tried online courses?”
I nod. “While I was at Walter Reed recoverin’, I took a few, but I don’t have enough willpower for that shit.” I hesitate a moment before adding, “Hey, that was another question!”
She smiles wickedly. “Go ahead and ask yours, Bishop.”
“What happened with your husband?”
Her eyes shoot to her ring finger and she sighs. “I told you no personal questions.”
“Do you like me, Carleigh?” I ask, catching her off-guard.
“Huh?”
“Do you like me? Do you think I’m a good dude?”
“Absolutely. In the little time I’ve gotten to know you, I think you’re a ‘good dude.’ Why?”
“Well, I have this weird trust thing with doctors. Always have. Too many fuckin’ assholes at Walter Reed who don’t give a shit about their patients. And the VA system … shit, I won’t even get into that. So, with all the experiences I’ve had, it’s hard for me to connect with a doctor. Especially in the mental health field. With somethin’ like this, I want there to be a level of trust between us. A connection.”
“I want that, too.”
“Part of that is me gettin’ to know a little about you. I like you too, Carleigh. I think you’re a good lady.” I chuckle. “And I’d like to get to know more about what makes you tick. If you have a little internal scarrin’ of your own, even better. Then we can relate.”
“He cheated on me,” she blurts. “Had been for years, I guess.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, twenty-plus years of marriage, and who knows how much of it he was cheating. There were a million red flags … it’s just, when you love someone that much, it’s easy to look past those signs. It’s easy to look past the verbal abuse. It’s funny, being a therapist, helping those in messed up situations and eventually finding yourself in the same.”
I smile. “Do you have sessions with yourself?”
“Don’t we all?”
“You got me there. I analyze every single move I’ve ever made more times than I could comfortably admit.”
“It’s not such a bad thing. It can be. But recognizing and acknowledging past mistakes is a very mature and responsible thing to do. We must take accountability, but not dish out unnecessary blame. You made a mistake. You’re human. Move forward and learn.” Her eyes trail to the clock on the wall and then back to me. “We’re just about out of time, but we’ll continue this next week? I want to talk more about the school stuff and maybe come up with some goals for the future.”
“Sounds like barrels of fun,” I say, giving her a thumbs up.
“Get out of my office, shithead.”
“Carleigh, language!” I smile, standing from the chair. “Thanks for everything. And hey …” I wait for her eyes to meet mine, and when they do, I continue, “Forgive me for sayin’ it, but your ex is a fuckin’ moron. Any man who would risk losin’ you for some extra shit on the side never deserved you to begin with. Same goes for a man who would talk down to you, or talk bad about you. You’re a catch, Carleigh.”
“Well, thank you. Flattery doesn’t get you very far in this office, unfortunately.” She grins.
“Good thing I was just speakin’ honestly then, huh?” I wink, making my way to the door. Turning back, I add, “Bye, Carleigh.”
“Bye, Bishop,” she says as she passes me that gorgeous smile, before she shoos me away.