Dario

 

When I sat back into the comfort of the leather sofa, I immediately relaxed. Well, it wasn’t really relaxation, but it was something like it. Coming in to see Dr. Cephas Upshaw was something like my down time. I had a love/hate relationship with these visits. I hated that I needed them in the first place, and that I might spiral without them—maybe. I say maybe because after last night when I was able to leave the situation with Chanel, without laying a single hand on that liar of a dude, it showed that I’d grown a bit in reining in my temper.

I rubbed my hands down my jean-clad thighs as if ironing out invisible wrinkles. I was anticipating what this session’s flow would be like. When a few seconds had gone by and Dr. Upshaw still hadn’t arrived, restlessness kicked in. I stood up from my seat. I inhaled a thick sigh and when I released it, the sound came out more like a whistle than just air.

“I’m so sorry, to have kept you waiting, Dario . . . really sorry,” Dr. Upshaw said as he breezed in, shook my hand and quickly took a seat. “Please sit down. I had to make a pit stop. How’s it going?”

I reclaimed my seat. “It’s going.”

Dr. Upshaw pushed out an exasperated sigh and then smiled over at me. “I saw the fight. You got that Muhammad Ali thing going on where you maintain that distance between yourself and your opponent. Those long-range punches that you throw . . . and land with such precision. You expertly wear them down,” he boasted, nodding his approval, “before putting them out of their misery. I've seen some brawler tendencies in you too. Pretty good switch-up, and at just the right times, if I do say so myself. And to top it all off, you’re still undefeated. Does it ever grow old?”

I returned the smile, both surprised and impressed with his knowledge of the sport. “Not at all.”

“Ever think it’s time to walk away while you’re still in the winner’s circle?”

His delivery pissed me off and I gave him a long, hard stare to accompany my response. “I don’t walk away from shit, Doc.”

For some reason it just sounded off for him to even say something like that after having given me the ultimate compliment. And for that reason, I didn’t feel the need to let him know that I was planning to retire at the end of the year.

And then he attempted a failed retraction. “I wasn’t insinuating that. It came out wrong. I didn’t mean it the way it obviously sounded. I know you’re not a quitter. I was just saying—”

“You don’t need to elaborate. We can get this session underway now.”

“Oh. Okay,” he expressed in defeat. “Well, let’s start with me asking how your sleep’s been since the fight? You taking your meds that I got you approved for?”

“Nope. I can’t risk it.”

“There’s no risk, Dario.”

“There is a risk. There’s a risk of me losing my spot.”

“That can’t happen. I have all of the necessary documentation to submit to the commission if an issue ever arises. They’ll know it’s not ‘drugs’, per se.”

“I don’t think so. And I really wouldn’t even want the organization in my business at that level.”

“So, then the last few prescriptions that I’ve written for—”

“Haven’t been filled,” I said, cutting him off. “I don’t need dope to cope.”

“So, then what’s all this for, Dario?” he asked, seemingly frustrated with me. “Why even entertain the sessions if you’re not interested in feeling better about the PTSD symptoms? The anxiety, the bouts of depression? How am I to help you, if you don’t help me . . . help you?”

“You’re the psychotherapist; that should be something you can answer. Why stuff me with medication when you went through years of school to get inside people’s heads authentically and without aides?”

“A-a-and I do that,” he stuttered, probably insulted that I questioned his so-called area of expertise. “I assisted you with figuring out that you don’t encounter any of the symptoms when you’re preparing for fights. I assisted you with figuring out that it’s due to a control factor that you’re experiencing during those times. Right? When you have a bout coming, you put all your energy into it because you know that you’ll get ‘permission’,” he said, demonstrating with air quotes. “You’ll get the permission you need to beat the hell out of someone without consequence and you look forward to that. I’d like to think I’ve been instrumental in helping you come to those conclusions as it relates to your . . . uhhh . . . condition, for lack of a better word.”

I couldn’t help but release a few short strokes of laughter. He was right. He has definitely helped in certain areas, and more than I was willing to admit. The truth of the matter was that just the conversations with him made life a bit easier. He was pretty much the only one who knew of my struggle to gain control and have a chance at living a consistently calm life.

“See! Didn’t think I had your back, huh?” he kidded.

I swiped my right hand through my hair and let out a trapped breath of relief. I’d come in tensed-up, and now felt that for the remainder of my time in Dr. Upshaw’s office, that I could just be cool.

“You got me, Doc. There’s times where I forget even the fight itself, because I zone out.”

“Understandable.”

“But hey, I appreciate these sometimes-Sunday talks. I really do. It’s really the only place I got to come to when I know I’m about to be back in that place with the insomnia, and the anxiety and all that shit that just kinda controls me. You know?”

“I get it. The loss of your cousin and you being right there and not being able to help him. It’s a lot to take on. In the three years that I’ve known you, I see how it pains you. And you’re stronger than a lot of people because what happened to you isn’t something a lot of people would be able to live with.”

What he didn’t know was that there was a time in the days of losing Lucas that I almost wasn’t able to live with it. There were many nights and days where I couldn’t even stand to blink because the whole scene would come back, rushing me like a swarm of loose bees. I just wanted it erased or to be a nightmare—but it wasn’t.

“And you know what, Doc?”

“What?”

“My biggest regret is letting that dude get away with his own life. My biggest regret is not grabbing him right there and killing him with his own gun and standing over him, watching the life drain from his body.” I looked up at Dr. Upshaw. “That’s my biggest regret. I would rather have been doing that than watching my cousin . . . my brother . . . take his final breath.”

“Dario . . .” I heard Dr. Upshaw call out in the distance. Then, “Dario!” again, in a much firmer tone.

“What?” I said, staring through him. I didn’t realize that I was out of my seat and that my fists were clenched, until I noticed that I was looking down at him instead of across at him.

“It’s okay,” he reassured, with one palm forward. “It’s okay.”

I stared at him for a long few minutes. At least it seemed that way. My breathing had increased and my heart was beating fast and unpredictable. When I unclenched my fists, I could feel the dampness that had formed inside my palms.

“It’s not okay,” I managed. “I don’t know if it’ll ever be,” I stated on my way out of the front door of Dr. Upshaw’s office.