“Not that I’m aware of,” the doctor interrupts. “People feel what they feel. Sometimes it’s nice and clear-cut, but most of the time it’s a jumble of often-contradictory things. When a person’s graduating from high school, they could very well be feeling pride in their accomplishment, but most of the people I’ve talked to on the subject mention this overwhelming sense of dread that they’re one step closer to being on their own. Then there’s the excitement for the future, the nervousness about what’s to come, the sadness of knowing a lot of the people who have been such a big part of your life are going to start going their different ways. You can feel anger that you didn’t focus better on your school work, or you could feel anger because you never got out and did anything. There’s never a single emotion going on, even when it feels like there is. The mind has to navigate a whole lifetime of experiences, and it’s this process that gives us our emotions in the moment.”
“Yeah, but what does that have to do with me?” I ask. “What does that have to do with Ash?”
“That’s just the thing,” she says. “You’ve been so used to disappointment that when a real relationship comes along with someone you could actually see a future with—it makes sense that you’d be at least a little conflicted, though I’d say you’re a lot more than a little. Do you like that? I came up with that myself.”
She was about an inch from making a solid point. Then she stopped.
“Very clever,” I say blankly. “So you’re saying that it’s because I feel something real for her that I’m screwing this up?”
“I probably would have phrased it a little differently, but yeah, that’s pretty much what’s going on,” she says.
“What about Chris getting arrested?” I ask. “This didn’t happen before then.”
“Is that really true, though?” she asks. “I’m not trying to discount the upheaval you must have felt when he was taken away, but I find it difficult to believe that there were no indications something might happen even before then.”
“So you’re calling me a liar?” I ask.
“Sit down,” she says sharply.
I don’t even think about it; I just sit.
“Now we can keep going back and forth, but frankly, I’m getting pretty tired of you reacting to everything with an immediate blast of anger,” she says.
I scoff and chuckle a little, smiling with one half of my mouth. “I thought you wanted me to start feeling my emotions,” I say.
“Yeah, but I could do without the tantrums,” she retorts. “You think you’re going to win, but you’re not.”
I’m crying. Why the hell am I crying? I’m not sad. I’m not hurt. Whatever this feeling is, it’s terrifying.
“What are you doing to me?” I ask.
Dr. Sadler passes me a tissue. “People come from all different kinds of backgrounds,” she says. “Some are good, some aren’t so good, but all are a mix of the two. Even the worst childhood isn’t without its joyful moments,” she says. “Even the best isn’t without its heartache. For you, it became very necessary early on to—forgive the pun—fight for your place in the house. It wasn’t simply given to you the way it is with most children, you had to work for every failed compliment, every quiet moment. I think the problem is that all this time, you’ve been feeling like an imposter. You feel like you have to win at all costs, but in the back of your mind, you have this burning question: ‘What happens when I lose?’”
“This isn’t about fighting,” I tell her. “Fighting is the only good thing that’s come out of my life.”
“Yet you insist on fighting in underground matches,” the doctor says. “Is that because you tried to go the other way and failed, or did you just not try?”
“Aren’t therapists supposed to be understanding?” I ask.
“We are supposed to understand,” she says. “Being understanding, on the other hand, only serves a purpose in certain situations.”
“I feel like you’re being unfair and hostile,” I tell her.
“Good,” she says.
“Good?” I ask. “You’re glad that I think you’re coming across like an officious nag?”
“Huh,” she says. “Usually another word entirely follows officious in my experience.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes a little. Smiling, she says, “I don’t think it’s the actual fighting that’s the problem. As strange as this may be to hear from someone sitting where I’m sitting, I’d say overall, it’s been a net positive in your life. That is, assuming the fighting stays in the ring.”
“I don’t get in real fights anymore,” I tell her. “Not for a long time.”
“Okay,” she says, “but you used to?”
“Frequently,” I answer.