A perfect husband

27

Elias

"Let's cut down to the chase, Elias—what are you feeling right now?"

I never liked to visit a shrink, not for the connotations that were once stigmatizing and shameful, but because they had always felt like a waste of time. It might have been meaningful for the client before me, a father who broke down in tears for the second time at the reception, needing to drop all that emotional baggage to a certified therapist. But for me, it was different. Being cooped in that tiny office with a doctor, telling them all my problems, as they stare down as though I was a test subject, has always seemed unflattering. Nitpicking my life choices and forcing me to do a deep analysis were some of those "exercises" they make you realize. The worst part about my weekly sections was putting aside my good day and forcefully remembering my traumas to fill in the one-hour limit; for someone else, having one hour to ventilate about their issues isn't enough.

The last time I had gone to therapy was back in college, on campus, targeted at students. And somehow, I ended up here, on the settee inside a consulting office Dr. Waters recommended. The office belonged to a short-haired woman with a gentle voice, who I quickly liked. Doctor Dorothy Monroe had a formidable personality but was careful with her words. She grew up in a predominantly white area where manners were non-existent but where she developed a generous amount of professionalism in her street-like persona.

She reiterated the confidentiality contract, the personality quiz, which felt like set and stone, and a chart regulating my stress levels. Christian was the reason why I was here. But it wasn't until much later—to fill in the empty silence—that I brought him up. Dr. Monroe never forced me. My choice to talk about Chris came out naturally.

"What do I feel?" I lifted my head, finally staring at Dr. Monroe, who had been eying me with that same intrigue over the last month I had visited her. "I have a house in a nice neighborhood with my husky and my fiancee from college. Money is never an issue." Then I paused and added. "Our wedding is next week."

Dr. Monroe stayed quiet. Her silence frustrated me because I knew she was doing this on purpose. I leaned back and lifted my hands with the need to fill in the void. "Well, doc, I've been living a lie for seven years, so you tell me—how should I feel? I'm living the fucking dream—house, wealth, a soon-to-be husband. Happy? Is that what you want to hear?"

There she goes again, leaning forward, adjusting her thick slick noir glasses that make her eyes two times bigger, examining me like some case study. Dr. Monroe could reference my issues to her other patients while protecting my identity, like when she mentioned an unknown patient who described her wedding day as going to jail. For me, that was putting it mildly.

"In human psychology, we often talk about how the human mind adjusts to seek comfort in the lies that the exterior provides."

"I heard," I said flatly. "It's best to live a lie than to suffer from the truth or something like that."

Dr. Monroe nodded, then flipped one page. On her desk, she propped my manila file, my personality quiz down the question sections—my psychological profile at her fingertips. My information was such an underrated detail that could ruin someone's life. The thought of it made my stomach ache a little, as well as my head. "How did you feel living what you call a lie?" Dr. Monroe waited for a reply. This time, I didn't give her a response. Dr. Monroe shut closed the folder. "Don't withdraw anything with me, Elias. You are paying me to dwell into yourself and find a solution."

And I am paying you to listen.

"I was happy," I said. "But that was because I didn't know what my life was before the accident. Christian. I never thought he would hide something like this."