Requiem of the Ivory Bride: An Ode to the Seven Deadly Sins

Interlude III

The doctor sighed, releasing his lack of immediate words into the air with one loud exhale. "To have gone through that and seen that must have been really hard. Is that why you feel as though you shy away from others now?"

"Well, I'm constantly surrounded by others. Even if they're not there, the ghost of them is. I don't know if having Felicia go through that would keep me from others as much as people are just shit; they can't be trusted," I coldly responded, sick of the doctor already.

"I find it interesting that you jump to these conclusions as though you have indeed lived these experiences. Unless you have?"

The question lingered on the air, and I didn't know how to answer.

"Truth is truth, I guess," I simply replied. How could I answer his questions?

"Unless what one sees as truth is in fact delusion." His eyes bored into me, gauging if I knew the truth or not.

"Respectfully, Doctor, I just cannot agree. Who are you to say that someone's truth isn't valid, isn't their personal truth? I mean, we all have these realities we live in, that's the lens in which we view the world. To say that something I believe isn't true just because it doesn't line up in your own sphere of truth - isn't that just another system of oppression? 'Think the way I think lest ye be cast into the firey pits of hell?'"

"Is that the way you feel? Do you believe you're going to hell?" I noticed he didn't answer my question.

Not this again. "Who really knows? Only the one making those decisions can tell us where we'll end up. I can only speak to myself."

"And what do you believe about yourself?" he asked, seemingly disinterested.

"At this point, I just want to get better."

He nodded, still not satisfied he wasn't getting me to answer anything the way he wanted. This is what drives me nuts about big-headed people: they already have their conclusions about others, so why do they feel they need to even ask? Do they really care what the answer is? Or do they make up their own truths as they go along, as long as it fits within their preconceived notions?

He flipped into my file once more. I sighed. I hated that damned file. I wanted to be whole, and told the truth about where I've been and how I've struggled. Now it's just fodder for discussion on how sick I am. But am I really the sick one, or am I just being honest and real whereas others pretend they're not?

"How does Sarah pertain to your recovery?" he asked, loudly making a checkmark on the list of people we needed to talk about. Because to him it was that easy: mark it off the list, then it was done. Or was it?

"I'm not sure, but she's still in my life," I replied before uncrossing then re-crossing my legs. I dived into her story with no qualms - did he care anyway if what I said didn't fit with his version of truth?