BY REASON OF INSANITY by Edward L. Woodyard

By Reason of Insanity Chapter Thirty-Nine

House lights along Kenter were coming on as I drove up the hill toward Chrystalis. When I turned into my driveway, I saw Phyllis exit the house toward her Prius, the only vehicle parked in the driveway since Willie's Willys wasn't there. During the entire drive from the office, I had sensed something wrong at happened. However, there were no messages or texts on my eFone and I didn't want to call the psychiatric ward in the off-chance Barbara Gould would be involved somehow. That was as much rational thought as I could muster since the miasma was becoming erratic enough to make me ambivalent and overly cautious.

I was trying my damnedest not to disclose any clues to possible mental malfunctions on my part; however, I hadn't been doing a very good job of motivational camouflage or personality legerdemain. After I parked in front of the garage, I trod straight past Phyllis in a visible daze.

Unwillingly in my nonchalance, I had stoked the flames of Phyllis' anger toward me. She simply stated, "You are such a control freak."

I knew that I had struck the match myself years ago; however, I wasn't going to allow the flames to conflagrate into a wildfire. I stopped in mid-step, spun on my heels, and announced, without blinking or remorse, a confessional to her: "I don't want control. I want order. I want an oasis in this chaos called life."

Phyllis was so self-absorbed and emotionally withdrawn that she neglected to recognize my attempt to make a personal connection with her. She was oblivious as to what was happening, thinking that my current comportment reflected a normal, healthy behavior – which didn't provide confidence to me about how I acted naturally and without judgment. "It's a good thing you make the money you do to let you think like that" was her response.

"Money maintains that order."

"You think you have your act together, Adam. Just like a typical control freak. That's when you're really asking for trouble."

If she wanted defiance, then she would get it. "I'm not self-destructive like you are."

"I'm not self-destructive. I'm fat. You have to accept me for who I am."

"I don't have to accept anything. You cannot make demands on how people think and feel about you or anyone else."

"You yourself always say that thoughts and feelings are not facts about reality."

"Everyone has their own version of the truth. But then there are facts. Yes, you are fat."

"And I'm real."

"Real fat."

"Yes, that's a fact." I was not expecting that response from her. She wasn't being defensive. Truce? I tilted my head toward her, hoping she'd detect my attempt at empathy.

"Do you want to be like this?" I asked.

"I can't help it." Her answer was unacceptable, no longer worthy of my empathy.

"Cop out. You can do anything you want. If you want. Figure out why you don't want to lose weight and you'll have the answer to your psychosis."

"My psychosis?"

"It's like an asshole. Everyone has one." I didn't want to be vulgar, but I couldn't help it. The worst in her brought out the worst in me. I realized just how much I cared about her. If I didn't care, I wouldn't get so angry. Showing no emotion meant apathy. I wasn't apathetic toward her.

"Speaking of assholes, you chose the wrong field of medicine." She was on the defensive again.

"Actually, in my profession, I'm dealing with more assholes than a proctologist."

"That's how you refer to your patients?"

"They seek judgment from me. But they get immunity from prosecution and are put on parole if they're guilty of the violations that they charge themselves with."

"So, you do make judgments. You're only supposed to listen."

"We all make judgments. My patients make judgments of me as well. It's what makes us human. I just don't verbalize mine."

"Neither do I."

"No, you externalize it. You let your body do your talking for you."

"I said that I admit I'm fat."

"Then admit that your father abused you as a child and get on with your life. You're in denial. Avoidance doesn't make it go away. Doing something about what you want your life to be is the greatest route to happiness."

"So, now you're writing messages for greeting cards?" she asked, which she then followed with another question, "What's made you so hostile to me?"

"You think of life as a tragedy."

"No, I don't."

"Your waistline says differently."

"Meaning. . .?"

"The mind by itself reveals nothing of much value. It works in concert with the body. And your mind is externalizing a lot. It created your thunder thighs."

"I have control over my life, Adam. Unlike you, Adam, I'm not a control freak in trouble."

She had seen past my mask. We both knew I was in trouble, but neither of us knew why.

Phyllis wedged herself behind the steering wheel of her Prius and drove off as I went into Chrystalis to find out how Mara's day had gone. As I closed the front door behind me, I saw the feral cat loiter beyond the driveway by the iron gate to the pool.

I was thinking how that cat had a secret to living: arrive alive and survive.