I ran into this guy at the post office. He asked me if I could help him. He had letter. And he wanted me to read it to him. He couldn’t read it himself. He didn’t tell me why. I told him I would happy to.
“The letter might have personal stuff in it,” he told me.
“That’s fine,” I said.
We walked outside and stood under a small elm whose leaves were just starting to change. I read the letter to the man. It was from the a psychiatrist. He was canceling this mans treatment. At times it seemed professional. Other times it read as bitter. The letter wasn’t long. When I was done reading, I passed the letter back. The guy was doing a valiant job of holding his tears back.
He thanked me. Took a deep breath. Then he ran off.
I felt bad for the guy. I had a therapy that afternoon and I was looking forward to it. Getting a letter like that from my therapist would be brutal.
Before going to my shrink, I walked around town for a bit. I went to SALS PIZZA and got a slice. The counter faced a wall covered in pictures of the owners and his family. They were sweet pictures. They showed the owner when he was younger and had a perm. In most of the pictures, he was topless and had a soft body. I could see his nipples. I could eat pizza and stare at his nipples. It felt intimate.
I finished my slice then sat there and read for a while. Then I headed to therapy.
His office was only a few blocks away. It was across the street from Dollar General and the Tanning Salon.
It was a nice little office. Very clean. I sat in one of his leather chairs. Soft jazz played on the radio and the place smelled like tea.
We spent most of the session working on developing my Safe Place. He had me think of landscape that made me feel peaceful. He said I could use it to fight off my anxiety. Whenever I was about to have an adult temper tantrum, or just got anxious I could think of my Safe Place and it would help relax me a bit.
First he had me describe the place to him. I really took my time with that. I went into extreme detail. And he wrote it all down on. When I was done, he read the details back to me. He used this soft voice. He is usually such a nasaly geeky dude. I was not used to him sounding so sultry. And he still had smooth jazz playing in that background. It was a lot to take in.
And he kept telling me to relax.
“Just relax,” he’d say. “Be in that spot. Smell those, smells, listen to the wind in the tall grass. And relax. and just be there and relax.”
And it worked. I felt very relaxed. If I got any more relaxed I was going to take my dick out.
I didn’t want things to get weird, so I looked up. And smiled.
“I feel stoned or something,” I said.
“Well, that’s probably a good way to feel.”
“I liked that. I liked describing that place. I liked hearing my own descriptions read back to me.”
“You sounded like you knew the place you just described. Like you had been there before.”
“Sorta. Its based on the opening credits of Little House On The Prairie.”
He laughed. Well, it was more of cackle. Still, it felt kind and genuine.
We talked for a bit longer. I wanted him to read the description of my happy place to me again. But I didn’t know if I could handle him using that soft voice again. Besides we were running out of time.