I, Immortal

“I don’t know what other way to explain all this to you Doctor.”

He kept his eyes down as he jotted scribble upon his notepad. I questioned whether he truly was listening. After six psychiatrists and a four-month bout at a mental institution trapped in a small white room hugging myself in a straight jacket, he’d better be listening.

“I mean, the more I try to re-explain myself to everyone, I find myself losing my grip with reality.” I swallowed the large lump in the middle of my throat. “What do you make of all this?”
He finished the last of his notes and looked up at me. His left index finger tapped his bottom lip as he struggled to respond. He couldn’t stay quiet. He had to make use of the doctoral degree boastfully hanging on the wall behind him. He took a deep breath. “What do you make of all this?” he asked.

I chuckled. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. With all the media-buzz around me, he just wanted the opportunity to sit with me. Is what everyone’s been saying true? Does she honestly believe that she’s discovered liquid gold; Ponce de Leon’s very own “fountain of youth.”

“What do you think you’re saying?” he asked.

“I thought that’s what I came to you to figure out,” I said, “Isn’t this your cue to chime in here?”

“I want to fully understand the scope of all this.”

“Isn’t that why I came to you? So you could tell me?”

He sat quietly. I asked a good question. All that left room for was a good answer. He pressed his index fingers together and stared blankly at me. He tried to determine the best way to approach all this without sounding like a moron. He wanted to help. He wanted me to confide in him so that he could be the guy that gets through to me. He yearned to be the person that can honestly say,

“Hey, I figured her all out.” Truthfully, I wanted him to be that person too. It’d be nice to have someone else rummaging through my brain. I’d be grateful. He smiled. “How about we start at the beginning.”