Breakthrough (fiction)

Dr. Brown let out a deep sigh and said, “Sure, James. Meet me over at my office in a half hour.”
James felt a huge sigh of relief as he wiped away his tears and started to breathe deeply, trying to slow himself down. “OK, I’ll be there.”
James got out of bed and walked over to his bathroom. His right hand, shaking, turned the faucet hard to the right, as far as it could go so ice cold water was billowing down the sink drain. He took both hands and let the frigid water pool between his palms and spill over his thumbs. He splashed the water on his face to try and wake himself up. After a few splashes he stared at himself in the mirror, noting the humongous dark circles seemingly hanging from his bloodshot eyes.
“I have to finally let all of this go,” James said to his reflection. “I’ll die in a year if I keep doing this to myself.”
With that, he hastily threw on a pair of Levi’s jeans and a dark, oversized hooded sweatshirt and pulled the hood hard over his face, so he could barely see in front of him. Even though it was late, he didn’t want anyone snooping around his house to see him leaving and follow him, taking pictures and antagonizing him. He was ready to bare the last part of his soul he was hanging onto for dear life, like a small child when he gets scared at his first circus. His hands still shaking, he bent down and tried to tie his jet black sneakers. It took a few tries before he could steady his fingers enough to pull the laces tight. James got into his Lexus and finally got onto Route 300, passing by all the familiar sights he has known for over 20 years now. Newburgh is dead by the time 2:30 a.m. rolls around. There were no other cars on the road as James tried to calm his nerves when he rolled down his blacked-out, tinted windows to get some air.
He figured he was going to be early and have to wait for Dr. Brown to unlock his office, so he slowed down a bit seeing that no one was on the road to tail gate him. James was still nervous, but he felt a little more at ease knowing he was finally going to tell Dr. Brown was he was at heart a bitter, angry individual. Where it all started from. James had heard it for years, the whole, “You can’t treat the problem itself, you have to treat the cause of the problem.” Well, James thought, here’s the cause. If I can’t make myself better from here then I’m doomed for life.
James shuddered violently at that thought. He didn’t want to be one of those people who lived holed up in their mansions surrounded by boatloads of cash with no one to share it with, no one to love, no way of ever enjoying life. He got what he wanted, he never really had to work again in his life, and he knew that. But, he had to convince his psyche of this, and that seemed impossible until now.
James finally got to Dr. Brown’s office on Union Avenue, surprised to see Dr. Brown was already waiting in his car puffing on a cigarette, the smoke wasping gracefully out of his window and evaporating into the pitch-black, early morning sky.
“Sorry I’ve kept you waiting, doctor,” James said as he walked toward Dr. Brown’s car to shake his hand.
“No problem, I just got here. Let’s get inside,” Dr. Brown said. He was in no mood for this. While he always told his patients they could call whenever, his patience had finally reached its end with James. If this session went nowhere, he decided he would be through with James permanently. Dr. Brown and James both walked into his office, and as Dr. Brown rifled through his desk to find a fresh pad, James lowered his hood and slowly sank into a plush, brown leather chair. His hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly, so much so they probably would have stayed there forever if not for the fact that his hands were so sweaty they kept slipping off the arms of the chair.
“OK James,” Dr. Brown said softly as he pulled the bottom drawer of his desk out so he could put his feet up, “We need to really break through here. I have to tell you, there’s nothing else I can do for you unless you can tell me now the root of this anger, this me-against-the-world mentality you still have even though you tell me you have everything you want in life, materialistically. You have a lot on the line.”
“I know,” James said, taking a deep breath. “I never want to feel the way I did earlier today. That heart attack scared the shit out of me. I know I have many more years to live and experiences I want to have.”
“Good,” Dr. Brown said, nodding approvingly at James. “So let’s hear it.”
James took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He said a quick prayer, because James also felt in his heart God wanted him to finally let all of this go. He wasn’t supposed to leave this earth yet.
“I’ve often been asked why I’m such an angry person,” James started, clasping his hands together and cracking his knuckles, the sharp noise shooting through the otherwise quiet office. “You know, ‘Why I am so vindictive and bitter, why I can transform into such a surly, mean person at the drop of a hat.’ People say, ‘Hey, this douche bag has it all and he’s still pissed off at the world. What else does he need?’”
“I really have given it a lot of thought, because I don’t want to be angry and bitter all my life. I want to be able to take life’s punches with grace and assurance, honestly,” James said. He paused, took another deep breath, and continued.
“For some reason, I have never been able to do that since at least high school … probably more around middle school. Time has started to blur things, as I’m already out of college and never really want to go back.”
“Get to the point, no one wants to really go back to school once they’re done,” Dr. Brown said matter-of-factly. He wanted James to stop storytelling like he’s famous for and dig deep.
James, ever the storyteller, continued. “I kept on struggling, trying to find that one incident, that one word that set me off for years of being absolutely angry on the inside, always seething, always simmering and just waiting to explode. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and surprise surprise, I was getting angry with myself. How could I not know why I am the way I am?”
“Most people make themselves literally crazy trying to figure that out, why they are the way they are,” Dr. Brown said, lifting his eyes from his padfolio. “It’s a very complex question and most people just give up and try to live in the present.”
“I know doc, but I overanalyze everything,” James said, leaning forward in the leather chair. “I was thinking, ‘Really? I’m so shallow I can’t even figure this out? I’m doomed for life!” James exclaimed, throwing his sweaty hands up into the air. Dr. Brown knew James talked with a great deal of body language, so this did not faze him and he kept dutifully scrawling notes with his fountain pen on the pad as James continued.
“All of a sudden, after I got home from the hospital, it all clicked,” James said. “It goes all the way back to fourth or fifth grade. Little League put me on my internal, diabolical path toward bitterness and anger.”
Dr. Brown leveled his eyes at James, accusingly looking at him through his gold-rimmed bifocals. “Are you playing games with me?” he asked, suspicion saturating his tone. “I’m being totally serious, doctor,” James said, softening his voice and speaking barely above a whisper. “I saw my life flash before my eyes, and I never want that to happen again until it’s really time for me to die.”
Dr. Brown felt ashamed. The look in James’ eyes spoke volumes to his sincerity, he thought. He could really feel James was ready to finally submit himself to get help.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Brown said, taking off his glasses and placing them softly on top of his desk. “Go on.”
James took another deep breath and sank back into his chair, letting his back sink into plush leather. “It was actually encouraged by my coach, and I know he meant well. Whenever I would go out and pitch, he’d tell me to ‘get angry and get mean’ out on the mound. I had to put my game face on. I had to come off like I was tough, angry and ready to throw the ball past you. Baseball is all about the mental aspect, I don’t care what anyone says. ‘Fake it ‘til you make it’ is so true.”
Dr. Brown and James both smiled at that, because they both believed it. James then took his hands and started motioning them in a circle around his stomach. “I was chubby, slightly overweight and out of shape,” James started. “Not morbidly obese, but I was not like most children my age who were skinny and athletic. I had some natural talent in baseball, but my coach wanted to push me farther and get me to reach my maximum performance, like any good coach should.”
“Of course,” Dr. Brown said. “No coach should allow their players to underachieve. Sometimes they may use the wrong tactics, but normally their heart is in the right place.”
James quickly said, “Oh, I totally understand that. He’s a great guy. I’m not angry with him about this. Anyway, apparently getting angry was the way to do maximize my potential. I always listened to this coach. He taught me a lot about baseball and myself.”
James stopped for a second and looked up toward the ceiling, quickly remembering the good times out on the secluded little league field surrounded by dense woodland. “It was honestly the only years I really enjoyed baseball. After that, I just hated the game, hated the politics and hated that I felt forced to play to make everyone around me happy,” James said wistfully, twisting himself from the waist in the chair in order to crack his back. Dr. Brown winced. He hated it when his patients felt the need to “pop” their bones during sessions.
James switched positions, squirming in the chair. He continued, “Despite the great respect I have for this man, I really wish his advice had backfired on me. The angrier I got, the harder I threw. The harder I threw, the more outs I got and I was a pretty damn good pitcher. No bullshit. Not many had thought I could make the conversion from infielder to pitcher, but I had done it. I was throwing complete games and always racking up wins for my team. I did it by being angry, getting mad. I was always looking pissed off on the mound, and the only way I could really achieve that was by thinking of things that had happened in the past. Jokes in elementary school, feeling like an outcast and being the “dorky” one were just a few thoughts I would constantly run through my head.”
“Out there on the mound, I was getting my revenge one strikeout at a time. So with each victory, each conquest on the diamond, I felt my anger was pushing me to my success. I figured that is what I needed to get what I wanted out of life. This whole idea of bitterness and the ‘me-against-the-world mentality,’” James said, clearing his throat and taking a sip of bottled water.
“I really wish it hadn’t worked, so I could have thought using anger as a tool was an awful idea and saved years of sadness, aggravation and avoided some of my later train wrecks in life I had to dig myself out of,” James said, shaking his head regretfully. Dr. Brown kept quiet, furiously scribbling notes in his pad as James went on.
“Unfortunately,” James continued, “it stuck after that spring and summer. It turned out to lead to years of using it to try and get me where I thought I should be.”
“Harnessing anger is good, if you can do it in a healthy way,” Dr. Brown said, finally giving his pen a rest. “However, using it to try and set up a fake world where everyone is out to get you is only going to make you the way you are now—deeply depressed, bitter and angry. I’m glad you’re finally starting to see how it is ruining your life.”
James nodded solemnly in agreement. “In my juvenile, pre-adolescent head I sincerely thought that using my anger, being pissed off all the time, would make me more successful. Nice guys finish last. Get angry, get mean and get your revenge. Use all the things that have happened in the past, all those bad memories you want to forget and outgrow, and use them as your motivation to make everyone kiss your ass and leave them in your wake of success and fame,” James said while lowering his head, embarrassed at how monumentally, unbelievably stupid that sounded to him now.
“Deep down, I have always been a dreamer despite my outward practicalities. I spent my days daydreaming about better things, fame, glamour, nice cars, gorgeous women, et cetera et cetera. But while I was daydreaming, I was doing all my homework, going to bed early and starting projects weeks before they were due. Not many knew about the idealist, the day dreamer in me. That was kept locked away so no one could make fun of me for yet another part of me that I could not control.”
Dr. Brown shot James a look, his eyes burning through James. He got the hint. “Anyway, I’m digressing,” James said quickly. “So, when I had a taste of success by being angry and pretending it was me against the big, bad, unadulterated world, I decided that was how I needed to be in everything. I had to make everything I was doing into a life-or-death situation. I had to get the girl. I had to get good grades. I had to clear up my skin. I had to make the high school baseball team. So when things in my life did not go my way, the idealist in me who thought I should get everything I want and desire because I work hard combined with the bitter, angry person inside me saying everyone was out to get me and I needed to be pissed off in order to make things right turned me into a monster.”
James stopped for a moment. “Well, maybe not a monster,” he said. “Maybe … well … oh forget it,” James stammered. “I can’t kid myself anymore. There’s really no better way to say it. I morphed myself into an absolute monster.”
A thin smile tried to creep out on Dr. Brown’s heavily jowled face. James is finally coming clean with himself. He’s exposing himself and showing the chinks in his armor. He’s ready, Dr. Brown thought to himself. “Go on, James,” he said.
James pinched the bridge of his nose with his right thumb and forefinger, took another deep breath and went on. “Everything just started to snowball for me when try as hard as I might I couldn’t get everything I wanted. It really blinded me. Mary didn’t reject me because she was out to get me and make my life miserable. I wrote her a corny poem. It was as simple as that, she just wasn’t interested. If you read the poem, you would think the same thing.”
Dr. Brown and James both shared a chuckle after that, and it seemed to further loosen James up. He rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt as he spoke further. “I should have just moved on, but no. I obsessed over it so much that I would make myself physically sick. Same with not making the baseball team, having acne problems, the whole nine yards.”
“On the whole, really my life wasn’t all that bad. But to me, accepting defeat meant I was less of a person. I had to take all these small defeats and make them bigger than they were and make myself believe everyone was out to get me. When I knew everyone was against me, I would get angry and just push harder and harder, thinking my reward would be that when I achieved great success I could tell everyone where they could stick it, shove it, kiss it, you name it,” James said forcefully, slapping the arm of his chair.
Dr. Brown, scribbled down a question to himself quickly and then stopped James. “Where there any other instances where you used your anger for the wrong reasons, and you were successful because of it?” he asked, leaning forward and pulling the drawer he used to rest his feet back in while planting the feet firmly on the industrial, light blue carpeting. “I mean, while you may have done well in Little League for a few years because of anger. That alone could not have sustained you for the next 15 years or so. There has to be some other ‘victories’ along the way to allow you to continue your way of thought in regard to using anger and bitterness.”
James swallowed hard. It was hard admitting to someone just how stupid he had been for so many years, but he knew he had to continue on. This can only help things, James thought.
“There was this other girl later on in high school, Jennifer, who I really liked,” James said. “She rejected me, kind of lied to me about things. It was typical high school stuff. Who cares, anyway? You should recognize you don’t need someone like that and move on. Anyway, because I was so immature, of course I made it out to be the worst thing ever and I did a lot of things I really should not have done. You already know about those things, and I really don’t want to get into it again.”
Dr. Brown nodded his head, moving James along. “But then my senior year,” James continued, “there was this competition she had won the year before. You had to write an essay and then record yourself reading it and you could win a small prize. My senior English teacher glorified Jennifer, telling her everything she did was so great. At least that’s what I made myself think, anyway. So, I didn’t want her to have the satisfaction of winning again. I was still pissed at her for rejecting me and I wanted revenge. At that point in high school, I knew I was a decent writer and I wanted to try and make some money.”
“Well, I went out and bought the ‘8 Mile’ soundtrack so I could listen to Eminem, a hero to me. I blared that in my CD player as I laid on my stomach on the floor in my bedroom, and I wrote something about what democracy meant to me. All the while, though, I was really thinking about how much I wanted her to lose. My freedom to think as I chose was entirely spent on how badly I wanted to get back at her in a subliminal way by winning this contest. I didn’t give a shit about the spirit of the writing competition—I wanted to win.”
“I cringe now when I think about it,” James said, sadness contorting his mouth into a perpetual frown. “Now, I wish I hadn’t won. I really didn’t deserve it because my heart wasn’t in it. Unfortunately, I did win. I won the school, maybe the county and almost the region. It was awhile ago, I don’t remember exactly how it broke down. It was proof to me again that I could use my anger to get myself ahead and get my vengeance. And really, what revenge did I get? Jennifer didn’t know why I did it, why I wanted to win. She never did, and she still doesn’t. But in my warped world, it was proof for me that I could do whatever I wanted if I could get angry enough to propel myself.”
By this time, James had put his face in his hands and started sobbing, his tears and snot mixing together and making whatever further words he spoke unintelligible. Dr. Brown gave him a box of tissues and put his hand on James’ right shoulder as James blew his nose and tried to compose himself.
“You’re digging deep, James,” Dr. Brown said softly into James’ ear. “I’m proud of you, do you want to keep going?”
James nodded affirmatively, and Dr. Brown sat at his desk waiting for James to go on.
“Every little obstacle I faced I made into a little meal to feed to my anger and bitterness beast inside me,” James said, his tears still choking him. “Instead of clearly thinking about things and trying to fix myself so I could make myself better, and improve the situation at hand, I made myself believe there wasn’t a problem with me. It was ‘them’. ‘Them’ could really have been anyone to me. It didn’t matter. To be honest with you, I’ve known for years now my anger is really the problem above all else, the stress I make myself encounter because I am a perfectionist, and I take setbacks as major failures. I feel like I’m disappointing everyone, and no matter who tries to tell me differently, I don’t really listen to them. What do they know, anyway? They’re just trying to soften me up. Well, now that it’s turned into major health problems I really do want to try and fix it. I’ve tried in the past to let go of my anger, to just take things as they come—to be successful for the right reasons. To accept all the mistakes I’ve made in my life and learn from them instead of blaming others. I’ve cheated. I’ve smoked. I’ve drank so much I’ve blacked out and had no fucking idea where I was when I woke up—when it was my own driveway and couldn’t figure out how to undo my seatbelt or get out of the car. I’ve sped so fast I should have died. I’ve weaved through traffic and hung U-turns in the middle of busy roads because of my anger. I’ve done plenty of awful things, and I think I have made some progress … a lot of it is probably age and maturity. But as far as the anger goes, I’ve failed time and time again. I really want to be better now, I know in my heart I’m ready to become the person I know my parents wanted me to be. And if I can release this anger, this bitterness, this ridiculous idealism interwoven with my temperament—I know I can improve my life hundreds of times over. I know this isn’t it, that’s for damn sure.”
James shifted in the chair, and stared directly at Dr. Brown, who had closed his padfolio and was listening intently with his hands clasped together in front of him. “Doctor, I think that’s all I have. Is this going to help?” James pleadingly asked.
Dr. Brown quickly replied, “James, you know you have a problem, you know what started it. I know your past now, through these sessions. I’m going to be here with you every step of the way. You will get better, because I think you’ve learned your lesson and you really took everything to heart. I could have never gotten this out of you last month when you first came to me. You had this wall around you and you refused to let me, or anyone else, in. I just thought you had lost touch with society and felt everyone owed you something for your services, but I now know that’s not the case at all. Your heart is in the right place, and from here, everything else will follow.”
James finally let out a wide smile, his teeth glimmering as he wiped straggler tears from his cheeks. “I just want to be able to let all this anger, this mentality, go,” James said, still smiling. “I don’t want to pass this onto anyone. I want it to die right here, right now.”
“Well,” Dr. Brown said, “I think we can kill it. Maybe not right now at this second, but I finally know you’re ready to improve yourself and make yourself better. Meet back here at 4:30 p.m. next Monday.”
With that, Dr. Brown and James walked out of the office and back into their cars. For Dr. Brown, it made him remember why he had become a psychiatrist 20 years ago. He wanted to help people, and sometimes, life just got in the way and meddled with that original desire. As he drove back to his house to put on a pot of coffee, James turned on the ignition to his car and sped away, deciding he was going to take a car trip in order to clear his head, to get him ready for what would be the hardest conversion in his life. James knew exactly where he needed to go.
James raced home and rifled through his bedroom, packing everything he would need for a few days. He threw some hundred dollar bills into his billfold and a credit card, just in case. He brought his bag full of clothes and toiletries down to his Lexus and drove away, getting on to Route 300 and then the New York State Thruway. He got off at Exit 14A—the Garden State Parkway, back to Jersey.