The Chronic Complainer
written by: David C Russell
His words or observations had cut to the quick; my words too, sharp, acerbic, and ironic – I viewed as part of an ongoing game, a contest. My MSW therapist for months knew me as Haley. So had most people. Most days, there were sporadic pleasantries, small talk, but my cynicism was alive and kicking.
Acerbic observations by me happened within moments after being seated to begin session twenty-six. “Your nameplate, Jeff Barber, MSW, is but identification of the person in this office. No one really knows your credentials do they?” I charged.
His facial expression appeared hot as he stood up, stared at me and said, “You have a chronic sneering disbelief in sincerity or integrity.” His yardstick, like his spoken diagnosis, hit his DSM Manual with a resounding snap; he sat down and resumed a neutral pose.
“Wow,” I said, adding, “Did you see this session starter in a flick while dreaming about your own shit?” As you put it, “I have a chronic sneering disbelief in sincerity or integrity.”
“Yes Haley. And I have written notes from our past weekly sessions to back it up. We agreed to twenty-eight sessions, and we have two remaining. I think it’s time we come up with a plan for you to execute now and after session twenty-eight,” he said.
“You have earned $2800 from me for letting me rant and rave about my drab, colorless life. Does this mean your latest purchase to enjoy life is about paid up?” I charged.
“It’s not about me. It’s about you taking up the mantle and making change if you want a lifestyle free from being a hermit and ongoing loneliness,” he said.
“Is this the intro to the settle down, get married, have children lecture?” I asked.
“Take it for whatever you want it to be.” His tone had a hint of whatever, and he added, “I think a twelve-step program for grouchy adults should exist. I see enough of this segment of society,” he said.
“Do you lump the grouchy with the sneering disbelief in people who lack sincerity and integrity?” I asked. Over the months, we had developed a pattern where I would needle him with something said. I took delight in trying to throw him off his game. Perhaps I would cause this MSW by degree to stand on the precipice?
Would my display of cynicism lead to a client/therapist acrimonious quarrel?
“You are an attractive woman, but your tentacles are right out there scraping or cutting anyone who gives a damn about you,” he said.
“Do you give a damn about me?” I asked.
“Whether I do or don’t is not of your concern. You admitted from the start that life for you held little quality. My note here states you asking for a therapist who would perhaps nudge your imagination to birth a quality life,” he said.
“I suppose I have put people at a distance. It fits, doesn’t it? When you live through a childhood marked with instability, plans constantly changing, normal as abnormal, one develops a protective shell from the chronic incidence of disappointment,” I said. He wrote something, remained silent. A sense of glee washed over me; would he realize all that friggin head knowledge came to naught when confronted with the “real stuff” of life?
I took a mint from my backpack and enjoyed its flavor as we sat in the unspoken.
From the big picture, twenty-six sessions, my therapist liked to challenge rather than comment. At times, annoyance was the side effect experienced from the execution of his skill set. The session opener was a new way to dispel or create annoyance, his and mine.
I stopped by my favorite watering hole after having left therapy session number twenty-six. The wall speakers played mellow classic rock tunes. I knew the staff by now, and this day was three-dollar burger day at the Peanut Barrel. The place had been in business for years, and my grandparents had spoken of going there in the mid-’70s. They enjoyed a band claiming the group sounded exactly like the group, The Eagles. Grandpa had a crush on one of the waitresses, but Grandma claims she kept his wild oats side in check. My family history seems to begin and end in Michigan’s capital city, Lansing.
“You’re looking reflective today. What’s going on?” Nick, the bartender, asked. He was genuinely cheerful, but paid to be so. His gray hair did have a distinguishing aspect to it and in some way complemented his persona.
“Oh – just thinking about stuff. Do you think of me as a chronic cynic?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t say chronic, but you do like to set the record straight,” he said with a slight chuckle.
“I’m not paying you to be nice; just tell me straight up,” I said.
“No, I’m leaving my answer as spoken,” Nick said. He then turned his attention to a couple two seats to the left of me.
The song “Time For Me To Fly” played as I contemplated departure a couple of hours later, two burgers consumed, three dark beers ingested, and snippets of conversation having occurred.
A few days later, I had a tennis date with Barry, who was a computer tech at the power utility where we were employed. We walked from the utility to the nearby tennis courts on a hazy, humid, cloudy afternoon. The feel of a brewing storm was in the air.
This seeming optimist always smiled, often said hello if paths crossed. He suggested we become acquainted over games of tennis. I liked his approach.
“Shoot, are we going to get rained out?” I asked. Clouds were starting to burst, and sprinkles had begun to fall.
“Hope not. I have had enough of broken surge protectors, outages, windows being down, or replaced keyboards due to human error to last till 2030,” he said, smile wide.
“You play much?” I asked as we walked toward our respective court positions.
“Enough. I’m in a local group that plays here most Tuesday evenings.” A clap of thunder sounded in the distance as he added, “we also have photography interests in common.”
Barry appeared athletic but not overly possessed with bodybuilding.
“Photography?” I asked.
“Mostly nature scenes, bridges, historic sites, stuff like that. How about you?”
“I have been more a loner. I keep to myself much of the time,” I said.
“I notice you tend to do lunch hours by yourself. Is there…” A thunder clap resonated over his final words. I suggested we get on with our match as a second thunder clap sounded. Rainfall had remained sprinkles.
Barry illustrated agility, which I met with quickness in returning his volley. He slightly scored higher to win the first set.
“Not sure if we can get in a second set. Want to go get a drink instead?” He asked.
“We walked didn’t we? So our chances of getting soaked have increased,” I said.
A third thunder clap was accompanied by bright lightning. Barry winced or grimaced and laid flat on the court.
“Were you struck?” I asked. He didn’t answer for a few moments, so I repeated the question. His hand went to his left shoulder. His scalp had the appearance or color of fire. I had not seen anything like this! The tennis racket lay beside him.
“Haley, 911 please, ASAP,” he said, voice slightly above a whisper.
I was taken aback. Few persons asked me to do something outside of work. Barry had made a request, a request of me for help. “Darn,” I thought. I felt a sense of dizziness overcome me at this reality.
“Did you place the call?” he asked.
“I will, doing so right now.”
The EMS people arrived within minutes and transported Barry to Sparrow Hospital; I walked to the bus stop. I had taken a few minutes to decide on the course of action: go to the hospital or consider the date ended by nature?
Clearly, I wasn’t immediate or extended family. Information concerning Barry would be protected. What’s this woman to do?
One bus passed, and it was nearly twenty minutes before the next arrived at the stop. As cars and pedestrians passed during my wait, I looked up information online about the potential results from lightning strikes on people. Considerations included after-effects like seizures, memory loss, or heart complications. Of course, these would reveal themselves later. An indirect strike would leave at the least superficial burns called Lichtenberg lines; these are fern-like according to description.
I took the second bus and went to the hospital, which was but a short ride. Barry would have been here for under an hour, but long enough to get registered and treatment started.
I asked the desk clerk where one could find a named person? I was directed to the waiting area in Triage. There, I met a volunteer who appeared to be about my age, wore a sleeveless sweater, a cross around her neck, and a patronizing smile. She asked about my purpose.
I told her that the patient, Barry Brennan, was a friend, and heard he was struck by lightning. I wondered at his condition.
She excused herself to go find a nurse or someone who could provide me twith hat information. The wait turned out to be close to forty minutes. I occupied myself reading an old news magazine from 2012 that was on an end table.
“Excuse me,” said another hospital staff member approaching me from the right.
“I understand you are looking for information concerning Barry Brennan?”
I nodded, “Yes.”
The person, dressed in a hospital uniform, asked my relation to Barry?
“Barry’s a friend, co-worker,” I answered.
He said, “Only general, basic, information was dispensed to friends.”
“I’ll accept that,” I said.
“Fortunately, your friend has seemed to gain only superficial burns from this on his shoulder, and his hair was partially singed.”
“That explains perhaps the reason his scalp had the color of fire to it,” I said.
He indicated that no further information would be revealed unless so authorized by the patient.
“Does policy permit patients to receive texts?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s a free country as of two minutes ago,” the hospital employee responded.
I thanked this person for their time; as they walked away, I sent Barry a text before I left to return home.
A couple weeks later, I had the final session with my MSW Therapist, Jeff Barber.
“Last week you told me about your effort to be a good Samaritan with your friend from work. Any news about his condition?” Jeff asked.
“He has been released and living temporarily with his brother in Grand Ledge.”
“A relatively short distance by car,” Jeff said.
“I sent him a couple texts, and he hasn’t responded,” I said.
“How about a phone call instead?” Jeff asked.
“I don’t want to….”
“You don’t want to be put off,” Jeff interrupted. He had done it again in usual fashion.
“The expression on your face invalidates your possible words,” he said, tone emphatic.
“Okay, okay. I’m just a groveling woman who has become and will likely remain insipid to others for the rest of her natural days.” At this admission, I was reduced to tears. My defenses had given way.
After a few moments, Jeff said in soft tone, “You had a break-through didn’t you? Your reaction is quite natural for one who covers reality up for hours, days, perhaps months.”
“No one is getting on my case?” I asked.
“Not here. In fact, after today your case will be closed as we agreed. You have been told return visits are your choice, your prerogative. Personally, I hope you may choose to avail yourself of this option on occasion.” We exchanged smiles.
“All right. I will call Barry in a day or two when it feels natural for me.”
“That too is your choice of when and where,” Jeff said.
We spent the final minutes discussing the pros and cons of our seven-month journey as therapist and client.
“Your clarion call is to stop acting like a porcupine much of the time, and become more a human being not a human doing.”
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