Dystopia part 6....written by Corey the investmentfool

Dystopia, the book by Corey the investmentfool...con't

The rant began with him looking at the tower of books on the far wall of the office, books like ‘Happiness Now’, ‘Man’s Search For Meaning’, and ‘Meditation For Dummies’. All of which he had read, or partially read, over the years, and were at that moment particularly annoying pieces of shit. The rant was a mix of self-pity and justifications and was occasionally interrupted with him searching her face for an answer. The answer. She kept up with the tirade, indulging
every thought and concern.

“I’m sober for nearly a year, praying, applying for jobs and even getting interviews. So
what the fuck else am I suppose to do?”

It was true. He had been sober for eleven months and a week after too much Vicodin and liquor had landed him on his back in the middle of the desert somewhere outside Palm Springs. His complaint regarding finding a job wasn’t invalid, but he felt guilty overemphasizing his efforts. He hadn’t applied himself as much as he felt he could to either sobriety or job- searching. He suddenly remembered he was supposed to meet up with his sponsor at a meeting that night.

“And how are the meds working out?” This irritated him about the practice of psychology. Self-analysis. You’re basically asking a crazy person how crazy they are and if they were less crazy because of a drug they don’t know anything about.

“Well, my skin hasn’t fallen off,” he said, sarcastically, though it wasn’t completely unfounded. One of the side effects of P-Meds he was on was Philips-Johnson Syndrome:

“In Stevens-Johnson syndrome, a person has blistering of mucous membranes, typically in the mouth, eyes, and vagina, and patchy areas of rash. In toxic epidermal necrolysis, there is a similar blistering of mucous membranes, but addition the entire top layer of the skin (the epidermis) peels off in sheets from large areas of the body. Both disorders can be life threatening.”

“I’m pretty sure I was manic last week.” he added. She continued to pity him.

Before he knew it was the clock on the wall read 11:35am and he felt no closer to getting
the answer than he had thirty-five minutes before.

“How is your mother doing?” she asked.

Suddenly, all the other thoughts disappeared and were replaced by an overwhelming
sense of dread.

“I don’t know,” he said. He did know.

“Is she getting better?” she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders and felt his body sink deeper into the couch. “They said she
was fine, but now there’s this other thing.” Suddenly his phone vibrated in his pocket. His therapist frowned, empathetically.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Some stomach thing,” he said.

“Are you ready for the interview?” she asked.

He shook his head like he was shaking off a kickball to the head. She sat back, clearly realizing the switch was a bit abrupt.
“I’m as ready as I will ever be,” he said, then disagreed with himself silently.

It was 11:48am and he suddenly became angry with her. They had arrived no closer to the solution, to the answer, he needed for everything to finally be okay. What a fucking waste of time, he thought. And money! He was twenty dollars more in the hole, and still no closer to a way out. Hope, it seemed, was a bottomless vortex that drained him of his spiritual, and financial, resources. But it was also an addictive delusion. And so, like a slot machine to its gambler, would eventually suck him of all his cents.
“Okay, our time is up,” she said and took a moment of silence to look at him with emphasized compassion. “How would you like to pay this week?” He pulled out his wallet and removed a $20 bill and handed it to her. He always felt weird about that; embarrassed and a little dirty, like he was paying for sex.

“See you next week, “ she said as she ushered him to the door and into the lobby where troubled faces met his with feigned smiles. He grinned back politely. He disliked them, imaging they probably complained about being overweight or ugly. He agreed with them. The phone vibrated again.