The new counselor was tall, and broad, and decorated by many capital letters. She had lost count. Had there been four, or five, in a lifetime, already? You paid them to listen. That’s what they did for you. Store bought best friends.
He’d mentioned the voice you always heard in your head. Yourself, talking back, echoing the steady stream of reprimand. Correction. Instruction. Admonishment. There were whole treatises, waiting in the dark corners of the amygdala, ready to erupt into brain battering sing song at a moment’s notice.
But, now, she was ready. The time had come to reboot her mind.
Seemed that getting off the sugar craving was the defining moment. Feeling grounded, in touch, able to proceed, to follow through.
Now, how, exactly, was she to make all this happen? Seems mindful meditation was the answer.
Yes. She could do that. She could call up her defining emotional state. She knew it well. Press the button: That Was Easy.
But, dispensing with its crushing force? Bombarding it, atomically? This bike she could not ride.
Her mind had always been her favorite companion. Brimming with cinematic spectacle. She was three years old, begging mother to spell words for her so she could enter them in the rapidly diminishing spaces of the paper upon which she had already illustrated the whole scene. A tiny person’s first attempt at telling the story.
Later, the fantasies which fleshed out a fledgling’s longings could never, repeat that, never be surpassed by reality.
Now, a sort of regression was setting in. A return to the coveys of escape. Anything to dull what other people called “psychic pain”.
Talking back. She was rather adept. Her poor, late mother knew well with what rapidfire retort she could diminish a reprimand. Now, she must employ this liege against herself.
Not so fast.
© Ruth Ann Scanzillo
9/20/15 All rights reserved. Thank you.