If you’re doing it right, leaving therapy is like getting out of school on Friday. Liberation! Accomplishment! Unburdened, I float down the narrow, dark hallway past the cheap, hollow doors to the droning of the white noise machines. I exit, embraced by sunlight, knowing I’ve earned it. “PULL to Open” instructs the Marlboro Man, and sunlight is supplanted by sticky floors and the triggering scent of raw dependence. Little bottles stand uniformly for the inspection — colorful labels appearing to jostle for position. One blueberry, one cherry, one vanilla. Wait, two blueberry. A quick one now and off to work, cured.
David Gauthier has been getting serious about his writing for about 30 years now. He spends most of his time in his Salem, Massachusetts backyard, musing.