Thank God I had an appointment with my therapist the next morning. I usually dreaded our little parent-forced sessions, but I truly needed to talk to someone at that moment in time, or I might officially lose the last of the marbles I was grasping.
It was a while in the session before I broached the topic, but a back-and-forth about the consequences of my solidarity provided a nice, defensive segue.
“So how often do you interact with other people, on average?” My therapist asked from behind thick glasses and a clumsy plume of grey hair which tickled down at her eyes.
“At least a few times a day,” I said in a tone I’m sure could not have sounded more defensive.
“I mean, true human interaction. Conversation. Feeling. Touch. Not just a please, thank you with the clerk at the store, an ‘is that seat open?’ From a classmate.”
“Uh, I don’t really know.”
“I know it might seem hard, but I think you need to make an effort to include more interaction in your life. I understand it’s not easy.”
“I don’t think you truly understand what I’m going through?”
“I think you’re right. You haven’t been overly forthcoming with exactly what has been troubling you.”
I couldn’t believe I outright said it. I immediately swallowed my tongue.
“What are you haunted by?”
I waited a long time to respond.
“An ex-girlfriend? Your mom mentioned you left a girlfriend up in Oregon, but you broke up. Classmate who spurned you?”
“No. I have no idea who she is.”
“So it’s the idea of a girl?”
“NO. IT’S A FUCKING GHOST. A FUCKING GIRL GHOST IN MY GRANDMA’S FUCKING HAUNTED HOUSE.”