i have this fantasy of rupi kaur as my therapist
by Britni Newton
“I have this fantasy of Rupi Kaur as my therapist”, I say, while he passes the slowly burning joint across the bed to me.
“Can you really call therapy a fantasy?” With trauma and OCD, anything can be a fantasy.
“And intrusive?” I didn’t realize I had replied out loud until he spoke.
“And intrusive, like how I see your face deeply ingrained in the face of my actual therapist. And then I flashback to your hand against my throat, and I must dig my nails into my own skin.”
“Because I turn into the therapist, and you feel like a deviant?”
“I feel like a deviant, and I forgot my comfort rosary at home.”
He smirks, slowly wraps his hand closer to my jaw, and it immediately tenses. “Does it still hurt?” he asks.
I finally exhale, “Not like the one time, not since I’ve had teeth removed,” and he gives me the pitiful look I always dread, I pass the joint back.
“Why Rupi?” he asks as he lays the joint to rest in the ashtray on my pill bottle and dusty-book-clad nightstand.
“I just think she would get it, and he gets tired of me talking about you; I can tell. I think they all do.”
“I worry about you,” he says as we finally face each other, but touching suddenly feels too awkward.
“I know,” barely audible.
“You can’t skip your meds and replace them with weed…I can tell the pain and insomnia are getting worse.”
“Do I look that bad?” followed by a little laugh as a coping mechanism.
“I’m serious. I didn’t forget, and I do care.” he insisted in an almost solemn tone.
“I know that was hard for you, as an avoidant, in STEM.” I sit up halfway and reach around his torso to finish the joint before it burns out, but he stops me.
“I counted the Klonopin; you should only have 10, or maybe 15. There’s almost 30 days’ worth.”
“I need to lower the dose anyway… and, if I remember correctly, you were getting tired of your Yellow Wallpaper green card wife,” I replied with sarcastic air quotes. He never actually said that, but I had written it once. The accusation being published had hurt him more than I expected.
Again, he looked disappointed.
“Is that not how we started? It’s always been complicated.” I could feel that I was becoming too snarky in my replies, but I couldn’t stop, “I’ll take the fucking Klonopin if it makes you feel better. Jesus H. Christ,” I mumbled as the joint met my lips again.
“It’s not for me; it never was. And I’m sorry…”
“Sorry for what? All the years of being an asshole?” Really, I had officially crossed over the line from snark to asshole.
He took it in stride.
“I’m sorry I didn’t answer the phone before I got on the plane,” he said in as gentle a tone as he could. “I was stressed about work, but if I had known…”
I retreated into my side the bed so that we were perfectly face-to-face again. I took a deep breath and exhaled, “I didn’t get to say goodbye, ya know? A funeral isn’t the same. I still have your cologne. Some clothes. Your sisters took almost everything else, which was fine; they said pictures and sentimental things might help your mom to remember and better understand but eventually stopped telling her. She thinks you’re away working on your PhD. I can’t bring myself to see her; she doesn’t recognize me anymore. She thinks I’m a nurse that your sisters hired,” with a slight chuckle because (of all people) he would see the humor in that.
“But you kept one, right?” he asked.
“A picture? Yes. Your grandma holding you when you were maybe two or three. It’s always been my favorite…Do you ever visit her? Your mom?”
“No. She’s not there anymore; she can’t let me in. Not like you do,” he said.
“I know”, I said in a breathy, but exhausted, voice, because I knew he was right. I closed my eyes to blink away the tears, only to open them and see his side of the bed empty, reiterating how alone I really was. It stung, but it didn’t shock me anymore, not after a year. I twisted the joint in the ashtray until it was out, reached for one of too many water bottles next to the bed, plucking a Klonopin from the orange prescription bottle, hands shaky. Once the sun rose, I would call my therapist and psychiatrist. Although Rupi Kaur was a nice thought, she probably wouldn’t get it.
Photo of Britni Newton
BIO: Britni’s words can be found in Anti-Heroin Chic, Funicular Magazine, Wishbone Words, and others. She takes inspiration from both the pain and pleasure of everyday life, familial folklore, and occasionally the antics of her three spoiled cats. She’s based in the Midwest.