Monday, October 3, 2016
A room to chat in
I propose Halloween therapy.
We all sit in a room wearing masked costumes,
We can be anonymous and wholly truthful, just like on the internet.
We can discuss our anger, fear, and strange desires,
with a human voice,
instead of sad, lonely words on a screen.
I’d dress up as a plague doctor,
and read a little poem called “run red with blood,” which goes like this:
There was a ginger nurse who went by the name, “Red.”
One night, a man was losing a lot of blood after a bad car crash,
and Red ran down the hall with the new blood,
and the people in the hospital said, “Run, Red. Run.
And the other people in the therapy group would clap their costumed hands, and say,
“Congrats on being such a wretched, hopeless being.”
“Thanks, guys,” I’d say. “Thanks for listening. It means a lot.”
Then the girl with a Richard Nixon mask would explain how she has fallen out of love with her fiance, and she doesn't know how or if she should end it before it’s too late.
The dude dressed like Gandalf, with a big bushy beard, would talk about the time he slapped his friend with a greasy piece of pepperoni pizza after a night of heavy drinking, and they got into a fistfight, and now they don’t talk anymore. And it makes him very sad that a piece of greasy pizza ruined a great friendship.
And the soft spoken guy in a cat costume would tell us how, as if by some cruel and twisted joke of the universe, he was sexually attracted to birds.
We would all congratulate each other for being strong despite our problems. We’d say, “It’ll get better. It’ll get better.”
And we’d walk out of the room as costumed strangers. “See ya next time, cat guy,” I’d say. “Take it easy, Gandalf.”
And we’d go home, pluck the keys off our computer, and eat them for dinner.
I’d go to the hospital in my spare time dressed like a plague doctor. I’d stand there and drink coffee, whispering softly, “Run, Red. Run.”