SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

I opened the session with Diane. “I had a very strange dream after our last session. It’s puzzling me.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I was a senator. I was standing at a podium in front of a hundred or so reporters. I was there to apologize to the nation.”

I told her what I said in this apology:

I’d like to sincerely apologize for my recent statement in what may or may not potentially and/or conditionally be construed or, most likely, misconstrued, within reasonable limitations, as somewhat lacking in human sensibility or perhaps, given agreed upon definitions, “insensitive.” 

This heartfelt apology is made even more sincere in that any misunderstanding on your part is not my fault. Plus, the statement I may or may not have made was taken entirely out of context, but to the best of my recollection, I can’t remember what the context was. 

That is to say, to the best of my recollection, I do not recall.

But let me clarify this crucial point:  There was a context.  I’m almost sure of it.  Identifying this context is my top priority.  However, this hostile, disingenuous, radical, so-called news media will not disclose this reputed context.

It’s a witch hunt.

The whole thing’s a witch hunt.

However,  I’m willing to boldly step up and take provisional responsibility with this extraordinarily sincere apology for any theoretical harm my statement could have conceivably been misheard by those who possess a high level of cognitive insufficiency.

This apology, this sincere apology, is made even more sincere as this alleged statement was entirely, thoroughly, and totally due to the Percocet addiction caused by this witch hunt as well as terminal irritable bowel syndrome due to workplace stress and severe childhood trauma when Mom was 15 minutes late picking me up from my equestrian lesson one day about which litigation is pending. 

This really, very sincere apology is my first step to recovery, along with the everlasting, unquestioned, exemplary, and magnificent faith I have in my Lord and Savior, Jesus H. Christ, who is my top priority and who has forgiven me even though many have chosen to incorrectly understand my above-referenced statement which means I didn’t need to be forgiven in the first place.

Now that I’ve overcome these dark and troubled times, I will make it my top priority to out this witch hunt behind me and move on. The American people have spoken by their silence that it is time to end this witch hunt over some illusionary, relatively non-heinous, and non-contextual expression as I proudly defend all our First Amendment rights because protecting the Constitution is my top priority.

And, yet, I am taking a stand and am offering this heroically sincere apology, which, of course, absolves me of any misperceived transgressions over my 20 years of public service in as much as her library card said she was 21.

On a personal note, this witch hunt has taken a terrible toll on my all-American family, who are my top priority, including my all-American-family-value-oriented wife, who, I’ve been advised, is most likely living in Paris at the moment.  But, no one has suffered more than my all-American son, who is an altar boy with excellent personal hygiene habits, and my all-American daughter, who loves ponies and is, based on her most recent testimony, a virgin.

These great Americans should not be subjected to this witch hunt which is being financed by my critics who are selling child pornography to ISIS.

Despite this witch hunt, I remain resolute in my love for this country and my commitment to defending our sacred institutions, which is my top priority. At the same time, my critics continue their mission to destroy this great democracy by accusing me of saying things I may or may not have said, pending this office’s internal review of internal processes and internal procedures in this office internally.

Even though the whole thing’s a witch hunt.

My critics, most of whom are adulterers, refuse to take on the challenging issues of our times. Instead of helping this office do the work of defending the American people, they are burning the American flag in our churches during services just to promote this witch hunt.

I have proof of this and will make it my top priority to share it at the appropriate time based on poll results.

Further, there have been reports of my critics using funds from Russian Muslim terrorists to finance this witch hunt which is what this is.

A witch hunt.

The whole thing’s a witch hunt.

Now my opponents are telling children in Sunday Schools they are no longer allowed to believe in the time-honored institutions that made this great country the envy of the rest of the world, such as Punxsutawney Phil, the Great Pumpkin, Ken and Barbie, and the Electoral College.

Well, I’m on tentative record saying children are my top priority, and they deserve protection from this witch hunt conducted by my critics who, we’re given to understand, are receiving funding for their witch hunt by lunatics who want to turn every room in every public school into a non-binary bathroom and burn any book that has the word “vagina” in it.

I have suffered enough by apologizing with extreme sincerity and utmost integrity for previously retracted statements I did not make because my political future should not be negatively affected by statements I made, especially if I did not make them.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go pray.

“Then I woke up. Do you have any insight you can share?”

Diane folded her arms. “Insight? Yes. I’ll have to create a new diagnostic code just for you. Now, what happened in college?” Diane had been furiously scribbling notes as I told her about my college days. She’d occasionally interject a thought or two but allowed me room to ramble. 

When I mentioned that Stanford’s father led the Thammasat University Massacre, Diane mumbled, “I can’t wait for the next time Maddie [her daughter] complains about something her father did.”

Upon hearing of a possible Netflix series about the French Hells Angels, she suggested a pilot episode in which the French Hells Angels, armed with AK-47s, band together and immediately surrender to eight kids armed with paintball guns. 

I advised, “That already happened. The documentary is on the History Channel. The French Celebrate it every year. They call it ‘The Heroic Stand of the Brave and Daring Hells Angels during the Nighttime Paintball Siege of 2009.’ The documentary is called ‘Five Hundred Pools of Urine for Five Hundred Hell’s Angels.’”

Diane stared at the ceiling. “What’s the difference between a French Hell’s Angel and an incontinent four-year-old girl?

“I’m dying to know.”

“Nothing.” She looked at me. “Now. Sex. Sex, sex, sex. You didn’t mention any intimate relationships. You rarely do.”

I shrugged. “Didn’t think there was much to tell.”

“Tell me now.”

With distant pragmatism on my side, I said, “There was plenty of sex. No intimacy. I was a shipwreck and was appalling at it. Unless I was too drunk to notice the eight-hundred-pound rapists in the room. Otherwise, I couldn’t. The odor of disappointment was strong. I wasn’t the knight on the white horse. It turned out I was sitting on a merry-go-round.”

She winced. “You repressed the trauma so profoundly. It was all you could think about. Your brain reacted as per normal. And you told no one?

“About what happened? No. Never. After sex, I would run to the sink and wash my face in the hopes that I could wash away all the troubling layers in my head. Again, once I started my healthy diet of bourbon and cocaine, things improved immensely, and an enriching time in bed was had by all, which was a challenge to sobriety. One that I lost. The downside was that other than my tongue, my head was a million miles away.”

Diane replied, “But you were never present. In the relationships. With or without sex. What do you remember about the women you were with in college?”

“Almost nothing. I couldn’t pick any of them out in a police lineup. I had one foot out the door from the start. One thing they had in common was accusing me that I had no feelings before telling me they couldn’t live life without them. Feelings, that is. The downward spiral was in full force. My isolation was apparent to all who dared enter the room.”

“You were gone.”

“I was gone.”

Diane corrected herself. “You weren’t gone from your radio station. You have fond recollections. You can’t remember any friends, either girl or the other thing. Nothing from any of your classes. Did it save your life? The radio station was the only thing you had a relationship with. Once you graduated, you had no radio station to keep you afloat.”

I thought about that question for a minute or two. “I think…yes. I don’t remember anything else I could have latched on to. Suicide never entered my mind while at the radio station. No monster was found in the mirror. No head-bashing. So, yes. And, you’ve put things in a different light.”

“I’m just that good.”

After laughing, I said, “I used to think I wasted my college career by spending all my time at the station at the expense of academics and friendships. That station was the only grasp on reality I had left. It wasn’t time wasted. It was the way I made it. Plus, I got to be the center of attention. Does that make me a narcissist?”

“It makes you a survivor. I think I’ve told you that before.” Pause. “How many narcissists does it take to change a lightbulb?” Another pause. “One. He holds it in place while the world revolves around him. Were you drunk at the radio station?”

“Drunk all the time. Sorry. Put bourbon in the coffee. In the soft drinks. By six o’clock, straight out of the bottle. My minimum was a pint per day. No one mentioned a word. Some people must have known. Maybe not.”

“For a while, the alcohol helped keep your sense of humor. The Jewish mother speech. That’s my mother. Without the bunion cancer and the cataracts that spread to her colon. Where did you come up with that?”

I laughed. “The more urgent question, as I tell people, is why. I miss that.”

“Miss what?”

“My demented humor streak. I don’t miss the depression, psychosis, torment, self-hatred, delusions, paranoia, hallucinations, self-destruction, isolation, mood swings, anxiety, schizophrenia, confusion, drunkenness, hangovers, mania, guilt, agitation, shame, fear, thorough sense of worthlessness, more guilt, more self-hatred, and body odor. But, I do miss the humor.”

“We’re working on a pill that keeps the humor and removes everything else.”

“What’s it called?”

“Mushrooms on a Stick. The medical reviews are coming in. We don’t understand what they say. The side effects are interesting.” Pause. “After the radio station, you reverted to childhood. The child who took every person’s punch, every kick, every insult, and rape as a reminder of his own inferiority and not theirs. You weren’t weak. They were.”

I sat very still and teetered on the brink of self-pity. “They did a lovely job of adding all the despondency and removing all the hope. I don’t know if I’ll ever reverse that one. Sorry.”

“Wrong. Stop all that. You will continue to climb the tree and you will continue to fall flat on your face. You will climb again. Eventually, you will climb higher and not fall nearly as far. Don’t saw off the branch you’re sitting on. You want to discover nobility in yourself. Well, this is how you do it. It’s noble work, overcoming mental illness. Be noble. If you keep at it then you success will just be formality.” Another pause. “Pain. Pain. Pain. How’s yours?”

“The nerve burn is kicking in. So I will be able to exercise. Doctor Feelgood said to start slow. Today, I stood next to the exercise apparatus, stared at it, and stretched like I was going to use the exercise apparatus. Then I went home. I think I might take the next step and sit on the exercise apparatus tomorrow. It’ll depend on how sore I am from today’s workout. Actually, he said to wait for the pain to let up some more before doing anything stupid like walking or thinking too hard.”

Diane looked at her folder. “Did he prescribe anything?”

“No, thankfully.”

She looked at me with a concerned stare. “Should we review your list of medications?”

“Nah. I get what I need from this guy called White Lightning. He has a pharmacy in a parking lot behind the 7-11. Sort of a mobile arrangement. The office is open from 2 am to 3:30 am.”

The question of reviewing the medications was her way of saying our time was up.

It was a pleasant realization to think of the radio station as a place of survival instead of somewhere I hid from school and people. 

The days at the station weren’t spent to avoid life.

They kept me alive.

So that was good.

—THE END—

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