Please Tell Me

by Mike Omer

Men shouldn’t be allowed to go shopping in the supermarket. They should be shot on sight if they walked in. Robin hated everyone.

hahahhahahahahaha this had me dead

“These traumatic memories are triggered by everyday occurrences. You must have seen—” “I have shitty memories!” Pete raised his voice. “I bet you do too. So what? We don’t dwell on them. We don’t fixate on them. Not like you’re forcing Kathy to do.”

Can someone punch this asshole?

“And Kathy’s experiences aren’t simply shitty memories. They are traumatic experiences. And her brain is wired to replay them whenever something triggers her.

After all, if she were a car mechanic and her car wouldn’t start, she’d pop the hood and find out it was a faulty carburetor or whatever. And then she’d fix it and drive merrily to her shop, where she fixed other people’s cars. So ideally, if she felt her brain didn’t work properly, she could say “Aha, I’m under stress, which, fueled by my childhood memories, is driving me to perceive reality in a twisted manner.” And then she would just . . . fix it, and all would be well.

Therapists couldn’t treat themselves. The majority of therapists went to therapy, because they knew they couldn’t treat themselves.

Long story short: she’d stopped therapy after a while. Her therapist was sure she’d made huge progress. She’d actually made none.

“I . . . I realize sometimes I’m a bit hard on you. But you have to understand that I always only wanted the best for you.” Robin wiped a tear. “Yes, I understand—” “And you were always so disappointing.” Robin stared at her in shock.

This. Bitch,

“No matter how much time and energy I gave you,” she carried on. “You did nothing right. That’s why I’m so hard on you.” Robin let go of her mother’s hand. “I see.” “Maybe now, after this terrible experience, you’ll finally get your act together,”

She thought of Mom as she lit it. How she would step into the kitchen later and smell the cigarette smoke. Her mother detested smoking. Robin inhaled the smoke into her lungs and then blew it, turning her head left and right, watching the smoke cloud as it curled and rose, filling the room.

Robin opened the cupboard with the best china, took out one of the golden-rimmed cups that Mom treasured so much. Sitting back down, she took another cigarette from the box. Fourth one today. She lit it from the one she was smoking and stubbed away the half-smoked one in the china cup.

“This generation of kids were the ones hurt the most by the pandemic. They’ll be carrying the remnants of it for the rest of their lives.”

And maybe her anxiety wasn’t really a four right now. It was three and a half. A one-to-ten scale was way too limiting.

“You want to play with the dollhouse?” she asked Kathy. Kathy looked at her, then back at the playroom. “I want to play at the nurse’s station today,” she finally said. “Sure,” Robin answered. “In this room, only you decide what we’ll play.”