Reminiscing

Here is a short story I wrote with an idea premise in mind.
I spent three decades dedicating my life to helping others as a therapist before finally having to step away. Thirty years might not seem long to those who started young or dedicated their lives to a trade. But, it's a lifetime in this field. Trust me. I never spent my days hammering nails or building houses. I didn't have a paper route as a kid, either. But, I faced a tidal wave of broken souls each day. They walked into our offices, each with their own unique struggles. And some nights, just a few, I would leave the office with tears streaming down my face. I questioned whether I needed help from a therapist myself.
I wasn't raised in a tough or dysfunctional family. My parents were comfortably off and loving. My mother's most notable misstep was getting a bit tipsy at a social gathering and impulsively kissing another woman's husband. It was a light moment, not a serious incident. It would have been forgotten but for her occasional, drunken, chuckling mentions of it. My father, on the other hand, had one significant vice: an occasional fondness for gambling. Not frequently, but enough to recall. I share this because I want to dispel any notion that I became a therapist to help people who, like me, had a rough upbringing. That wasn't my story. I chose to become a therapist because it pays well, the hours are easy, and the days fly by like the autumn leaves drifting past my office window.
They say therapy is good for the mind and body. I don’t know about that, but what I can say is that it was good for my bank account too. I retired early, thanks to my clients' willingness to bare their souls. But as I look back, I'm not so sure about the costs. The patients, the problems, the anxiety that crept into my own life – it all added up. I think about the ones who didn't get better, the ones who slid back into their old ways. I think about the ones I couldn't save. And I wonder: was it worth it? Had I made the right choice in life? Did I pick the right field?
The first decade of my career, from 1994 to 2004, was some of the best years of my life. That is a time I look back on fondly. It was then I earned well, back when a thousand dollars still meant something, and a million was a pipe dream. But it wasn't just the money that made this period special - it was the people I met, the lives I touched, and the lessons I learned. I think back on the countless hours I spent with my patients. I listened to their stories, shared their joys and sorrows, and helped them navigate life's complexities. I remember their faces, their smiles, and their tears; I recall the way they made me laugh and the way they challenged me to be a better person. Those patients, with their unique struggles and triumphs, taught me the true value of compassion, empathy, and kindness. They left an indelible mark on my heart, and I will always cherish the memories we created together.
I fondly remember Lucy, a kind-hearted waitress who juggled her day job with a passion for stage acting at the wharf. Her laughter could light up the darkest of rooms, but behind those sparkling eyes, I sensed a deep-seated pain. Her father's brutal beatings during her childhood had left an indelible mark, driving her to seek his elusive approval. The echoes of those traumatic events haunted her every step, a constant reminder of the scars she bore. I often wondered how someone so young could have endured such suffering after our therapy sessions. It was as if her childhood had been stolen, replaced by the weight of her father's cruelty.
On those particularly tough nights, I'd question my own ability to make a difference, to fix the shattered pieces of her life. The doubts would creep in, whispering that I was in over my head. But, in these uncertain moments, I came to understand. I wasn't just a therapist, armed with theories and techniques. I was a human being, too.
Still, I’m glad she came to me when she did. She was in a bad state and I reckon if she had waited any longer to see me she wouldn’t have been seeking his approval any more, but his disapproval. She came to see me every week for a whole year, and I reckon that was money well spent. When we were done she was her own woman, not following Daddy's dreams but her own.
She came to see me again recently. She had heard I retired. Like many from that time, she came to check on me, thank me, and tell me that, without my guidance, she doubted she would be alive today. Even after the tenth former patient had come past to thank me, I hadn’t gotten over how much it still meant to me to hear her say that.
If only the rest of my career had been so fulfilling. I think back on that era as the greatest time for me, my work, and the world. It's a controversial opinion, but I dare say they were the last great decades the world ever saw.
The next ten years I lived in Queensland. I thought, why not? I had the money then, and I had always liked summer heat. I bought a house on the beach; land of a night, if I was lucky, I would walk along the shore and see these tiny crabs which would dive out of the sand. They reminded me of ants coming out of an anthill, and Harley, my dog, would try to eat them. He’d swing his claws and gnarl his fangs, but they were too quick for him, too numerous. He’d attack and they’d hustle back into the sand. If he did snag one, he’d be surrounded by a hundred. It was a futile fight, but he didn’t know that.
Work was much the same as it had been. In those early years, I got a lot of seared people worrying about eastern terrorists. In those later years, it was about money, jobs, and the economy of Australia.
One man came to me in the summer of two thousand and eight. He was a hesitant man, a stubborn man, and came in with his tail tucked between his legs. If I had to guess, I would say he had not come of his own volition, and I was right on that, as I later found out from his own mouth.
The man wasn’t the type of guy I’d see come through here; he seemed like the type of man who thought therapy was for wives and troubled children. It took a while to crack his shell, but like an egg, if you push on it enough, it cracks and gives way to what lies inside.
As it turns out, Brian (said like Brine) was unemployed. He joined the long list of out-of-work office workers who lost their jobs when the companies went under during the financial crisis that hit the fragile world like a sledgehammer, and if I hadn’t been so conservative with my own savings, I might have been there with him.
Some say therapy is a luxury. I mostly disagree. But, I would be lying if I said I hadn't thought it when the financial crisis hit and our office cleared out of patients as though we had the plague.
Brian was a good guy, so I grew to discover the more he came around. He was going through a bad time. No job, no prospects, a nagging wife, and kids to support. A lot of men would turn to the noose then, or even the bottle. Brian came to me, and all he did was talk, talk about his life, his work, his goals, and all I ever did was listen. Sometimes that’s all people need, an unbiased ear. In return for his honesty, I made a deal with him. He would pay me half now, and the rest when he was back on his feet. It took him two years, but by the beginning of twenty-eleven, he had paid it all off.
A few years later, I grew tired of the heat, tired of the beaches, and the little crabs that attacked Harley. I moved back home. Back to Melbourne, where the wind was cool and winter was always an hour away. That was where I spent my last ten years as a therapist. I even moved back in with my parents. My mother had been battling breast cancer and my father, long since retired, had naught to do but waste his savings on the horses.
The last decade of my career was the one most filled with cultural strife. I don’t think we had had a generation of change and cultural differences like now since the sixties. The western world had moved on from terror, and now warred with itself. A war of progressives and conservatives. Of “true blue” Aussies and the rest of them. I’d never witnessed such hatred, and they had never witnessed what was happening to them all around them.
It was the children who were affected most of all. The last patient I ever took on was a young boy by the name of Lucas. My first session with him didn’t give either of us what we were seeking. I don’t think Lucas was comfortable around therapists. He hardly talked and when he did, he told me no more than the bare minimum. His mother had come into my office after the session had ended, asking how it went. I told her the truth, and she didn’t take it well. She blamed me for her son’s problems, wanting me to ‘fix’ him.
That’s the biggest change in the modern world. When I was a child, it was the parents' job to raise their child; it was the parents' job to raise their child. Teach them, enlighten them. My mother taught me how to clean and to dress properly. She was always there when I needed her, even for just a chat or to judge my ideas. It was my father who stepped in whenever I was about to make a mistake, or if I was in trouble.
These days I feel like parents think it’s everyone else’s job to teach their children and raise their kids. I don’t know which is more to blame? The economy requiring both parents to work full-time jobs, or the growing selfish nature of Australians living in the material world.
My mother used to play cards with me after school. If I was lucky, she'd let me help her bake cookies or muffins. Then, we'd play board games until Dad got home. Nowadays, parents buy their kids iPads and sit on their phones ignoring their children. The moment my father came home, before dinner and TV, he'd ask if I had homework. If I did, he'd sit down and we'd do it together.
I don’t blame parents alone for the way the world is, but I know I got a lot more kids coming to therapy in the last decade than any before it. Boys like Lucas became frequent visitors, but it was also boys like Lucas who worried me more than any adult ever had. Lucas was like a gateway into what lay in front of me. He wasn’t a normal twelve-year-old. He had a way of looking at me. It was a subtle expression, but it held all the menace of Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal. It was like, as we were sitting across from one another, he was thinking about all the ways he could hurt me, perhaps even kill me.
I told his mother that I was worried for him. I asked her to take him to a doctor, as the last thing I wanted was for him to hurt himself or someone else. But, much like how some mothers ignore teachers' suggestions, Lucas's mother ignored my advice. She thought any flaw in her son would tarnish her reputation and prove her unfit.
I left my job a month later. I was home one night, nestled on the couch with my parents, the comfort of our family routine enveloping me. Just like the old days, we were engrossed in the TV. Then, a grim story broke the light-hearted atmosphere: Lucas had murdered his mother. The news hit hard, striking a nerve I couldn’t ignore. It felt too personal to brush aside and I could never return to the office.
Looking around me today, I can tell you one thing for certain, the world has changed since I was a child, and in a lot of ways it has not been for the better. Stepping away when I did was the best choice I ever made. The world is a chaotic place, and I’m not naive enough to think change is on the horizon.