This time, I cut her off. “Fine,” I said, looking down at my hands. I picked at the skin around my thumb as I tried to think of something to say that wouldn't be taken as a flirt or a joke. “I'm sorry. I'm just not comfortable talking about my feelings and shit, you know? It's a hell of a lot simpler – not to mention more fun – to flirt with you.”
“Is it worse because of our history together?” she asked.
“History?” I laughed. There wasn't much history, but I let it slide and answered her question truthfully. “Not really. I just don't like talking about myself.”
“I figured that much,” she said, her eyes softening as she looked at me. “Most of the men who come in to see me don't like talking about their feelings, it feels foreign or wrong to them. Because they weren't raised that way. Most of them have been taught to stuff all of your emotions down into a box. It's not manly to talk about your feelings. It makes you feel weak. Inferior. Perhaps even like a sissy. And of course, the military doesn't do you any favors with the macho –”
“Hey now,” I said, stopping her right there. “The military has done me a lot of favors. The military has been really good to me.”
“Yes, of course. I didn't mean it like that and I sincerely apologize,” she said. “I just meant that you're not really encouraged to talk about your feelings, even when you witness so much death and destruction. Keeping all of that in and never finding a way to express it does you more harm than good, Drew. It eats away at your mind and your soul. It's just not healthy.”
I shrugged.
“I'm right about that, aren't I?” she asked.
“I guess so.”
There was a silence in the room – a heavy silence as if she expected me to say more. But I knew what she was trying to do, and it didn't work. The silence didn't scare me; I was used to it. I came to expect it now that I was home. And I wasn't the type who talked just to fill empty spaces in the conversation. I wasn't one of those who got scared by a gap in the conversation and needed to fill it with whatever inane bullshit popped into my head.
“You guess so?” she asked, trying to nudge me into speaking. “I'm guessing this started at a young age. Why don't you tell me about your parents, Drew?”
My parents. As soon as she mentioned them, my entire body tensed up. My fists were balled up in my lap and I had to look away. Had to look at anything but her.
“I see that struck a nerve, and I'm sorry. There's just no notes in your file about your parents –”
“Because they're dead,” I said, letting out a deep breath. “They died a few years back. It was a car accident.”
Dr. Emerson's eyes grew wide. “I'm sorry, Drew. I had no idea.”
And I could tell by the expression on her face that she meant it. She was sorry. She was sincere, didn't try to patronize or placate me. She came across as genuine, sincere, and compassionate – and I liked her a little more because of it.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to smile, but failed. “It's okay. You didn't know, and I'm not here to be coddled, now am I?”
“No, you're not here for the coddling,” she said. “But I also don't want to make things worse for you. If I had known, I would have brought it up in a gentler way.”
“Gentle? With me?” I snorted. “No one has ever felt the need to be gentle about anything with me. I mean, look at me – do I look like the type of man who needs you to be gentle?”
Dr. Emerson smiled, a soft smile that felt warm and genuine. “No, but as I know from experience, looks can often be deceiving, Drew. Sometimes the biggest, most manly men are the ones who need the most help emotionally. They're the ones least likely to talk about what's really bothering them. The least likely to seek out help even though their soul is rotting from the inside out.”
I shook my head, trying hard not to laugh. This all sounded like new age, touchy feely bullshit to me, and I really didn't want anyone – including a woman I fucked the night before – to feel the need to be gentle around me. I wasn't some weak ass bitch and I didn't need to be treated with kid gloves.
“I'm a Navy SEAL,” I said. “I've seen men and women die, right in front of me, and in some really outlandishly terrible ways. I'm just fine.”
“Oh really?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “If that's the case, then why are you here?”
ooo000ooo
She had me there. As I left her office, I was as confused as ever as to why I was seeing a shrink. My dear old dad would be so fucking ashamed of me right now. Talking about my feelings and shit with a therapist – it just wasn't our way. Wasn't how we doing things. We sucked it up, dealt with our shit, and carried on. Dr. Emerson had been right about that. I wasn't raised to be open about my feelings, because I was a boy. A man. And I had a job to do – serve in the military, protect our country and eventually, one day, provide for a family. None of that would be easy and I never expected it to be.
I stopped in the hallway and turned around. Walking back to her office, I opened the door and peeked inside.
“So, you still won't tell me your first name?” I asked.
“No.” She didn't even look up from her notes as she answered.
“Then at least answer one question, please,” I said. “Why were you there last night? At the bar? And why did you go home with me?”
She stopped writing, but still didn't look up, her eyes fixed on the notepad in front of her.