Sewer
is someone’s name

Today was the day. The dredging began. I did not tell my therapist about my week. I did not tell her how often I was able to get out of the house. I did not tell her about the nice times I had with lovely friends, or the distinct feeling I had in class that my writing teacher doesn’t like me. No, we began with the lies I feel I’m always telling. We began with the vivid imagination I have. We began by agreeing that it doesn’t matter if what I say is made up or real.
I told her what I can remember of Mr. McCormick’s house. I told her how Sewer got her name. We found out that Sewer doesn’t like my therapist.
“Why not?” my therapist asked.
“You’re too clean,” said Sewer. “How are you going to get it? Have you ever lived in a sewer?”
“No.”
“Have you ever known anyone who lived in a sewer?”
“No.”
“Right,” said Sewer, “so you are never going to get it. We are the untouchables. You live in a different world.”
Oddly, my therapist chose today to wear white. I just kept imagining those perfect white pants, that bright white top, all covered in shit. I, Sewer, hated her for those clothes, for her Lexus, for her cool, air conditioned office and her tufted leather chair. How had we never noticed all this before?
When I let alternate personalities come out to talk to my therapist, I don’t remember the session as clearly as I normally would. I know that Sewer sat there and spewed venom and distrust. I’m glad I don’t remember what she said. I remember how my therapist looked. Not beautiful, as she usually does. She squirmed in her chair a bit, but she handled the venom.
And she smiled at me when I left.

