Potholes and . . .

The maintenance of being human

“Ted, our time is up for today, but I need to tell you I recommended treatment be extended,” Marcy, his therapist, said.

What was this? A test, Ted thought. It must be a test. It has to be because I showed up every week, ran through all the family of origin psychobabble nonsense and listened to new age gunk and I failed? His jaw clenched to hold back rage, but a “FUCK!” escaped.

“I am sorry Ted. I knew this might anger you, but you don’t have to swear at me.”

“I didn’t swear at you and I deserve an explanation!”

“I have another patient waiting, Ted, but for the last six months, you kept our sessions on the surface. The holes of pain, trauma, and grief are deep. You are in my office because of those holes. I realize you think this is a waste of your time and it’s a hurdle a therapist has to overcome when a client is court ordered, but I can’t very well tell the court you are ok when you are not. If you want to work with a different therapist, that’s fine, but I recommended another six months. We can discuss it more next week.”

He rose from the chair. God knows she probably burns sage after every client, then opened and closed the door behind him — calmly. If this was a test, he passed. He didn’t have any damn holes.

All the way to his Tesla, he maintained appearance. When the door shut, it vanished.

“FUUUUUCUCCCCCKKKKK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK YOU MARCY.” He reached behind his seat, grabbed the baseball bat, jumped out and made his way over to someones Lexus a few spaces over and was about to drive it through the windshield when a little bird landed on the hood with a cheep cheep.
He paused. They both cocked their heads and Ted was sure the bird winked at him. “Damn it. Ok fine,” he exclaimed, but frustration was peaked without an outlet, so he took the loaded baseball bat and swung at a concrete post.

The excruciating pain told him it was a bad idea that also led to the bat breaking in half. The splintered end tumbled in the air, skipping the Lexus for a Mercedes parked next to it. He hoped it was his Marcy’s.

As he drove off, he felt better, and the pain subsided, but the outburst unsettled him. Perhaps his therapist might have a point about holes because what he did was extreme and would never have entered his mind a year ago, but it still pissed him off he had to continue therapy for another six months. He called his lawyer.

“Anne, it’s Ted.”

“Hi Ted, I am not sure why I ever gave you my personal number.”

“Ahhhh yeah, sure you don’t. I’ll make it quick. First, somebody with a Mercedes will call you about a dent in their car. Pay it! I left them your card. Second, my therapist recommended therapy be extended. Call the judge. I want a hearing, or whatever it is we do. This is bullshit.”

“Ted . . .

“Gotta run.”

The rest of the drive, Ted’s mind drifted to what his therapist meant by holes in his psyche. What hole? He hated psychology metaphors, especially since he was CEO of Olivaw, an artificial intelligence company. And to think he had to listen to a patchouli Birkenstock therapist talk to him about the mind — ridiculous. His mind was whole and then some thank you very much.

As much as he tried to think about other things, his mind remained stuck in doubt. The question of what put him in his therapist’s chair to begin with remained.

Six months earlier he was working another late night, needed a break, went to Ralph’s market to grab a Red Bull and woke to being held face down in handcuffs by a couple of cops. Only later was he able to fill in the gaps when he went over the police report with his lawyer and discovered he beat up two guys at the store.

Toxicology showed no traces of alcohol or drugs in his system. Naturally, the two guys sued him and it cost plenty. His PR department earned their money defusing it, and his lawyer cleaned up the mess as best she could. She worked closely with the prosecuting attorney and he agreed to 50 hours of community service, anger management classes and weekly therapy sessions for a six-month minimum. He knew he got off easy. But then again, he had no priors, not even a speeding ticket.

These thoughts and the question of why he snapped that night haunted his mind and blocked anything else, including where he was going until he glanced up from the conversation in his head to the sign, Allendale 12 miles, the closest town to the family cabin. He hadn’t been in over a year. No one in the family had. He almost turned back.

The turn onto the driveway to the family cabin became a passage to his youth marked by the first pothole. His mother, a reason he never knew growing up, named the potholes and he couldn’t help but exclaim, “Stan,” the driveways first pothole named after his grandfather. As he continued along the drive, he tried to dodge some, went through others, but whenever he came to one, he said its name because that is what his family did every time they visited.

The cabin was typical of a year’s absence when critters go through cupboards, but they left the Jack Daniels. Ted pulled it down from the cupboard, wiped the dust off, wondering how many years it sat in the cupboard unopened. He wasn’t sure if whisky had an expiration date, but as much as he enjoyed being in control, and not much of a drinker, between Marcy, his metaphorical holes, the Mercedes, work, the cabin, and his wrist he wanted to get good and drunk.

He woke and immediately threw up. He didn’t have time to get off the floor where he figured he had passed out. When he quit heaving, he took in the surrounding disaster. The cabin, its furniture, dishes, everything trashed and, like the incident at the store, no recollection. He made his way to each room to inspect the damage. He found the Jack Daniels bottle smashed in his parent’s room along with clothes strewn about, a broken lamp, and his mother’s journal — open.

He hesitated, found it difficult to breathe, not sure if he should read it, but a hazy recollection reminded him he had.

He looked at it, unsure and scared because it contained his Mom’s thoughts, feelings, and emotions. His mother wrote stories about all kinds of things; space, aliens, flowers, birds, people, adventures in far lands, and as he flipped the pages wondering which one triggered his outburst, he came across one about potholes.

According to his mother, the driveway and its potholes are a metaphor where each one held a painful event, trauma and loss and she wrote the story behind each one. Ted always wondered why his mother insisted on filling the potholes and wouldn’t let anyone help her. Now he understood because they were part of her.

Although she gave the origin story behind the name of each pothole, the biggest question why potholes come back after you fill them remained a mystery. Her explanation was it was a universal law like gravity — it just is.

According to Mom, like potholes, pain, trauma and loss never go away. Over time, they fester creating holes in our psyche we try to drive around, but like a driveway, it creates a horrible mess except it’s in your head. She said that although gravel isn’t love, the act of filling them is and not only an act of love to the people, places and things, it’s an act of love to oneself.

Mom thought it only made sense to take a little time and love to patch up the driveway that led to her home.

Ted looked up from the journal at the surrounding mess. It will have to wait. His hangover still hurt, but hard work is the cure. He went out to the shed and creaked open the door to the rusty, beat up, ever reliable Ford F-250. He grabbed a flat shovel, threw it in the back, and made his way down the drive, naming each pothole out loud knowing their stories.

The country air cleared his head as he made his way to Abbots Sand and Gravel. Jed, the owner, welcomed him back, told him they deliver, but Ted wasn’t interested. It was something he had to do himself, just like his mother did, from start to finish, and that meant hauling it himself.

He topped off the last pothole. This one was Mike, one of his mother’s childhood friends, killed in a car accident shortly after graduation. “Mike, I fill you with love.” He said. And then he realized these were his mother’s names, pains, losses, and traumas.

A little bird, different from the therapist parking lot, but just as cute and chirpy, flew onto the end of his shovel, let out a couple of cheeps, and flew off.

He knelt, no longer able to avoid his largest pothole.

“Mom, I fill you with love.”