“YOU DO KNOW I’M NOT a personal therapist, don’t you?”
“Didn’t you take an oath to help others in need?”
Sasha Taylor Ph.D.’s lips quirked. “I don’t believe you’re exactly in need, but I’ll admit, I’m too intrigued to turn you away.”
I sat back in my chair, resting an ankle on my knee. “I want to know what my diagnosis is.”
She didn’t have my file; she didn’t need it. She’d thought about me enough over the years—had tried to solve me like an unfinished puzzle.
She touched her pen to her chin, tilted her head. “Well, it’s been a while since we last spoke, but going off what I’ve learned about you from our previous meetings, I’d say you’re somewhere on the low end of the OCD spectrum. I believe your behaviors to be more habits than compulsions.” She paused, leaving her indecision and unsaid words to hang in the air like fumes.
My unwavering gaze insisted she continue.
She swallowed. “I also highly suspect you’re affected by an antisocial personality disorder. Including but not limited to manipulation, exploitation, and, possibly, a lack of empathy for others.”
I’d always found mental disorders and their diagnoses boring, but I knew enough to know antisocial personality disorder was just another term for sociopathy.
A corner of my lips lifted. “Sounds serious. Should I be concerned?”
She fidgeted, averting her gaze and crossing her legs. “I’ve often wondered how you passed your psychological evaluation in the hiring process.”
“I guess diagnoses are a matter of opinion, aren’t they?”
“Indeed,” she said breathlessly. “I know you didn’t come here today for my expertise on your mental status, so what brought you to my door?”
I looked out the window, running a hand across my jaw.
Her thoughtful gaze settled on my face. “Let me guess, you’re here because you’ve finally obtained what you’ve always wanted, and now you don’t know how to control it?”
My eyes met hers. “I can control it just fine.”
I’d never told a more ridiculous lie.
“Maybe it, sure. But not how you feel about it.”
My jaw tightened.
“This ‘addictive personality’ of yours . . . it’s merely a medical condition you’ve built up in your head to explain why you’ve always wanted it. To help you understand the reason it appeals to you, and therefore, help you control your reaction to it. But in reality, it’s a normal human emotion. Maybe stronger for you because you haven’t experienced it in a long time, or maybe you’ve never felt it.”
“You’re losing me, Sasha.”
Her lips lifted. “No, I’m not.”
She clicked her pen. Once, twice, three times. “My guess is, now that you have it, you’re afraid you’ll lose it. Maybe you don’t feel like you even deserve her, though that’s a trivial point because, in the end, you don’t care.”
I didn’t miss the her she’d slipped in there.
“I didn’t come here for relationship advice.”
“No.” She smiled sadly. “You came here for me to tell you it gets easier, that it blows over, and you’ll find a sense of control again. It doesn’t, and you won’t. Love only gets worse.”
A sardonic breath left me. “I thought you believed it was just an obsession.”
“Haven’t you heard? Love is an obsession. Some would even say . . . the maddest obsession.”
