Jaxson's Therapy

Flash fiction. A story about coping with anxiety.

Jan 11, 2025

tick…tick…tick…

That’s the faint sound of bombs nestled undisturbed within the wrinkles of my grey brain matter. Waiting for a chain reaction of chemicals and emotions to occur that triggers them to erupt in unison like a grand symphony. My anxiety.

For the last couple of years, I’ve developed a nasty habit of chewing my lip when I’m severely anxious. The inside of it is a bruised burgundy with hints of raging red capillaries. My lip-biting behavior is unappealing and a noticeable sign that I’ve reached a new summit of stress.

I visit my favorite bar for my end of the day drink. As a regular, I sit at my usual spot at the counter after a long arduous day of phone calls and client meetings.

“Aye pour me another.” I request to the bartender.

My loyal bartender assesses me like I’ve come in for a routine exam and he’s my doctor. He doesn’t rush to fill my cup and chooses to make small talk instead. Confirming that I’m coherent but feeling quite bluesy, he quiets his concerns and continues to replenish my glass. I sip my bourbon slowly and the corners of my mouth catch the sweet liquor that nearly escapes to my chin. The acidity makes me wince as it burns the tender fleshy part of my bruise. A quick lick to calm the sting but the alcohol on my tongue offers more pain to the inflammation before it gets better.

Tonight, I’m in the mood to swim. Descending deeper into the warm depths until I no longer see the light twinkling above me. So deep that oceanic sounds muffle the ticking between my ears. But I can’t swim down here forever.

I pay my bartender and throw back the last ounce of my drink before heading out. As I get up from my seat, he shoots me a stare and I give a nod that I’m good for my trip home.

But I’m not going home right away. I check my wallet for loose bills, prowling the streets for a woman to tell me what $100 can get me. Talks with my therapist have gotten cold and repetitive and I can almost predict his next line of questions. I go to him because I hunger for healing at our biweekly sessions, yet I sense he feeds me the same mediocre meals he gives the others. To him, I’m just another patient. Another dollar added to his paycheck. But if I paid a hoe for conversation while she bounced and sucked me in the backseat for an hour, does that count as therapy too?

I wanna stay right here. No backtracking to the yesterdays to find fault in past versions of me. No quantum leaping to see if I got over what happened today. I wanna pretend this random woman is my therapist and allow her to treat my troubles for an hour.

If you made it to the end, thanks for reading.

I’m starting the year on a high note with stretching + strengthening my writing skills. This is the first time I wrote a flash fic this long and it feels good to briefly break away from the microfiction length.

Three days ago, the idea to write about anxiety just happened. I wanted to write about something lighter, but this idea kept coming back. Maybe I needed to write this because I hate dealing with my own chronic anxiety. No, I’m not hooking up with hoes in the backseat of my car, but if you do I’m not judging. But some of us know what it feels like to find less than desirable alternatives to treat our pain. Be well.