Posted by NL on October 02, 2004 at 14:03:12:
Therapy Group
When she first opened herself, in the group, it was much worse than she imagined it would be. And her therapist had told her there was nothing to fear. But he had been very wrong. For one thing she seemed to actually open up, like a corpse on an autopsy table, except that her viscera were all too alive and real. Spill your guts, spill your guts. How often had she heard that? How was that going to help her with her day-tripping, how was that going to get her grounded and centered? It was kind of macabre, all those people sitting in a circle, calling out for guts, HER guts, like a bunch of cannibalistic fiends. In general, screw 'em. But, there it was. It looked like she finally got herself pressured into it, if only to shut them up.
When she first began to open up, she noticed a burning sensation around her navel. She should have quit then, but she saw how the shrink had his fingers crossed, of all things, and they were all leaning forward, more attentive then she had ever seen them. So she hemmed and hawed and tried to begin to make good, even as her guts burned, and it began to feel all too literal, all too real. It was so bad, the things she was trying to talk about became trivial by comparison. She was finding out what real pain was all about. She decided to talk about that, about the pain. You know, she said, right now it feels like-- it feels like-- and at that moment her sweater turned from mauve to bright red, because she actually opened up.
At first, the sweater bulged as her guts tried to get out, and blood spilled, thick and steaming, over the top of her jeans. A talkative surgeon told her once that yards and yards of the intestinal tract could be slashed into ribbons, and you would not feel it because the pain receptors in the gut react to distention only. Hence, the existence of gas pains. Small comfort that thought provided her, as the viscera burst forth. Somehow, they had all gotten severed, so that many ends of pinkish, writhing tube boiled across her lap, active as a nest of snakes. She told herself that there was no way she would ever live through this, and she was right-- she died, but not before seeing her insides scattering in all directions.
In fact, her insides, placid now, and cooling, were gathered into the sacrificial bowl. The group smeared itself with her blood. Dr. Gottlieb was gratified. The little bitch finally came through. There were two partial cures for schizoaffective disorders and one recalcitrant lesbian would surely ball him before the night was done. That too, was a cure. And the poor bitch's disemboweled corpse, further disfigured by the group's bite marks, was cured too, permanently-- cured of life. That was probably a lot more than the silly girl had ever expected from her therapy group. All in all, it had been a great session...