"You're looking particularly judicial today," I observe.
"Well," she said, adjusting her tiara, "The mood you were in when you woke this morning..." She gave me a look and shook her head slowly. "I knew I'd be presiding over some questionable proposals this morning."
I sipped my coffee, which had cooled to a temperature that matched my enthusiasm for coping with life's shenanigans. "I've been thinking ..."
"Always a dangerous thing for you," Amy interjected. "I don't advise it. You'd best leave the thinking to me."
I ignored the barb. "I'm going to quit therapy."
Amy's eyebrows shot upward like startled cats encountering a cucumber. Her eyebrows should have their own Instagram account.
"Bold choice," she said, "And the reasoning behind this grand plan?"
I said, leaning forward as if sharing classified intel, "I've been striving to improve my mental health for years. And yes, sometimes I feel I've made progress, but somehow I always return to where I started. It's a futile exercise. Why bother?"
"And what do you propose doing instead—medication?"
"Please!" I said, and I may have said it aloud, because people at nearby tables turned to look at me with questioning foreheads.
"No, not drugs. My plan is simple—I'll stop thinking of myself as broken or sick and accept myself as whole and accept myself as I am. I'll take whatever action is required to feel better, but not make a Broadway production of it."
Amy tilted her head, the tiara glinting in the sunlight coming through the window. "So you've decided to stop trying?"
"Exactly! Why keep trying to 'fix' what's apparently an intrinsic part of who I am? Accept the mood disorder as normal and move forward. I'm not broken, I'm just neurodivergent."
"Fascinating," Amy says, in a tone suggesting she'd found an interesting specimen under a microscope and was considering poking it with a stick.
"So instead of actively managing your condition, you're proposing to simply...live with it? Like deciding the red warning lights in your car are just cheerful interior decoration."
"Not unmanaged," I protest. "Just... managed by me using the principles of AA, mainly gratitude."
"Let me get this straight," she said in a way that suggested she might actually be considering my idea. "You want to abandon the professionals who've studied for years to help people like you, because you're tired of doing the work?"
"It sounds like a stupid idea when you say it like that, but yes, that's pretty much what I'm saying."
A quick glance around the cafe confirmed that no one was staring at me—no more than usual, anyway, except for one toddler with an expression that made me think he might be able to see Amy.
"I'm just tired of it," I continued quietly, "I've run, I've crawled, I've climbed the highest mountains, and I've scaled city walls. But I still haven't found what I'm looking for."
Amy studied my face with an intensity that would be unnerving if she were a real person and not just neural activity in my prefrontal cortex. Then, slowly, a different expression appears on her face.
"U2," she said with a slight smile. It seemed an odd thing to say even though we share the same mind and she must have similar feelings to mine.
"You know what? Maybe you're right," she said.
I spewed lukewarm coffee across the room in startled surprise, causing more than a little excitement among the other customers.
"I am?" I said aloud, and I should be forgiven for the slip—her attitude had changed shockingly fast. Nearly gave me whiplash.
"Sure," she said, with a noticeable gleam in her eye. "Why bother with all that hard work? You know what you need to do. Just do it!"
"Are you being sarcastic?"
"Not at all," she replied. "I think it's a brilliant plan. While you're at it, why not stop doing laundry? Your clothes will only get dirty again. Keep wearing the same outfit until it develops its own ecosystem, and eventually it might achieve sentience. You could beat the artificial intelligence boys at their own game. At the very least, you'll have something new to blog about."
"Washing clothes is not in the same category," I protested, while making a mental note to do laundry when I got home.
"Isn't it, though? Mental health maintenance is health maintenance. Would you stop treating a chronic physical condition because you got frustrated that it was inconvenient to manage?"
"I don't care," I said. "It's my decision, and my mind's made up. Our minds are entangled like two fundamental particles, so you'll have to go along with it, like it or not. Nothing you can do about it."
She sat back in her chair and folded her arms. "I'm sorry, Genome," she said. "I'm going into a tunnel now—we're breaking up."
Amy's expression took on the tenor of a cat who's spotted an unattended tuna sandwich. "Although...," she said.
"Although what?"
"Well, if you're really determined to abandon therapy, it might be interesting to see where it leads. Perhaps down the yellow brick road to the Emerald City, where the great and powerful Oz will grant you perfect mental health without any effort on your part."
I tried to suppress a smile, but it slipped out. Deep down, I like the imaginary young geezer.
"Or," she continues, in a dramatic whisper, "you might tumble down the rabbit hole and straight into the court of the Red Queen. 'Off with his head!'
I laugh despite myself, drawing more curious glances from nearby tables. The toddler is now convinced I'm some sort of clown and begins throwing jelly beans at me.
Later, as we walk to the car, I ask Amy, "Same time tomorrow?"
"Of course," she replied, adjusting her tiara. "Court is always in session in your head. And, don't forget the laundry when you get home."The circular journey isn't about arriving somewhere—it's about moving forward, even if the path brings me back to where I began. And so here I go again, going down the only road I've ever known. But unlike a drifter, I don't have to go alone. I have a snarky little princess for a navigation system, and it's not as bad as it might seem—I know what it means to walk along the street of dreams.
(Apologies to Whitesnake and to U2)
