Sessions

Welcome to Scary Story Podcast. To those who spend a lot of time alone or think they don't, this one's for you. My name is Edwin, and here it's a scary story. My voice echoed around the living room as I yawned, frustrated of that place. It was another day and another attempt at the comments on YouTube. My mom had said that trying should always be celebrated, no matter how small, and over the years I had tried doing everything from Facebook to Instagram, commenting on random profiles, saying anything. The most I would get was that little heart or thumbs up when someone liked my comments, but even that wore out pretty quickly. They never responded to my direct messages, and when they did, it would not go very far. I always thought that if maybe I had a different job and it's not something where I literally only filled up paperwork from digital scans to online forms, maybe I would get some friends at work. Had I tried for the longest time, I tried, I swear I tell you, trying and failing actually feels worse than not trying at all. Despite what everyone else says, books and websites were what used to get me through the day. I would read news article after news article, and books on stories from around the world, places I wanted to visit and people that I wanted to talk to what I knew deep down that I would never get the chance to do that you come off too strong. The teachers back in high school used to tell me when I would complain about not having any partners to work on our projects with. To have good friends, you need to be a good friend, They would tell me. Bring something to share, learn some jokes, invite people to hang out or study lies. Nobody cared, although I remember Jackson, one of the kids at my school, became my friend back then, but with no reason at all. He just stopped talking to me one day. But I guess the work emails also count right. For example, I received an email a couple of years ago for an event at work. Executives were going to be coming down to the city and they wanted the employees to be there absolutely everyone. It sounded like a nightmare to me, so I politely declined, but the manager quickly emailed me back with a forgot to say, there are two spots at the table in case you want to bring your wife to let me know. Take care goodbye. My wife. Imagine her the most supportive person ever, or so I thought. Stuck with this mess of a person, she would do her own thing and spend the evenings in the only room in the house, coming out to ask if I was okay. She would see me stuck in front of the computer in the living room for most of the day, and she would remind me things were fine, that I didn't have to do anything I did not want to do, and it made me feel better. And just like with that event that I did not want to go to, I refused many other chances. Every week that passed felt like waves of time flying just above the water, and others sinking deeply into places where light wouldn't stand a chance. I guess I could say hi to the checker woman at the marketplace, or make friends with the guy who greets everybody at the store. Maybe someone from Twitch and the many games I used to watch on there, you know, to practice conversations. But yes, everything was going to be fine. But then doubt, and in the words of my wife, that I was fine the way that I was, and I just retreated deeper and back into that dark part of the sea that hadn't drowned me. Yet one afternoon, I had just finished two half frozen burritos, leaning over the sink and straight out of the microwave, when I was thinking about how much courage I needed to get out of here. Maybe in a new town I would do better. That's when the doorbell rang. At first, I just ignored it and kept thinking that a greyhound bus ticket was just fourteen dollars and that it would get me very far to the south, maybe to the ocean or some mountain somewhere. Nature had been a healer for thousands of years, and I had learned so much about the people of The doorbell rang again. I looked out the window from the kitchen and saw a young man at the door with a plastic container next to him on the ground, And in a moment of courage, I walked to it and I opened the door and I said hello. The young man started talking, smiling and saying how he had the best deal for me that day. Packs of socks, a remote control that would work on everything, boxes of chocolates, and cleaning products. He just talked and talked, and I didn't know ho to react, so I just smiled until eventually he paused and asked if I was all right. Did he care? No, he was just being polite. But then the urge to make up something a lie like always that yes, that I was only thinking of something that made me laugh, or that my wife had told me a joke about socks, and that he just reminded me of that, maybe a story that I would tell myself and believe, like how I used to be in the navy, or that I knew how to survive out in the woods, that my uncle had been friends with Bill Gates back in college, or that I could read minds. But something about this guy seemed honest, so I thought of meeting him halfway. I don't know, man, I think there's something wrong with me, I said, in defeat. I even surprised myself, and it just stood there, looking down at the plastic container for a bit, hesitating about packing up his things and walking away from my messy porch. But then he suddenly looked behind me, and with a surprised or terrified look in his eyes, his mouth dropped open. I thought he had probably seen the mess inside as well. I looked down and was ready to close the door when he stopped reached for his wallet and took out a business card, his shaky hands stretching out toward me, his eyes still looking behind me. Listen. I know it's none of my business, but this guy helped me out a couple of years ago. He's sort of a psychologist, and hey, it's someone to talk to. He then quickly picked up his things and left. But you know, if only I could find him again somewhere, I would like to thank him for what he did for me that day changed my life. I spent the rest of the evening in silence in that living room. My wife hadn't left the room yet, stared at that card with a name and phone number until I had to get up to turn on the light and finally get into bed. You know, I told my wife I got this contact today, someone who could help. She stared at me with curiosity at first, and then with anger. Help with what. I did my best to tell her about it, but she only got angrier the more I explained. She threatened to leave if I were to call, before changing her tone again, saying that she only wanted what was best for me and did not want me to feel bad again. I understood where she was coming from, but it had been far too long of being stuck at home alone, the way my mind would freeze up sometimes, and the ways I had been made fun of for so long. I stayed quiet until she fell asleep, and eventually, after a very long time, I'll sleep too. The next day was just like the others, a bowl of cereal, then to the computer and logging into work. But something was different. The idea that things could get better for me was there, like little droplets. The ideas came to me out with friends, talking on the phone, meeting up to catch a game, and again, in a moment of courage, I looked around the room and then grabbed my phone to call the number on the business card. The man on the other end of the line was friendly. He asked me direct questions about what I did and what I needed help with, and eventually agreed to come visit the next day. That had happened so fast that I didn't even ask about how much the sessions were going to cost. But still it was a step forward, and I knew right then that I would have to keep it a secret. The next morning, at noon, my lunch hour, the doorbell rang and there stood a man somewhere in his forties and with dark hair. He shook my hand and I let him in. Doctor Jilton was his name. He smiled politely stepped inside. As I pointed toward the only two chairs in the living room. He looked at the one with an indented cushion, and then at the other one. Your choice, I said, before realizing how dumb I sounded. Your choice who says that he picked a chair that wasn't mine. He took out a notebook from his bag and looked right at me, smiling, and then with a click of his pen, we started talking. He asked me questions I had never been asked before about my childhood, parents, friends, goals, and what I saw myself doing in a week, a month, a year, and a decade from now. Tough questions to have all at once, although I got through them okay. What not thing was that he kept reminding me that his method were not traditional, but insisted that they were indeed very effective. I told him, for the sake of honesty, that my wife was supportive of many things, except for his visits. She worried for my safety, and he nodded and then changed the subject of conversation, asking me instead questions about made up scenarios and ideas. During our conversation, he stood up a few times and looked around the room, asking me about things I had around the house, and he took a look at my closet. He looked at the backyard, saw many things around there, and then he would sit back down and continued non stop and as calmly as you can imagine, until he finally slowed down and finally silence. He got up off his chair and walked over the door, giving me a slip of paper his rake card, he called it, and with that he left. Part two of sessions is coming up right after this stay with me. My wife did not take it well. She knew immediately that the visit had been from the psychologist from the business card. She stood at the base of the bed that night and shouted at me, saying that if I went through with that, I would never hear from her again. She started crying and then sat in the chair in the corner of the room. When I tried to approach her, she scurried over to the other side of the room. I wanted to understand her, I really did, but instead I stayed quiet. I just grabbed the extra blanket and pillow and walked to the living room. I spent the night there. For the next several weekly sessions, I had some exercises to do, to step out of the house and say hi to a neighbor passing by, to buy a box of chocolates and give them away in front of the grocery store. Some things came easy, like recording a YouTube video of myself explaining something I enjoyed doing or talking about my day. Others like calling a customer service number I called the one in the back of the Nestley Quick yellowbox and complimenting their product were things that were much harder. But things were getting easier for me. And while that was going great, my wife was losing it. She would yell and shout absurdities, until one night it all came to a close. I was on my bed looking toward the blue light of the night sky coming through the window when she stormed in and said that I was never going to see her again. I asked why, ask what was wrong with me getting help? I begged her to reconsider staying and that we would come up with an agreement if we could only talk about it. She refused. She went back to the living room, leaving me with my head spinning in the dark. The next morning, I explained to doctor Jillton what had happened, and this came near the end of the session. That's when he put his pen down and then looked me right in the eyes. It is near the end of our eighth session together, he said. An awkward silence followed. He then said, upon investigating everything, even things about the hows from as many questions, he determined that there was no logical reason for my condition. He could not diagnose me with anything just yet, but that it was an appropriate time to discuss my wife. What is her name? He asked, after a long pause. What is her name? Why did he her name is? Well, of course it's He looked at me in silence. I wasn't sure of her name. Maybe I had been calling her by her pet name all this time, but even that felt off. Doctor Jilton stood up and walked over to the door, extending his right hand. I shook it and remained there, frozen as he turned around, opened the door and stepped out into the porch, shutting it behind him. Years of pressure had accumulated up to that moment when I stomped back into the bedroom, my wife now standing by the window, anger still in her eyes. I told you not to talk to him, she said, gaging my reaction. A rush of thoughts and not remembering the moment that this woman came into my life burned me up inside. I used to be able to walk around the block, try at least to speak with others. Things at work could have gone great. She stopped me. Deep down, I think she hated me. She was a sum of rejections across my years in college, and the tightening of my throat whenever I needed to talk to others. She was a crippling fear of seeing myself as a monster in front of other people, and the never ending self conscious feelings and insecurities. There. She was a monster herself, nothing but a voice without a face, constantly telling me to remain sad and pathetic. I could not remember your name, I managed to say. Doctor Jilton called me the following day and then showed up at my door in the evening. I hadn't cleaned up or eaten anything. In the living room was a mess. He walked in with his usual silence, shutting the door behind him and waiting for me to say something first, but upon seeing my confusion, he spoke up. What can you tell me about your wife? He asked, you already know, I answered, He nodded. We talked about the following sessions and how they would take place, suggesting his office a place I started frequenting for months until we started making significant progress. Even though I could see the cost of the help from doctor Jilton written out in front of me with every check that I gave to him, it never felt like enough. He also changed my life. I got to go to meetings, puzzles and board games, believe it or not, had clubs in my town where I made a few friends. I got a raise and training for a new position in the company. At work. Everything was looking up. I never thought I would need his services again. One day, I desperately started searching my drawers for that business card. I moved the whole house around. I had reorganized much of it years ago after the sessions with doctor Jilton. Eventually I found it tucked away under a stack of books. I just needed to place that call. It had been so long since I last saw him, and I went through the journals he made me work on to remember everything. We had talked about my wife. This thing had not been real. Doctor Jilton even considered testing for schizophrenia, dementia, hallucinations, theories that became even more confusing the more he asked me the questions and showed him that it was something else. He would often admit how there was a lack of logic in his methods, the exercises he would make me do, speaking to nothing, requesting them to leave, prayers or like he called them, mantras, repeated at different hours of the day and night. Had a whole list of them to do, and I don't remember when I stopped. It had not been the first case of its kind for him, He would often repeat, There had been no trace of this thing, this woman, my wife, ever living with me, never meeting me. There was no story, no beginning, no end, no name, no face. But if she wasn't real, then who was standing by my phone? This episode of Scary Story podcast was written and produced by me Edwin cohor Rubiez. You can find me over on Instagram and TikTok at edwind Cove. That's E d W I N c O V. Anyway, thank you very much for listening to my stories. See you soon