Your Ex-Lover Is Dead

Dr. Morris crossed her sexy legs and pulled her skirt down to make sure her cooter wasn't showing, Sharon Stone style. She picked up an ice-filled tumbler from the table and reached over, handing to me.

I grabbed it with quivering hands. "Thanks." After a few sips of water, I decided it wasn't enough. In my bag was a flask of whiskey. After adding the secret ingredient, Dr. Morris waved a stern finger at me.

"Alcohol is not the answer," she looked at me over her glasses. God, this woman was sexy. She had this fuckable librarian vibe to her, with her curly ginger hair.

"You know there are better ways to deal with your emotions."

The whiskey went down hard. I shook the ice in my glass and sighed heavily, shaking the hair out of my face. "Dude," I looked at her with my soon-to-be bloodshot eyes. "You have no idea."

She smiled. "I think I have some idea."

She was sitting in this big leather chair. It reminded me of the one from fucking Dr. Evil in Austin Powers. When I was a kid, I was scared of Dr. Morris for exactly this reason. I mean, she was always pretty, but as a six year old, hot woman or not, some strange bitch asking you about your fucked up life was still frightening.

As the years progressed, Dr. Morris definitely felt like someone I could talk to, rather than someone to be petrified of. We started to click when I was a teenager. I always had to suppress my raging boner when I was sitting on her leather couch, which felt like butter, spilling my guts out to her.

"I've known you for almost 14 years now. You know you can express whatever you're feeling." She checked her phone for the time. "Plenty of time left in our session. And I always gave you an extra ten minutes, as I recall."

I chucked, still knocking the ice around in my glass. Those days were for when my mom pissed me off, I got rejected by a girl, or I didn't nail an audition the way I envisioned.

Opening my legs—to let my balls breathe a little more—I started, "Dr. Morris, this is the fifth time this has happened. And I think I deserve to be just a teensy bit pessimistic about whatever the fuck curse is happening to me or whatever."

Dr. Morris uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, balancing her pointy chin on her hand. "What did we say last time, though?"

"Oh come on, don't make me repeat that bullshit."

"It's not bullshit. It's what we decided. And it's what made you feel better about the situation."

"It's not like you can say some fucking magic words and make the situation go away, though! Logic only goes so far. I am a magnet for this type of shit to happen!"

"Charlotte's death had nothing to do with you. And you know this."

Two weeks ago, one of my ex-flames died. It was sudden. Her roommate said it was a drug overdose. I honestly wasn't shocked. She had that pin-up scene girl thing going and I honestly thought it would be a matter of time before she ended up all coked out. Especially after she was scouted by SuicideGirls. I'd heard rumors that she was doing a bunch of crazy shit just to get modeling gigs, like having orgies with a bunch of strange men for coke and sucking countless cocks for a photoshoot.

"She was prone to this sort of behavior. You said this."

I nodded. I couldn't look at her, though. Not because she was beautiful. It was because she could see right through me. I decided my red Chuck Taylors were enough of a view.

It was everywhere. It seemed like so many people were talking about her dying, for such a big ass school. I didn't know why I felt guilty, but I did.

Ever since I started dating, it seemed like every girl I ever had any involvement with, either sexually or romantically, they always just...died. I never had anything to do with it. I never put hands on them. Nothing.

I lost my virginity when I was fourteen to a pretty blonde emo chick named Ashleigh. When I woke up the next morning—I liked to stay the night because I thought it was rude to just bail like that—she was dead.

Shit got real pretty quickly. I didn't do anything, but everyone thought I killed her. Her parents got super pissed off at me until it was revealed in the autopsy that she had an enlarged heart. Even though I was off the hook, I still remained 'that kid who killed Ashleigh Pederson.'

Something that like could fuck a guy up for life.

"I know I said she was prone to this behavior, but after 2005, I didn't think this would still be a problem."

My very last incident, which made me think the curse was over. Andorra Rafe was her name. She was gorgeous. Half Latina, half German, and whole beautiful. I had a crush on her for about five months before we finally had our cherished make out session. We talked about getting together but she always seemed so standoffish. When Andorra finally said she liked me and she was on her way to come see me because she wanted to talk, I was upset because she never arrived. Then I get the call from her best friend saying she died in a car accident.

For years after that, I labeled her my proof that I would never fall in love after that. I cursed everyone. No one could be loved by me, and I couldn't be loved.

Dr. Morris worked with me through my emotional hardships. I cut myself. I purposely OD'ed twice and tried my hardest to break out of rehab when I was sent there. The only thing that kept me from fully jumping off a clip was my music. Dr. Morris suggested I revisit a habit I'd been neglecting to keep my mind off of life. And it worked. Music saved my life. If I hadn't been distracted, I probably wouldn't have even gone to college, either. I almost didn't go.

"You went so many years without experiencing anything. And I think that's good. But you told me your involvement with a few more women in college never amounted to anything. They're not dead."

She had a point. I had a few trysts with other chicks. And they were still alive.

At least, to my knowledge they were.

"And I understand that you're worried your current girlfriend might be next?"

I gripped the tumbler and closed my eyes. I almost started crying. But I'm a man. Men don't cry unless they're near onions. "Yeah." I cleared my throat to rid myself of the chunk that was accumulating. "I've been withholding some of the more important parts of my past for fear of freaking her out. I thought, since it's not a part of me anymore, there's no need to repeat it."

"But it's always a part of you. It's always going to be a part of you. Just like your estranged relationship with your mom. Just like your suicide attempts. Just like your—" she gestured toward my bare arm, with my sleeve tattoo—"tattoo. It's a symbol of an excerpt of your life that defines you and everything about you. It's a song that reminds you of a time or an event. The emotions and the memories that they are attached to? They're not going anywhere. And it would be best if you try your hardest to reconcile with these emotions and tell your girlfriend. She deserves to know everything about you, like you deserved to know everything about her. Even when she was lying about some of it."

I'd only spoken to her a few times, and on completely non-morbid subjects. Just girlfriend drama. She knew what was going on between me and her. She knew how rocky our initial stage was. And as soon as I heard that Charlotte passed, I had to phone her.

"You're right. You're absolutely right. But the last thing I want to do is scare the shit out of her. She's a great girl, and I don't want to lose her."

Dr. Morris folded her hands. "You don't fear losing her. You fear that what you're withholding will not only alienate her but alienate yourself in the process. But this is something you have to conquer. It could be your biggest trigger."

The plants in each corner of the room reminded me of the Pokemon Oddish with its huge floppy leaves. She had shelves full of a bunch of thick books that would Stephenie Meyers' literature to shame. I even spotted that porn book Fifty Shades of Grey squeezed in between some of them.

This was a technique she taught me when I felt I was having a panic attack. Bring myself back into reality by identifying the things around me. It helped to say them out loud, but I wasn't in full on attack mode.

She got up and snatched the flask out of my hand, replacing it with a bottle of water she'd just gotten out of the fridge.

"Like I said. Alcohol won't solve everything."

But it was definitely worth a shot.

"I see you almost had a panic attack. Have you ever had one in front of your current girlfriend?" She sat back down, re-crossing her gorgeous legs.

I shook my head, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "Once. She freaked out, but I snapped out of it before she called 911. She even knew the protocol for stopping them."

"What does she know about your past? What's keeping you from exposing the darker part?"

"All she knows is that me and my dad have a great relationship, me and my mom don't, and that I have terrible luck with women. If she finds out about something that might scare the shit out of her, then she might grow distant. Once you grow distant," I looked out of the window. The sun was setting and an orange and yellow glow was peering through the window.

"You fall apart. And once its done, its done. I can't be done with her."

"I think you also said," Dr. Morris thumbed through a small black notebook on her table, "In our phone session, you admitted to wishing she was dead when you caught her with another guy, the situation that ended your involvement with her. And that because of you wishing that, you felt even guiltier. But people wish morbid things on others all the time, am I right?"

I nodded. "Yes. But what's your point?"

"I'm saying," she closed the book, "people die all the time. You seem to be falling into a strange set of circumstances that are preventing you from fully living your life. It also seems that the 5 year gap between the last death and this one made you feel as though everything was on the up-and-up."

"What am I gonna do if she dies next? I got enough of a reason to kill myself from Charlotte's death. If she dies, I'm gonna kill myself. We can skip the suicide watch, skip the rehab, skip the countless medications to keep me from going over the edge, skip all that shit. I'm gonna fucking kill myself."

"You can't base your happiness on another individual." She got up and sat by me. Uh oh. Whenever she did this, she could sense I was fucked up.

"You've learned to separate your need for your mother. You did this when your relationship with her deteriorated. I understand that she was a terrible person and that she never really cared for you, but you gained a nurturing relationship with your father in the process. And you became more independent and self-sufficient because of it. Even during your therapy sessions when you were showing me all of your self-harm bruises, you told me that you felt better about the situation in the end because you helped yourself through everything. No one else. Just you."

Throughout the remaining 45 minutes of the session, Dr. Morris explained to me that everything I was going through was another test of my sanity and whether I liked it or not, I'd have to explain to my girlfriend what was going on with me. And if she dumped me, I had to remain strong. Going through all this just to off myself would be "a waste," as she put it.

"Okay. I get it. I'll explain to her what's going on with me." I stood up, and she followed me.

"You've grown so much. I'm amazed." She gave me a hug, and I returned.

"Can I have my flask back now?"

She chuckled and touched my shoulder. "You work at Urban Outfitters. I'm pretty sure you can get another one."

I held my head down. "Alright. Thanks again."

As I was leaving, Dr. Morris called, "One last thing, Christopher?"

I turned around, slipping my Ray Bans on my face.

"I hope everything works out. Roshanda seems like a wonderful young woman."

I nodded. "Now you see why I don't want to lose her."