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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MouseCurtains on 2024-11-10 22:30:06+00:00.

I met Dr. Harper about a year and a half ago. He was recommended to me by my sponsor in AA, who had nothing but good words to say about him.

I’ve never liked therapy. There’s something just so forced about letting someone pick your brain; questioning you about how you feel and think, when you’ve already waded through all the possibilities in your mind. I’m not here to dog on therapy—it can be extremely helpful and lifesaving for some. For me, it felt gruelling, and no matter who I saw or where I was, I couldn’t bring myself to fully engage in the process.

I think a part of me just so desperately wants to be liked. I’d find myself saying what I thought they wanted to hear, and I’d charade a persona that wouldn’t allow them to get too close, or understand me too well. It felt too false—too unrealistic, and although that could be entirely my own fault, there wasn’t any way for me to act otherwise. I’d deduced that therapy simply wasn’t for me, and unless someone literally altered my brain chemistry by cutting and siphoning out neural pathways in my head, it never would be.

Dr. Harper was different. He only held sessions in his own home, and refused to start unless he’d cooked a meal to share between him and his patients. He’d send a message asking for what you’d want for dinner, and then go and cook the meal from scratch, regardless of how complex or difficult the recipe was. My sponsor, Jim, said he’d made him the best Kimchi Jiggae he’d ever had—second to his Mom’s, and it really felt like he was sat across from a family friend, all the way back in Korea.

Dr. Harper said that food was a way to really break down barriers; allowing people to feel more comfortable in a setting where they’d usually be adverse to sharing issues in. Therapy, to him, wasn’t just about talking things out, or feeling listened to. It was about knowing that you were safe, and safer than you’d ever been before. Somehow, food was the perfect key to unlock that.

I’d asked for my Nonna’s—Grandmother’s—lasagna. My Mom wrote a recipe down for me once I’d left home, and I kept it—all crumpled to the point of feeling like fabric more than paper, and sent a picture to him. I didn’t expect it to be great; my Nonna’s recipe was long and gruelling, and required a ragu to simmer for 2 days straight. Yet, when I turned up to Dr. Harper’s apartment, the aroma brought me straight back to being a young bambino—kid—again. I was inundated with warmth and welcoming, and my shoulders relaxed against my will.

We shared a few glasses of wine, and he pulled out the piping hot lasagne; crust bubbling and spitting with the fat from pancetta layered underneath. I was salivating at the mouth, and I knew from the moment the first bite was placed on my tongue, that this man must’ve made some deal with my deceased Nonna. How he could’ve replicated her recipe so perfectly was beyond me, but it truly allowed the walls I’d built up to crumble down in the same manner I chewed on those delectable layers of food.

He’d asked me why I was here; what I wanted to gain from this experience. So, I told him.

“My Dad wasn’t a bad man, but he did bad things.”

A gulp. A swallow. A glug of wine and a wipe from his chin.

“How so?”

An offering of more wine. I shouldn’t, because I drink. I took it anyway.

“He, um…”

A pause.

“He knew my brother was going down the wrong path, and he allowed it to continue.” I responded. Wiping my chin and giving a coy smile.

“Which was?”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“Dad…” I found it hard to speak, but knew that if I didn’t, I’d never be able to. I was tipsy, and fed enough, and this had to be the time to say my piece. My peace. “Dad was involved in the gang business—mafia, perhaps, but way less important to the community. He organised petty crimes… theft, extortion from non-payers…and drugs. Enzo helped with that.”

“The drugs?”

It seemed like no matter how much I drank, my wine glass never came close to empty.

“Yes. The drugs. Crack and cocaine, mostly.”

“I see.”

No matter how much I ate, my plate never seemed to decrease either.

“And what happened to Enzo?” Dr. Harper asked, swirling the wine glass in his hand.

“He died of addiction.” I stunted, feeling my appetite diminish. Perhaps it had sobered me, and I dabbed my napkin against my chin. “My parents are dead, now…and there’s no rectifying what had occurred. All I want to do is find peace in myself, and be able to live my life without the fear of making the same mistakes.”

I don’t remember much more of the evening, bar throwing up profusely in my toilet once I returned home. The next day, in my hungover stupor, I received a text from Dr. Harper, asking me if we’d like to continue the sessions. I felt like crap, so all I did was lug my body from the bedroom to the bathroom, and sit in a bath of lukewarm water—too hot had convinced me I’d boil alive, and too cold, freeze to death—and wait until my body could handle anything.

Jim, my sponsor, called me at around 2pm; asking me how it was. I told him I’d drank, and he just laughed. He told me that was part of the process—make you realise how crappy alcohol makes you feel after a period of sobriety. I trusted him, he was my sponsor.

I responded to Harper. I told him that yes, I would like to see him again, but not in the same circumstances. No matter what Jim said, I didn’t want to end my sobriety again. He understood, and offered to meet at a coffee shop this time—early morning where we could just discuss some things that had been bothering me.

That was last Tuesday. We met, had a conversation about my AA and how I may need to come to terms with forgiveness.

Maybe I’ve been lying, or withholding information, but I don’t forgive. For the past three years, I’ve been trying to pin down a dealer by the alias of ‘Stacks’—a latino guy who deals fentanyl in the Manhattan 8th Avenue district. I’ve tried private investigators and everything, but because of my family’s history with gangs, it’s hard to discern any credibility.

My conversation with Dr. Harper ended abruptly, and I will admit I was rude. I don’t want people to tell me that forgiveness for an unforgivable act is normal, or necessary, for healing. I want revenge for what Stacks did to my brother, and I will be doing the world a service by removing him from it.

I got back into drinking. I’d been sober for so long, and even the hangover didn’t help me continue. I kept drinking and drinking until I’d pass out in my apartment, and still continue. Jim stopped responding to my calls, and the AA meetings changed place—they weren’t at the Church anymore. I was so alone, until I got a text from Dr. Harper.

‘There’s a program for people like you—the FORGIVENESS program. It will help, I promise. It aims to relieve the stress and pain, and remove any negative feelings that impact you more than the persons you want revenge against.’

I was desperate. I needed sobriety—normalcy. I craved being able to think coherently and not just think about how to get my next drink. So I asked him:

‘When does it start? Where do I meet you?’

‘A block from my apartment. 65C Vemodig Road.’

So I turned up. I had no choice. It was either suffer and drink myself to death, or find out what could truly help me. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and it made me realise how much I’d been comfortable sharing my story with Dr. Harper in the first place. How I’d been able to break down those barriers and actually indulge in therapy properly.

He greeted me, in full scrubs, and asked me to come stand in the waiting room. The hallway was dark, and had a sole, dim, flickering light on the ceiling. He ushered me through a beaded curtain into a dingy room, which held an eclectic mix of people. A woman, sat in the far left-corner was cross-legged on a metal stool, biting her nails profusely. She was deathly thin, and covered in bruises—puss seeping from her seized-close left eye. A man, bleached blonde and acne-ridden, licked up and down her forearm, which was laden with puncture marks. On the other end, a man in a suit with terrible sniffles and a deviated septum continued to cough—pulling out his cellphone and continuing to lift it to his ear, and sigh loudly when there was no response.

In the middle sat a very fat, black woman who cried uncontrollably, wheezing with every breath she took. I decided she was the one to sit next to, as she seemed the least irritable and harmless. She continued to weep, and grasped my knee, pulling out a napkin to wipe her tears away.

“Are you alright?” I asked, sympathetically. She turned to me, frowned, and began to wail more. I put my hand in hers, and tried to soothe her. The man in the suit kissed his teeth.

“I-I’m sorry—it’s just, my son…he’s in there. This was the only thing we could do and—oh God, I’m a terrible mother!” She cried, gripping my hand so tightly my blood rushed to my fingertips.

“I’m sure that’s not true. Hey—look, I’m going in there soon. Sometimes the normal stuff don’t work?” I offered, and she ceased crying. She gripped my hand again, and gave me a nod to show appreciation.

“I thank you for that.” She sniffed, and sneezed loudly. “I hope you get what you need too.”

She continued to rub soothing patterns on the palm of my hand, but I could never be sure if that was for me or for herself. I could hear the couple in the corner whispering foul things to each other, and the suited man tap his leather shoe aggressively on the ground.

Eventually, a w…

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