To have my head examined, was like succumbing to a one-way grooming session with an older, wiser monkey. Immediately I entered her office, I could see I would not be able to run my fingers through her hair, affably picking out mites and eating them. No, I was paying a fee, to be groomed and set free from what was bugging me. It was a "safe place"; all decked out with the usual Jungian sign posts, the accoutrements of signal knick-knacks. There were small stone animals, set in circles, merry-go-rounds of totemic bric-a-brac, large flamboyant plants, fishes in an aquarium, nice soft ambient light and, the couch.
She, from her chair, smiled greeting, and motioned me to sit down. On the couch. The couch with a bolster, and a blanket and the dreaded teddy bear. He leaned against the wall, sitting on the top, inert and off-balance in his faux fur. The mindless little piece of innocence immediately put me on my guard.

" Dierdre, I thought we could start by getting to know each other a bit. Why don't you lie down, and just be easy, and tell me what is on your mind."

"Well for starters, I am not going to get to know you. And I don't usually start conversations by lying down, unless I'm potted, which I am not. Is it absolutely necessary that I lie down? It seems so Freudian." I immediately wanted to flirt with her, so that she would be discomfited, on equal ground. I knew this was a mistake but it was just the kind of mistake I loved to make. Was part of the reason I was paying her $80 an hour. I thought I could change the kind of mistake I made to a better kind. This was the farthest improvement I could imagine.

She leaned forward. "People often find that lying down allows them to get to the bottom of things."

"Do you, did you just hear what you said? You, you can't be serious! Alright, I'm sorry, that was just, I'll give it a go, but really, you could be in comedy. Can I take off my shoes? I mean, it's not statutory, somehow, it won't get you in trouble? Should I leave one foot on the floor?" I was feeling so defensive I decided to attack. She didn't seem impressed. She spoke clearly and smoothly.

"Do whatever you need to to feel comfortable. If you feel like it, use the blanket. You may hold the bear if you like. Take your time."

I couldn't abide that lousy bear. "Listen can I just toss this guy? He gives me the creeps. I don't need to go that fucking far back, I'm afraid I might get stuck. Oh, and, does it upset you if I swear? I do it quite freely, but I don't have to." I tossed the bear across the room. I loved to see him go flying, and he landed face down near the banana tree. I did avail myself of the blanket though. Suddenly I was freezing.

She smiled. "You may already be stuck my dear, but if you don't like him, you needn't have him. Close your eyes if you like. Tell me, how do you feel just now?"

I felt awful. I was cold, and had my hands joined across my chest, then hugged them to my throat. "I feel like, Heloise, you know, Heloise and Abelard. I feel holy, as if I were made of stone, like someone buried in a sarcophagus." I'd been analyzed before, being an old hand, I liked to get right down to it. I was used to talking out loud about the most horrible, funny things.
I rubbed my hands together to chafe them warm. I put my hand to my head, and wiggled my feet.

"Oh, I like writing and I'm not able to do it. I, I get dragged off course. I wanted to write something, and soon as I started, the idea of Pompeii popped in my head." I had closed my eyes. I was trying to cooperate, but peeped open my eyes to see her looking at me, her notebook poised. "You know, Pompeii, where tourists go to have a look at death close up. All the particulars, frozen there, all the intimate details. You know, the volcano and the ash. I couldn't get it out of my mind, so I Googled it. I pored over photographs, lore, blogs, people's pictures of pictures. I ate it, I couldn't get enough of it, I couldn't get it out of my head. I began to deviate off of what I originally meant to write. I saw myself somewhere outside of Pompeii. It used to be called Herculaneum. Somewhere, safe, but still, where a tiny bit of ash fell, more like petals from trees in bloom. I was out of doors, having my breakfast, again and again having my breakfast, outside. I, my lover was there, I had left him. I knew he was destroyed. I sat at a cafe table with an iris in a vase, and had cheese, and olives, and fish, and soft bread with a crust, and a glass of wine."

I sat up. I had been holding my hands out over my head, gesturing. I had been so into the scene, and then I realized I was on a frigging couch, blabbing. I sat up, and curled my toes into the carpet. I ran my fingers through my hair.

"You know it's perfectly obvious to me, I don't know why I have to come to a perfect stranger to realize this. I blew up! I am fucking Vesuvius here, it's plain to see!" Here I leaned forward. "You are a perfect stranger. You ask me what I want someone to ask me. You know why I swear? Because I get to be my own father. You know, this is ridiculous. I know all this. Why in heaven's name. I can't afford this, you know. You know, people in other countries think Yanks are nutters because they see psychiatrists. Not because we're insane, but because we pay for our insanity with money." I was crying now, my knuckles in my teeth. I was freezing, trembling.

"Why do you care that people from other countries think seeing an analyst is insane? What people, what countries?" She had stopped scribbling; the room was silent except for my gulping sobs. I was alarmed that I had dragged her off course a little bit. The teddy bear lay face down. The fish made their serious way through the water. The light was changing, the clock-hand was moving, inexorably toward my time-up.

"Well everyone in the U.K. for one, and even Australians! The Germans, I don't know, they're still trying to get out from under the frigging Holocaust, for God's sake." I fell back, my head against the wall. "Everyone's got problems, it's only Americans think they've got to get it right. I mean, people in other countries, they just dither through it, they stand up and just get through it. They don't try to fix things, if they're fucking broken then they're fucking broken that's all, this, this is all beside the point! I can't afford you. I can't afford to blow up. Where are the fucking tissues?"

I pulled half the box out at one tug. I blew my nose, I wiped my raccoon eyes.

"So what is it about "being a volcano" that upsets you so?"

I managed a miserable laugh. "Well, when volcanos blow up, people living nearby are covered in molten lava for one thing. Burnt up. Or they get buried in ash, which is a horrible way to go. There they are, one minute, and foomp. Engulfed, smothered, stuck like that. Don't you see the symbology?" I looked at her as if she were nuts. I was disappointed. I sniffed. I waited.

She tapped her notebook. "Symbolism"..

"Aha! You see it too! It's dangerous, I'm dangerous, everyone I love is in danger!"

"But my dear, you aren't really a volcano." She said this gently, sympathetically.

I wished I had worn my glasses so that I could take them off and eye her. As it was I was forced to say "You've really got a calling here. I'm sorry, but, I come in here, looking for something, I don't know, I need help here, and you tell me I'm not a volcano. I can hear it now when I get home. 'Hi hun, how'd it go?' And I'll say 'Well, I'm not a volcano.' And my husband will say 'You, you, well that's just fine. I'm happy for you Spike.'

She perked up at that. 'He calls you Spike? Then she looked at her little watch. "Well. Our time is up for today. You can see you have a lot of bottled up energy here, can't you? The simplest question, and just see the result. I hope you come back. You are an interesting woman, and I would like to work with you to help you through this."

Where does the time go, when you're having your head examined? "Just like that? I'm supposed to leave here with my guts hanging out? What do I, what do I do in the mean-time? Auf. Yeah okay, whatever." I held the back of my hand to my mouth. "Fucking Pompeii" I whispered to myself. "So that was it." I did all the work, and she'd only been pushing me when I stopped rolling.

"Listen you've been a lovely audience. More than most people get. I'll just walk out of here with my iris in my hand. I gotta get this down, before I forget it." I knew I was being difficult, but therapy in this context was as stop-and-start to me as a driving lesson with a stick shift.

I made my check out for her, in a wild unrecognizable hand. I tore it off unevenly and thrust it at her. I resisted the impulse to touch her somehow. Yeah yeah yeah, that would come later, as I transferred onto her all my crap romantic impulses. At some point, I would try to run my fingers through her hair, just the kind of mistake I love to make.