I really don’t care.
They are silent for a moment.
Of COURSE you care! She’s your best friend!
She shakes her head.
But I don’t care…really.
Wait a minute…how can you NOT care? She’s angry. She is distancing herself from you. She feels like you are moving on and leaving her behind. You HAVE to care!
I don’t. She can dig a hole and live in it. I’m not joining her in that damn dark place to fight her. If she wants to keep living that life…I’m done. I really don’t care.
The group is quiet. There isn’t’ much left to say.
The therapist looks into her eyes and sees…he sees the truth…cold and uncaring.
So you’re a bitch, he says. And that’s that.
Group is over so no one calls her back when she walks out.
Because she is saying the truth.
And she can’t understand why the truth isn’t always right.
She learned uncompromising truth from her father.
She learned lots of things from him.
How to have an idea and run with it…how to express her thoughts in points…how to learn new things and apply them immediately…how truth can change…how not to apologize…how to speak with a clear decisiveness that leaves no room for discussion…how to go all the way until the way ends and then switch to another way…how to drip venom into neutral words…how to not care…
Her genetic makeup tortures her.
Because she should care.
Because she’s not like him.
She is kind and considerate. She always knows what people need. She can be incredibly soothing. She is a healer. She is perceptive. People open up to her on the street. She sits in the corner and they come, one by one, and tell her their secrets and she always knows what to say. She fixes broken people. She mends tortured souls. She is caring…so damn caring…and yet…
She really doesn’t care.
And she won’t care…until her father shows her how.