After the Climb

gpt

1. The Therapist

My therapist says there’s a good chance you were a psychopath. That sentence hangs in the air longer than it should. She says it would explain a lot — for me, for you. She recommends a test. Says there’s a shorter version online. Says it would help me if you took it.

Then she says, if you really are a psychopath, you won’t give a damn about my recovery. That was the kicker.

I tell her I’ve seen you cry. Doesn’t that mean something? Doesn’t that prove you can feel?

She shakes her head slowly and explains: psychopaths are excellent mimics. They study emotions — through movies, through people. They’re actors. They don’t feel feelings; they perform them.

I took the full test. I am not a psychopath. I am the opposite: an empath.

She says, no wonder the marriage destroyed me.

2. The Marriage

She slapped my hand once — a sharp, loud crack that startled even the dog. You’d think I’d run over a child in the driveway.

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, her mouth white at the corners.

“Jesus,” I said. “It was a poke. You act like I killed the kid. That hurt, too.”

“You’re always pawing at me,” she said, as if I were a child. “Don’t touch me. Ever.”