Unconventional therapy

“Before we start, I must warn you one last time that my methods are highly unconventional. This is your last change to back out.”

“I understand. You come highly recommended and I’ve tried everything else. I can’t go on as things currently are. My work is killing me and my wife has…”

The man nodded solemnly behind his mahogany table, and raised his phone to his ear, cutting me off. He waited a few seconds, then said: “Yes. The man currently sitting in my office. Ten hours.”

“What was that about?”, I said, mildly irritated and anxious to explain my situation. From past experience, I knew that just to adequately go through all my problems would take a few sessions.

“That was the beginning of the end for your depressed life.”

I blinked. “What?”

“What would you say if I told you I just called a hitman on you, and you have ten hours to live?”

“Is this a joke?”

The man waited in silence for his words to sink in. I searched his eyes for the punchline of a joke, but found no humor, no smile and no compassion. For a minute, I tried to convince myself this man was a lunatic, but his collected demeanor didn’t allow me to take his words lightly. I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Suddenly, I felt cold.

“Now that you understand the gravity of your situation, let’s reflect. If in… nine hours and 56 minutes a high-velocity bullet goes through your brain, what do you want to do with your final hours? Go back to the office? Fight with your wife? Watch Netflix or read what’s new on social media? What matters to you? What do you wish to experience, as your final moments run through your fingers?”

…

“As you go through the final hours of your day, imagine laying down to sleep this evening. You’re dead. Nothing can harm you now. You’ve no debts to pay. No work on Monday. Nothing weighing you down. Enjoy your freedom — as long as you can.”

I don’t remember leaving his office, but I soon found myself walking through a nearby park. Birds were singing. I thought of my children - they would be well off, even after I died. My work would continue without me. I walked by an ice cream kiosk and decided to try something new. A tar-flavoured ice-cream. It was strange but I enjoyed it.

I got home and my wife looked up from the sofa with a concerned question in her eyes. I didn’t say a word. I merely smiled and took her in my arms. I lifted a strand of hair from her face and kissed her, feeling her melt in my arms. We made love that night for the first time in a long time, and it felt amazing.

I laid deep in thought, watching the ceiling of my bedroom. The stress and worries that had seemed insurmountable just a few hours ago, now felt distant and silly. I was relaxed and content. Was I really going to die? The thought didn’t alarm me anymore. Not that I enjoyed the idea, but I had somehow accepted the possibility. What if it was just a hoax? Would I go back to being anxious all the time?

I decided that for now, it didn’t matter. I was dead. Such matters didn’t concern me.

I hugged my sleeping wife closer and drifted away, to the most restful sleep I had had in ages.