“I know I’m not crazy,” I say finally.
The couch is comfortable, but lying down feels awkward, like most picnics.
“Who said you’re crazy?” replies David. He insists that I call him David. Maybe so I’ll feel more relaxed.
“No one, actually, it’s just that things aren’t making sense. Or making too much sense.”
“And how does that make you feel?” he says, glancing at his note pad, ready to write.
“Please don’t say that. It’s so dumb”
“Then how do you suggest I find out how you’re feeling?”
After a brief pause I say, “I feel like an observer of my own life. Like I’m acting out a script. Or like I’m making everything up as I go along. Like it’s not real. Like I’m dreaming. How’s that?”
“Well, that would be classic depersonalization disorder, but let’s explore a bit further, ok?”
“Sure. Let me ask you this. How many coincidences does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
David looks up, puzzled.
“You know, before the little cartoon idea bulb appears over your head.”
I tilt my head to the right and look directly at David. “Metaphorically of course. Remember, I’m not crazy.”
“Go on,” he says, and smiles.
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