Jonathan reminisces about his daughter who has passed away. His attention then turns to his patient's chart as he ponders whether or not a person in therapy can get better.
PlayName: Painful Death of Sue Ellen Fitch, The
Rating: Contains adult content
Copyright Status: Copyrighted
AuthorName: Thorin Alexander
Age Range: 40s - Early, 40s - Late
Dialects: Standard American
We used to be inseparable. The two of us. I remember this one...View Full Monologue Text
We used to be inseparable. The two of us. I remember this one time, Sue Ellen and I walked down from our house down to where they were building the new sewer system. There were row after row of these huge cement pipes that went straight into the ground. We just walked into the pipes. She wanted to be an "explorer." She had this little flashlight that I had given her for when we used to go camping. It wasn't very bright. It gave us just enough light to see about five, six feet in front of us. I was terrified. I never liked the dark. But she...she just kept moving forward. No fear. No hesitation. She just had to see where the tunnel went. Where we would end up. I know this sounds weird, me being the father, but I felt comfortable with her. I felt safe.
(JONATHAN LOOKS AT THE CHART IN FRONT OF HIM.)
Cynthia Mason. 25 years old. Mother was a drinking alcoholic. Father was M.I.A. This gave Cynthia a general distrust of both men and women. Married her High School sweetheart, who then preceded to abuse her for 6 years, producing all kinds of scars, both physical and mental. She wants love, but she doesn't think she deserves it. (CLOSING UP THE CHART) I see it all in my head. She comes to me. She's wounded, but treatable. But she doesn't seem to want to get better. Wait. That's wrong. She wants to get better, but doesn't know how. Do I know how? Do I want to know? What if I didn't treat her? No, wait. What if I treated her, but didn't help her. No. What if I helped her, but not the way she wanted to be helped. She thinks that there's an end to this road. Or at least she like to think that there is. What if there isn't? What if you're fucked up like this forever and there's no end in sight. Is there any difference between that and, say, being hit by a car and ending up in a wheelchair, never being able to move your arms or legs. What if, instead of not being able to move your arms, you weren't able to love...anyone. What if, instead of not being able to move your legs, you weren't able to love yourself. Is that anyway to live? To exist? Is that a life?