Cricket Orchestra

It’s always interesting to see where your mind wanders off to when you have a blank page in front of you. For the most part, mine goes completely vacant. A barren wasteland, void of any productive thoughts or sparks of inspired creativity. That’s not to say that I am teeming with imaginative brilliance away from pen and paper. Yet, whatever the rhyme or reason upon opening my laptop or caliber…crickets. I imagine them taking center stage of a beautiful vintage theater, gathered underneath the bright lights in perfect semi-circle formation to rub their legs together in synchronized harmony for their audience of two. Me, and an empty velour seat roped off and reserved for my thoughts…whatever act they may arrive in. The wonders this vision does for my imposter syndrome.

Hearing my name called aloud pulled me back into reality.

“Tell me about the writing! How’s that going?” Daniel asks.

The curtains dropped on my daydream. I anxiously whip my head up from my notebook and look around the real semicircle in front of me. Staticy plastic middle school chairs occupied by group therapy goers instead of oversized green insects. Daniel nudged his chin upwards awaiting a response. Why had he done this to me? I slid my notebook underneath my crossed leg.

“Oh! Umm…it’s-it’s going, I guess.” I sat up straight and shrugged my shoulders. When it dawned on me only a second after reflexively answering the question he’d asked; client confidentiality. HIPAA! I told Daniel in confidence during an individual session that I was writing a book. I was livid he took it upon himself to share with the group without my permission. He sat running his fingers through his long white goatee beard, looking at me solemnly through his square glasses perched on the tip of his crooked nose. He doesn’t even know he messed up! Bless his heart. I’m not an ageist, but if you can’t remember what not to disclose, it’s time to wrap up the therapeutic practices! I continued my check-in while I stopped to suck my teeth between pauses. How else would he know I was mad if I didn’t audibly hint it passive aggressively?

“Yeap,” *tsssss* “it’s a-goin’.” Fuck it, now that everyone knows anyways I might as well get my moneys worth for this group vent.

“Kinda sucks knowing that I’ll spend all of this time and energy perfecting my craft while struggling to work through gruesome and intrusive OCD thoughts on a loop, to then only to be categorized as just another hysterical female. I just think it’s ironic that the book I write in hopes of helping people understand me better as a person, is probably the one that will render me alone for the remainder of my existence. I’m thinking of rescuing a dozen cats now to get a head start on my spinster destiny. So, yeah. The writing is going pretty swimmingly, Daniel. Thanks for checking in.”

The room fell completely silent. A real world performance of my cricket orchestra. It felt like the longest, shittiest concert. Plastic chairs began to creak and crack as people shifted uncomfortably. Daniel cleared his throat and tilted his head.

“So…I’m sorry, uhh, you…weren’t just taking therapy notes?”

I am not an ageist.

I am just an asshole.

 

Amanda Izzo is a writer, artist, and entrepreneur who splits her time between Boston, MA and Rochester, NH. She enjoys recapturing her life and youth in the form of creative nonfiction. She also explores different genres and literary mediums, relishing in blurring the dividing lines between them. Recently, her pieces titled “Tell Me Where it Hurts” and “Consent Defined” were published through Levitate Magazine, Issue #9.