When had life stopped being fun?
He couldn't for the life of him remember the last time that he'd had a good time. A real good time. Crime had been its own brand of fun for a while, but even that had been sullied. There were many reasons for that, it wasn't just the who that was sullying it, a certain masked mallard who was hellbent on ruining a good time, but there were other factors that certainly contributed.
He acknowledged that for once in his life, he had gone too far. Been too far gone, really. He had stopped playing, stopped pretending, and even the mask couldn't really hide anything anymore. He was angry. More than angry, he was infuriated at life for giving him such a terrible hand of fate. Infuriated at his competitors who had linked arms with good fortune. Even more than that, he was angry at himself for wasting so much of his life away, just to be bitter. No one had lost anything but him, in the end.
And he was still losing to this very day.
His eyes flickered dully up at the clock that forty-five long and tedious minutes had passed over. He urged time to move faster, but no amount of persistent mental will could press the second hand.
"Jack, I think you're making significant progress."
He shifted uncomfortably, bouncing his leg, as his brow furrowed. "I've heard that one before."
"...Well yes. You've made strides before in the past, and you've had a few....setbacks. But no one is perfect, Jack. People don't lose the miles they've gained by stopping in the middle of the road. They just cease to move forward. But now you've resumed. There's no absolute perfect way to do this."
"I've resumed, allow me to throw the confetti." He remarked dryly. "...I don't even know what I'm moving towards."
"It doesn't have to be something big or ominous. You can set small goals that lead up to the big ones. Think of it as though you're taking a bus across the country. Each new destination on the way to the other side are the smaller, easier to bite off goals, and before you know it, you've arrived."
"Like what?" He sounded exasperated.
"Well what have you been doing in your spare time?"
"I just have so much of time lying around now, I hardly know what to do with myself. I spend hours staring at the wall in my apartment. Oh, and when three o' clock rolls around, that's when it gets real wild- I take a nap."
"Jack."
He sighed listlessly, rolling his eyes. "Well what do you expect for me to do? I don't have anything to call my own anymore. I don't have anyone I can talk to, thanks to all of you."
"Jack, there's a whole plethora out there of things for you to discover. It's not too late to find them, or to learn new things about yourself. I know that your craft is a big part of your identity, and no one is saying you can't engage that side of yourself, but it has to be done in a creative, constructive manner."
"It doesn't matter what any of you say. I can't make toys anymore. I just can't. I've tried. They don't come out right. They're lacking in something, something I just can't wrap my head around. But they're empty. It's all so empty."
"It feels empty because you've filled those spaces with negative energy. And now that it's not there anymore, it feels empty to you. But you can still fill those parts of your life, with healthier, more productive coping mechanisms."
He sighed heavily. "I'm trying. All I can say is, I'm trying."
"I know, and you're doing well. You're doing the very best that you can, and that's all that matters."
So placating. As if he were a child. He stared up at the clock, narrowing his eyes.
"Maybe it wouldn't hurt to try your hand at other hobbies, hm? You mentioned you also made scrapbooks at some point, didn't you?"
He stiffened, "...Yeah. A long time ago."
"You seem a little hesitant to talk about them. Why might that be?"
"...It's... it's nothing really. It's just...what my last therapist had suggested. It helped for a while but. It just reminds me of a bad time in my life, that's all."
Like everything else. What didn't at this point?
"Oh? Well perhaps another hobby. What else have you been interested in?"
He just wanted to leave. Why was this clock so tortuously evil?
"I don't know." He shrugged a shoulder.
"There must be something, Jack."
Anything to get out of this office.
"I guess I like taking pictures." He offered in a non-committal way.
"Oh! Photography? That can be a wonderful hobby!"
Jack suppressed the urge to sneer, eyeing that one minute in a strangling sort of way, hands clasped tightly together against his lap.
"Why don't you try taking some photos this week, and let me know how it goes! I'm sure if you poured your energy into something positive, you'll see what a difference it can make in how you feel."
"...Sure. Fine."
"I mean it Jack. Just try a few sessions, see how it affects you. There's nothing to be lost."
That one earned a chuckle. Jack surprised even himself, not having heard himself laugh in a long while now. Still, a far cry from the manic sounds that used to escape him. He regarded his therapist with drawn, tired, glazed over eyes, and he shook his head. "You're right. What more can I lose?"
