Harmonious Hearts 2019--Stories from the Young Author Challenge
Page 3
“You do believe that, don’t you?” The question had come softly, as if he wouldn’t. The boy only nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His voice had already come up rough once, and he couldn’t be certain it wouldn’t once more. Silent, he did his best to push away the big ball that had been forming in his throat, though his success was limited.
“Good.” She smiled. The boy fought to concentrate on what she was saying, because really, he owed that much to his mother, and maybe things weren’t so bad. Who knew? Despite the fact he lacked positivity, that didn’t seem to be the case with most people. Most people made it through the day just fine, without the urge to burst into tears, or that dark empty void he called a companion.
He finally managed to get that urge inside, where it would melt and disappear against all of his feelings, feelings that crushed him no matter how much he failed to express them. He could make an effort; that much was certain. Now in control of his voice—or at least as close as he could come when it truly didn’t belong to him—he hesitated before deciding that yes, if it came to that, he would talk.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He felt sorry for himself pretty much every day, when he stared into space, and when he was in school thinking how little of what he was supposed to be learning actually was of importance to him, but still he didn’t vocalize it. Not only because he didn’t speak, though that was a factor, but also because he didn’t know exactly what he was apologizing for. Not really. He was sorry, but for what? For existing? For having the problems he had? For wasting their time? Sometimes the boy felt like he wasted everyone’s time, what with his meek attitude and his apathy toward what he considered his life.
But was that reason enough to apologize? The boy didn’t know and didn’t much care. By then he had come to realize it was easier to assume the guilt, to be blamed for stuff, just to facilitate everything. He was privileged, in the sort of way that teenagers are privileged, with freedom and money, and perhaps it was he was being ungrateful. But he truly did feel like it was partially his fault.
Apologizing was the least he could do. That, he thought, would minimize conflict, and create the least amount of problems. That he thought he was being a burden was just another factor for which he felt he needed to apologize. Even if people assured him otherwise, he knew the truth.
He sighed once more.
The therapist had never taken her eyes off him, not even when typing on the keyboard. She seemed to have mastered the ability to do both at the same time, and the boy wondered if perhaps what she wrote would be filled with mistakes. Once that thought might have amused him, but not now. Her hands came together as if she were about to clap, and she looked at him. There wasn’t a hint of hostility in her voice, and she spoke softly once again. It was as if she were addressing a scared child, or a puppy. The boy couldn’t help but make the connection. Was that what he was? A scared little puppy running away from his problems?
Perhaps, but then he didn’t have energy to do or be anything else. In fact he thought it suited him pretty well. He didn’t run away from his problems, but then he didn’t deal with them either, they just remained, suffocating him, making him gasp, not for air, the stale air he breathed automatically, but for joy. It had been so long since he had felt it.
“You have nothing to apologize for….” The boy didn’t know how true those words were, but they served their purpose in making him feel slightly better. Like he had climbed a few feet out of his precarious position in the abyss. As if he were making his way toward the light.
“No?” It was hard. Hard to believe the words, even if they alleviated some of his doubts, some of his concerns. His brain, which was usually foggy, and didn’t like to think more than strictly necessary, seemed to be in overdrive at that moment. Trying to decipher meanings and, perhaps, find deception in those words. Even if he didn’t find any—because they were genuine and the therapist was being paid an arm and a leg to help him—what was the freaking point?
“No.” And for the first time the therapist’s voice gained an edge, a firmness to it, and it was that cold, clinical tone therapists used. The boy gulped. He seemed to have made her mad, or perhaps she was just that intent on helping him. “You don’t. I assure you, whatever it is that worries you, we can deal with it.” Her words were methodical, calm, honest. She seemed truthful and earnest in her desire to help him, but how could he believe it?
He wanted to believe it; that was not the point. Things would be much simpler if he could only believe her. But try as he might, he couldn’t do it. Not really; there was just too much confusion, too much dissonance inside of him. Too much that yelled wrong, wrong. Perhaps it was better to feel nothing than to feel like crap constantly, even if the two of them were not necessarily mutually exclusive.
He hadn’t chosen his feelings, obviously. He hadn’t desired it any more than he had desired worrying his parents. It just sort of happened… as a coping mechanism? He did not know, but whatever it was, it was destroying, eroding him, leaving nothing but his husk, going through the day automatically, following a routine.
His bottom lip quivered, and he had to tell himself not to reveal weakness. He was tired, so, so tired of pretending. He had never been good at it, and he sometimes slipped, of that he was certain. How else could his mother have known? He had made sure to do the bare minimum. His grades weren’t stellar, but they hadn’t yet descended into failing. Wasn’t that what parents were supposed to be worried about? Grades? He couldn’t tell if he was lucky for having such caring parents or if it was just another thing to bother him.
As soon as those thoughts took form within his head, he felt guilty. Of course he was lucky. He loved his mother and father dearly. Even if he couldn’t express it, even if he couldn’t exactly feel it amidst all the chaos and desperation that filled his frame, he still knew it. It was obvious he did love them.
It was not a sobering realization, because of course he knew he loved his parents as they loved him. And it wasn’t because of the money the therapist charged, but his defenses dropped. He was tired, tired of stepping away, tired of restless nights, tired of all the crap that his life had turned into.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever dealt with this,” he said. Ever so cryptic, he had at least started forming sentences. They were short sentences, but they were still far more than he had spoken in years. More than when he grumbled a “good morning” or “night,” and certainly far more than he had spoken in school. He allowed a pause, perhaps for dramatic effect, perhaps just to make sure his point had gotten across.
“Even if I have not, I’ll try to help.” Her words sounded genuine, and the boy attempted to speak. He was close to revealing it, what had been eating at him. He was not book dumb. He knew he was suffering from depression, or a dysthymia, or whatever. Just because he didn’t have the energy to pick up most books didn’t mean he hadn’t actively wondered what was wrong with him. Yet doubt still remained.
“Maybe I’m just being a drama queen?” That was a doubt he’d had a lot. Because surely everyone felt different sometimes, and maybe he was just overdramatizing the situation? Whatever the heck he thought, the therapist set him straight, or at least, attempted to help.
“Doubt it.” And the boy blinked and she blinked, and she had to explain her reasoning to him before he intervened to push himself down again. “If it bothers you so much, then it’s absolutely relevant, and I doubt you’re just being dramatic,” The therapist actually made finger quotes to accompany the final part of her statement. The boy didn’t find it very professional, but he could go for it. It made things easier. Like he was talking—not to a peer, no, he didn’t have friends—but also not to a professional, one with years of experience, and the power to force drugs down his throat.
“I kind of, I mean, I—” He paused, his efforts clearly not going anywhere. It got easier once he stopped looking everywhere and focused on a single point, even if that point was his hand. A hand that grabbed his trousers as if holding on for
dear life. The therapist said nothing, as if she could see he was struggling to find the words. As if she knew this was something he had to do on his own.
“I think I am a boy,” he blurted out. It was not the first time he had thought it, but it was the first time he had vocalized it, and he expected laughter. He? A boy, when he was quite obviously not? Where was the strong jaw, or the scraggly beard, or the deep voice? Where were all the characteristics that one would expect from a boy? He struggled to look and see just how the therapist was staring at him. Because quite clearly she would have to have thought it odd, no?
She looked as calm and composed as ever. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t even jotted it down or typed it on her keyboard. Though the boy considered that he may have missed it while he was looking anywhere but at her. He sat, trying to see if there was a reaction, but there didn’t appear to be any.
“Okay,” she finally said. The therapist looked down at him with what seemed to him a surprisingly amount of calm for what had just transpired.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think you quite realized what I said—I want to be a boy, no, I’m already one!” The words raised in volume once more, and he hadn’t thought he would have the energy to yell, but he found it within him. He had revealed, not the cause of his depression, but a thing that had been bugging him for even he didn’t know how long, and she hadn’t reacted? Had she shrugged? It would have been equally as insulting if she had.
“I heard you,” she said. A thoughtful expression upon her face.
“Did you? I know it’s not cool to say it, or whatever…,” he admitted. And though he did not cry, tears threatened to creep in. “But I truly do feel that way….” He had to fight to hold back the venom. Because he knew this better than anyone, because he didn’t think she believed him, and because it had taken all his courage he’d gathered, from dust and nothingness to reveal it. And for what?
Before he could either drop it, curl into a ball and be left with the same old thoughts, or he could gain the courage to actually yell it like he meant it to convince her, she spoke. The boy wasn’t really comfortable with how the situation had turned out, and he pawed at his pocket. What had he been thinking? Perhaps if he could listen to music and ignore what was being said. It would be rude, but it would hurt less than the alternative.
Telling had been a mistake, but then, what was his life but mistakes? He had admitted to something that bothered him, and perhaps for a moment he had truly felt like it would get better, but, and maybe it was making assumptions, nothing had. He regretted that moment of honesty, and he was ready to return to suffering silently and alone once more, ready to stand idle while the darkness consumed him, trying to force him down.
“You do that when you’re nervous…,” she said, and the boy automatically stopped his arm and shuffled around so that he would appear less conspicuous. It seemed he had been caught in his rudeness. He knew it didn’t really matter, but he still cared, somewhat, what the therapist thought. Maybe it was to do with the power structure and how she was there to help? He didn’t care what most thought.
“You go for the earbuds, straight away, when something makes you uncomfortable.” She seemed curious about the fact, so the boy pushed a hand to the wires. Even though it was warm, and bright, and he was safe, it was the fact that the conversation had seemingly moved on that he was grateful for.
“They help.” It was curt and short. It was something he could at least explain. Unlike his feelings, he had a rational reason for them, and he didn’t need to go into detail. Nothing bad would happen out of him explaining why it helped. “Music… it’s been an escape, honestly.”
That was the truth, wasn’t it? The boy shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. Biting his lips, he couldn’t help but close his fist around the tiny buds. They were barely noticeable, small and discreet, but they had become an item he relied on pretty much every day. It had come to a point where he couldn’t imagine himself without them. The silence that grew threatened to spill into awkwardness, and the boy looked to his side. How he wished he could put the earbuds on and simply flee the situation.
It didn’t help that the tightness in in his chest increased, and the dark thoughts were there, swinging from side to side, leaving him breathless. Normally it wasn’t nearly this bad, but then he had gotten out of his comfort zone. He tried to appear as small as possible, inside his clothes. It was easy; he had switched his clothes for sweatshirts and pants. When he finally stopped pushing himself back, only his hair remained, and even that could be easily resolved by the hoodie, the one he didn’t dare put on out of politeness.
“So what music do you like to listen to?” she asked, and, for whatever reason, he thought she did care. Usually when people saw him with his earbuds, they asked out of polite interest, and then ignored the answer. Not so with the therapist. She had been paid to listen to him, right? She might as well get to know him better.
“Little bit of everything, really.” The boy proceeded to list a couple dozen songs he had in his MP3 player, while the urge to listen to them grew. Some were popular, some were hits from decades prior, and some were obscure little indie bands he enjoyed. He hadn’t curated it by quality or year or anything. It might have sounded like a random mess, were it not for the fact they all had one thing in common: he enjoyed them!
It was when he mentioned a particular popular band and she told him to stop that he felt that maybe they would get along. For, with a sheepish look, she revealed that inside the desk drawer she had their entire discography on CD!
The boy didn’t know if it was a coincidence, but the fact the therapist just so happened to listen to the same music he did put him off. He had always thought his musical taste was what made him unique, besides that other thing—but conversation came much easier. It helped that they talked about the band, and not about his issues. Truth be told the boy thought that it was kind of a waste of money, paying for company and a chat, but the therapist was making him enjoy himself. He had gone from squirming under her stare, to actively discussing obscure little details about the band.
And neither of them mentioned the issue with his gender in that session again. There would be time for it later.
THE SECOND session went much like the first in that they mostly chatted about music. A small part of the boy’s mind couldn’t help but feel like it was a ploy, a ploy to get him to engage. How could this forty-, perhaps fifty-something-year-old woman enjoy the same music he, as a teenager, did? Then again, if it was a ploy, it was working. He never did try to engage with his classmates, so this was a nice alternative.
They danced around the issue. The boy was aware that perhaps this was a cowardly thing to do, but during that session he didn’t bring it up, and the therapist sure as heck didn’t. He supposed it was a way to lull him into a false sense of security, but he didn’t think it mattered much, not really.
Sure, it was ultimately, if not the cause, then at least a pretty big source of his problems. His stomach still twisted every time he thought about it. Simply not thinking about it, however, was impossible because the issue was as much a part of his routine as the therapy sessions were quickly becoming—joining such stuff as school and his playlists. There was no reason to bring it up, not again. The chance had passed.
So they chatted about music. That, at least he could do. He had even added some music to his playlist at the therapist’s recommendation. She had good suggestions! Who knew that a therapist would enjoy such demented songs?
With the third session being used to discuss the new songs she had suggested, it was in the fourth session that she pressed on. The boy, however, was not one to relent, or so he thought.
“YOU LOOK better!” she said, but the boy waved off the pleasantry. She had always started a new session with some encouraging little remark. Some sort of mark of progress, one that seemed invisible to the boy, or at least so marginally small he wouldn’t notice it. He wondered if that was part of the whole program, or if it was a genuine remark of
positivity. The therapist, despite how serious her eyes could turn sometimes, was easygoing and rather easy to talk to. She was the most positive person he knew.
Sure, he wasn’t privy to most people’s inner demons, and he didn’t even try to interact with them, but sometimes when he was bored and glanced around in class, he detected small hints of worry: tense shoulders, lines on their mouth, shadows under the eyes…. He was used to those; they were present on his face often, but it wasn’t until he had begun paying more attention that he noticed he wasn’t unique in that regard.
“Thanks.” he said. Because there wasn’t a need to be rude, even if he didn’t see what she did. Though he hoped he would see it soon. Because perhaps the colors weren’t as dull, or his senses were just a little bit sharper. He was well aware that he couldn’t fight depression with simply talking or just making an effort, but he hoped to at least rise a little bit above the level where he had been. Even if that seemed unlikely, he had gotten this far, hadn’t he?
He eyed the earbuds, that, unlike last week, were only sprawled across his sweatshirt. The stampings on it were crossed by the wires. Last week he had held them tightly and neatly inside his pocket, but then last week he hadn’t had the jolt of eager energy to literally jump out of his seat when he was called. He hadn’t had such rushes of excitement in a long time. This was a safe space, however, one where he could freely talk. Mostly about music, yes, but there was nothing preventing him from cursing about his classmates or his teachers or even his parents. The therapist had made it perfectly clear she wouldn’t share such information if he did.
“How are you feeling today?’ That was always the follow-up question. Determining a pattern of emotions was important, as she had explained to him. Which was why she urged him to be as honest as possible.