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CORBYN WAS CURRENTLY SEATED in front of his therapist, his fingers fiddling in his lap as he tried to think of a valid reason to maintain his lack of eye contact.
he liked this therapist. she was nice. she wasn't like all of the other therapists who strongly believed he was making everything up.
yeah, DID was a rather misunderstood mental illness, and there were more common misconceptions than true details about the illness, but it was still incredibly true and valid.
his alters weren't dangerous. (at least most of them weren't. the "violent" ones would never do anything to hurt someone else, he was more prone to injuring himself than he was anyone else.) it was frustrating when everyone took all the worst parts of the disorder and tried to force it onto him and make him out as an out of control person.
he wasn't.
he barely spoke up for the things he needed. he sucked at maintaining eye contact. and half of the times he spoke, his words always came out in a shy mumble. if there was anything that screamed dangerous, it definitely wasn't him.
"corbyn? still with me?" the boy looked up at the sudden voice, hesitating to meet his therapists' eye as the woman held a caring, yet neutral look on her patient. "you doing okay, there?"
the brunette released a slow nod, moving his thumb to his lip as he chewed nervously on the nail.
"would you like to work on a puzzle with me?"
another reason why corbyn liked his therapist was that she never rushed him. while other therapists might've demanded to dig through his brain and pick apart all of his emotions at the expense of his mental stability, this therapist never rushed him. she never pushed him. she liked to let him come to her when he had gathered his thoughts enough to make a formulated statement, not just a confused garble of emotions.
and so when corbyn nodded, the woman brought out one of corbyn's favorite puzzles, placing it on the table set in the middle between the both of them. the brunette slinked from his chair, folding his legs into a criss-cross apple sauce position before moving to mess with the pieces.
the puzzle was a space one, a nebula design that quickly caught the boy's eye the second he came in. he loved to mess around with the pieces sometimes, just taking random parts and studying them.
there weren't enough words to describe how deep his fascination ran for outer space. it was so full of mystery, undiscovered corners in every crevasse, strange beings and different land rocks. it was so full of unknown he couldn't help but want to know everything.
sometimes he felt like he was in outer space. just like his disorder, it was so full of unknown and so packed with mystery. but no one was as fascinated with getting to know the in's and out's of his illness like they were fascinated with space. everyone was quicker to judge him and label him insulting names.
he couldn't begin to list the amount of friends he'd lost just because of his DID. how many people were disgusted by his "faking." how many people found him weird, annoying, desperate for attention.
he hated it.
"is there something wrong with me?"
the question mumbled out was a quiet one, the hushed inquiry hidden in between his mindless acts of fiddling with the puzzle.
"excuse me?"
"like.. i-is there something wrong with me? besides the DID, i just-i feel like somethings wrong with me. i feel like i'm making the whole thing up, but i know that i'm not. i-i don't-" the boy released a frustrated grunt.
even with all of his rambling thoughts and rampant analogies, he still couldn't figure out the words to piece together his emotions in a coherent thought.
"if you know you're not making anything up, and you're not talking about your diagnosed disorder, what do you suppose is wrong with you?"
the brunette shrugged his shoulders, pulling his legs up to his chest as he rested his chin on his knees. he wasn't sure there was anything wrong with him, he just felt like there was.
"can you look at me for a second?"
the boy let out a somewhat defeated sound, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip before he shyly connected eyes with the woman in front of him.
"corbyn, why do you think there's something wrong with you? the more you look for things to convince yourself that are faults and look for things to pile on and label as 'wrong', the more you believe that there are things wrong and that you have to complete some out of world task to rid yourself of these thoughts. there's absolutely nothing wrong with you, but you think that something has to be wrong in order to excuse the way you're feeling."
but if there were one thing corbyn hated about his therapist,
it was how easily she could tear open his feelings and read him like a book.
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wc. 862
WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME IT WAS MONDAY OMG I ALMOST FORGOT TO POST
i! love! this! book!
i don't know how to formulate things a therapist would say hmph 😕
