Adam, a monk at a monastery, is brought to his knees in a whirlwind of new emotions as he is forced to confront his faith, his sexuality and the new resident that has enraptured him.
The four walls of the cell became the only view of the day. They had taken away my pens, and had done everything to prevent me from doing any more harm to myself but it only made the room more bland and distant. It felt sterile, like a plane of reality away from everything else and all I could do was sit in bed and wait for Paul to come with food, or the presiding priest to bring the host during the morning mass.
There was a small complaint from Paul that someone had been stealing the communion wine and the Father was complaining about it. No one had owned up. He mentioned Adonis and my ears perked up but it only brought more off a shadow over my thoughts. The memory of him, just beyond reach. I don't know what hurt more, the memory of him or the fact that I had tried to hide the memory from myself.
"I'm sorry, Adam," Paul whispered as he placed his hand on my thigh, squeezing it softly in a gentle show of affection. He looked as though he was on the brink of tears himself, staring at the floor between his feet.
"I wish I could help you more, but there's some things that Gd provides us with others to aid."
I could only nod distantly. It was the only thing I could actually do. It had become tiring to even move and the lights had become too bright, and the room too cold and noises too loud.
"The Father has made contact with a therapist from the town, do you think you'd be willing to give it a try, Adam?" He asked, skipping over the honorific, simply calling me by name as we did when we were younger. I didn't know if it would help, but I nodded quietly.
He smiled to himself, stroking a stray strand of hair from my face and tucking it behind my ear.
"It may not seem like it now, but I promise that we will help you to get better."
"I know," I muttered into the pillow. The vocal affirmation was enough to prompt an even wider smile from Paul's tired face. It was small improvements, I had noticed, that got him to smile and so I tried to do them regularly. It was a way to pull me out of this, but also a way that I could hopefully escape the guilt of making him feel as though he was at fault. I had already done enough. I couldn't bear the thought of hurting anyone else. He nodded and got up from the bed, leaving me in the silence of my own cell.
I wouldn't admit this, but whenever Paul had touched me to comfort me, it brought back the memory of Adonis. It hurt so badly, but it was the only thing I could still hold onto. I just wanted him back, but I was too far gone and, when I saw his face, I knew that I had finally burnt the bridge between us.
I was a lost soul in a hell of my own making, and had been my own accuser. The irony of it all, having access to better conduct but falling at the smallest wound. I didn't even realize that I had begun to sob again, my breath coming out in shaky whimpers. I turned over, burying my face in my pillow as I let out a strangled cry. I drew my legs up, cowering into the covers of my bed, stuck between the desire for release and the will to carry on despite all of this.
It would only be a few minutes, I knew that much. I would cry and then slip back into that world where nothing hurts, no thoughts or words. It would be the place away from all of this.
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The therapist had come later in the afternoon and I was excused from my cell to a separate room in the monastery. There, she had set up her items and had made use of the chairs we had here. Wen she heard me come in, she turned to smile but it faltered when she saw my state. Instead, she nodded knowingly, and came forward to help me sit down on the chair. She didn't move, just then, but remained there as if trying to console me without words. Taking a breath, she began:
"I was told by some of the monks here about your fits. I want you to know that they're a perfectly natural response to stressors and that you don't have to feel ashamed. We'll go at your pace," she said quietly, "alright?"
I nodded and she let go of my arm, going to sit across from me. When there, she pulled her notepad from the table beside her and we began.
"I suppose our first question would be on how deep your depression goes?"
I looked at her. I had cried before this, and I didn't feel anything really. I think she picked up on that because she wrote it down quickly.
"Have you experienced any suicidal thoughts?"
She said it plainly, as though she already knew the answer. I didn't experience them as far as I knew, but the possibility was there. I think I experienced more sensations than actual thoughts.
"I think so," I responded. She nodded, writing it down again. She wasn't uncomfortable, but it looked like as though every word that came from her was scripted. She felt tense but continued.
"Do you know of what may trigger these episodes? Is there anything specific that causes emotional stress here?"
My mind flashed back to Adonis, the way he smiled, that day in the study. All of it appeared before me in a flash and I came to with her next to me, holding my quivering hand.
"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it right now, but just know that this is a safe space for you. I won't even tell the Father, I swear on my life and on Gd's".
That was enough for me to fall into another flurry of tears. I lurched forward and grabbed onto her, quivering as she rubbed my back.
"There we go, deep breaths. Just, follow my breathing."
I tried, it didn't work. I started hyperventilating when the crying got too much but she stopped it by drawing me close to the basin we had in the spare room and running my hands under the cold water. The shock drew me from my stupor and she slowly began to breathe.
"In," she guided me, taking in a deep breath. I copied her, my lungs burning with the quivering breath that I took in.
"And out," we both exhaled. The sound of the water rushed through the room, and I could barely feel my arms by the end of it but it was soon done. She sat me back down and we decided to move to another topic.
"Have you ever considered something like art or journalling to try and express emotions?"
"I was a scribe," I murmured, trying to soothe my shaking hands. She nodded, writing down on the notepad again.
"Out of curiosity, what materials do you work with? Are any of them toxic?"
"No, just standard inks and papers."
"Thank you," she said quietly, crossing something out on the notepad.
"Did it make you feel better?"
"It used to," I responded curtly. She picked up the nuance, knowing that we were again moving into that sensitive territory. that had struck me the first time.
This game of back and forth continued for the remnant of the hour and, in spite of what I thought, I did feel better. I didn't reveal everything, but it was still helpful to have some sense of freedom when it came to expressing my thoughts. She called in Paul who came to help me back to my cell, before retiring to her desk herself where she finalized the the folder. It was near dinner, and Paul had said that he'd bring me a treat for doing the therapy.
He mentioned how the kitchen had missed me and so they made hot-cross buns which they knew I was fond of. I chuckled quietly at the thought, the small care that was there despite all of this. I wondered if he thought of me, or missed me in the same way as the rest did. We soon got to the cell and Paul helped me sit down. He untied my shoes for me, despite my resistance. I think he saw me as a child, now that I was "infirm" as so dearly stated by the Father.
He looked up at me from his sitting position.
"You'll get there," he said quietly, "it just takes time."
"What if I never get better?"
"Then you just have to be well enough for you," he responded quickly, as though this was a thought he had for a good while.
