Why I Love Him | ✓ [SAMPLE]

Chapter 10

"Okay," the lady said with a small sigh. Her sitting was crouched on her chair a bit. She had her hands folded and her gaze fixed on me. It looked like she was trying to figure out what she should do with me after she heard everything I had told her — fair, I share her sentiment. I was a basket case. I looked away from her, staring down at my fingernails that I had painted a teal color to match my hair. I was starting to wonder if agreeing to come to this therapy session was worth it. I was confused — and the therapist looked just as confused.

"I want you to do something for me." Heard her say, the sound of paper being flipped echoing in the silent room. I looked over at her, seeing that she had torn a piece of paper from her notebook before putting it on the surface of the wooden coffee table standing between our seats. She then scribbled something into her notepad before dropping her pen on the table as well. "Write all the things that make you happy. Also, I want you to write down as many of the fears you have as possible," she said, tapping the tips of her acrylic nails together as she looked at me.

I bit down on my bottom lip, glancing down at the plain sheet.

"All?" I asked as my gaze flickered back to her.

"As many as you can think off," she insisted, resting back on the green sofa she was sitting on. I nodded, bending over a bit so that I could take a hold of the pen and scribble things onto the sheet of paper.

The room stayed quiet as I wrote down as much as possible. By the time I was done filling the sheet to the edge of the margins I was exhausted. Even with that, I couldn't write down everything.

My therapist took the list from me before adjusting her dark-rimmed glasses with her free hand as she read through it.

"Okay," she said, nodding at what I wrote before looking back at me — her brown eyes holding a gaze with my blue ones. "Did you notice something in your list?" she asked me, dropping the sheet of paper on the coffee table.

"A good majority of the things that make you afraid are the things that make you happy," she said making my eyes go wide before I looked down at the paper.

"You're afraid of being happy," she said, making me look up at her again.

"I—" I started but paused when I remembered the things I had put down as both reasons to be happy and reasons to be afraid. My family, meeting new people, friends, my relationship with Wayne... I ran my fingers through my hair, licking my lips as I digested her words. It made sense. It made so much sense.

I closed my eyes, dwelling in the room's silence as I tried to reorder my thoughts. Sometimes I would feel like tears were stinging my eyes, but I fought them back because I didn't want to deal with the nasty headache I knew I would get if I did cry.

"Johnathan," my therapist called, making me open my eyes so that I was looking at her. She gave me a small smile — a sad supportive one. I didn't get those a lot, but it wasn't like I was walking around telling other people my problems so that they would feel sorry for me.

"You listed it as both a fear and as something that makes you happy," she said, leaning forward. "You wrote it in caps both times."

I rose a brow at her before my features softened when I realized who it was. "Wayne?" I asked, watching her nod.

"Correct me if I'm wrong but I have a feeling a bad experience with him triggered your fear of happiness. It's like you see happiness as a gateway stage to despair," she said, and I just nodded, confirming her thoughts. She hummed, crossing her legs as she scribbled something into her notepad.

"There are two things we are going to do. We're going to work on overcoming that fear, and we're going to help you actively pursue the things that make you happy," she said as she continued to scribble. "Your anxiety over happiness is the direct cause of your depression. So, I'm going to put you on some anxiety medication, and a small dose of anti-depressants since I feel it's a cause-effect thing, not really a standing problem on its own. If we get rid of your anxiety, we got rid of your depression," she kept mumbling as she scribbled. I could only nod, watching her afro puffs bounce as she nodded at the notes she was making.

When it was time for me to leave we both got up and shook hands. I let go of her hand and made my way to the door before pausing and looking back at her.

"Can I ask you something?" I muttered, watching as she nodded, so I carried on. "So, I'm afraid of being happy?" I asked, just repeating what she had told me during our session. I don't know. It just didn't sound very scientific to me. I guess I was just asking for a more medical term for what I was going through.

"You have cherophobia," she said, smiling when I rose a brow at her. "Don't laugh, that's what it's called." She smiled before opening her hands open and looking up at the ceiling with a lost look on her face. It seemed she was trying to find a way to dumb things down for me. "It's a phobia — an aversion to happiness where you subconsciously or deliberately avoid and seclude yourself from things that make you happy for various reasons. For you, I think is that you feel that disaster must always follow happiness and that you're not worthy of happiness at all judging from how you treat your relationship with your family and people who have sort connections with. Does that make sense?" she asked after her explanation. I nodded, thanking her for the explanation before I left her office.

Wayne was sitting in the waiting room as he scrolled through his phone. I was a little surprised he was still here even though he had told me that he would wait my two-hour therapy session out. When Wayne noticed that I was now in the waiting room he stuffed his phone in his pocket before looking over at me and giving me one of his heart-melting grins. My first instinct was to look away, but I fought the feeling and even returned his smile. He looked surprised at my reaction. His grin widened as he got up from the sofa he was sitting on before approaching me.

"How was it?" he asked.

"Eye-opening." I shrugged, watching as Wayne nodded at my answer before looking over at the exit.

"Are we waiting for anything?" he asked, looking back at me. I nodded.

"She prescribed some anti-depressants and some medication for anxiety, so I have to pick that up when they call my name up at the front desk," I explained, and Wayne hummed. We didn't wait too long to grab my prescription. We left the clinic together, and I held on to the brown paper bag with my drugs as Wayne drove me home.

Wayne came to a stop in front of the apartment complex I lived in, but I didn't get out of the car just yet. We both just sat in silence for a bit, staying still and waiting for the other person to talk.

"John." I looked over at Wayne when he called my name.

"Yeah," I answered, watching as his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

"Are you free on Saturday? I was wondering if you wanted to take a stroll in the park—"

"I am," I said, cutting Wayne off before he could finish. Wayne blinked, turning to face me. The movement of his head made his honey-colored hair bounce. He looked surprised, and all I could do as a response to his shock was flash him a tired smile. I guess I was trying not to be overanalytical about things, and that's why I was saying and doing things without letting myself think since I left my therapist's office. I should try my best to just have fun, and not read too much into Wayne's every action.

"Oh, okay," he finally found the voice to say before licking his lips. "Ill text you the details," he said, smiling. I smiled back before opening the car's door and stepping out. I waved the car off as Wayne drove away. When he was gone I turned and walked in the direction of the apartment complex, walking into the building before making my way towards the stairs.

"Things are getting better between you two." Edward's voice made me pause my steps on the stairs. I held on to the rusting railings as I looked down at Edward. He was in jogging clothes and was probably heading out. He gave me a small smile, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. His eyes were sad and dimmed.

"That's great," he said, tucking his hands into his pockets. He sighed, walking away when he realized I didn't have anything to say to him.

I looked away when he was out of sight, walking up to my floor. When I got into my apartment I stopped at my kitchen and took my drugs for the first time. I wasn't sure how to feel about them. They made me feel an odd bag of emotions. Dozy, oddly cheerful, and numb. It didn't matter. I'll get used to it.

I've completed the first step of getting back on track with my life.

I've sought out help.