Four Realizations

chapter thirty one: bearable

d e r e k

To say that Dr. Harris' therapeutic session have gotten better wouldn't be correct. I don't think there's a chance for any type of therapy to ever get better. Therapy is always a heavy weight on my chest when I wake up, a damper in my mood, something I throw my head back and groan at whenever it comes up.

To say it has gotten worse wouldn't be right, either. I no longer come back crying from it like so many people do. I don't have any secrets or dark thoughts left to spill: everything is out in the open and laid out on the table in front of us. It may be an annoying weight on my chest, but it doesn't send intense butterflies flapping in my stomach or give me the sudden urge to jump out of a window.

If there is anything that can really be said about my relationship with therapy and Dr. Harris, is that if anything, it's gotten more bearable. As I sit now on the uncomfortable chair in front of the wooden desk that Dr. Harris' knobby elbows lean against, I no longer feel like suffocating. Maybe because our session have taken less of a dramatic turn. I still shiver at the memory of the therapy session I had when Andrew had committed suicide. That was a dark time.

But I no longer blurted things like that out anymore. It's pointless; complaining to someone about how miserable I am, especially a therapist, isn't going to get me anywhere. The least I can do is listen to him, answer as many questions as I can without snapping his head off, and try to not make my constant glances at the time too obvious.

"I want to take the opportunity to talk to you about something, Derek," Dr. Harris is saying. My gaze is plastered to the floorboards, examining the patterning of the fake wood. I barely acknowledge him, but he doesn't continue on as long as I'm silent, so I offer him the sound of a small hum. He continues to coax me into looking up, "I think it's something you'd rather enjoy to talk about."

My shoulders deflate slightly, because he knows that this has sparked my interest. After all, there's not much you can talk about in a mental hospital that would cause one 'enjoyment.' So I give in and look up, staring Dr. Harris' dark eyes, easy smile and wrinkles that look like they belong there because of laughing, not aging.

"What?" I ask, voice fairly small and caged. I sort of feel like this was just a ploy to get me to face him head on, and suddenly feel nervous. No way he could have just gotten my hopes up for no reason, right? That would be cruel.

"I think you'll be glad, but not exactly surprised, to hear that you've made exceptional progress these past couple of weeks, Derek." Dr. Harris' grin is so contagious and genuine, his words filling me with a warm feeling inside. I almost have to hold back a grin of my own. "I'm very proud of you."

I clear my throat, trying to keep myself composed. I shift slightly in my chair, trying to find a comfortable position, but with Dr. Harris' words, nothing seems to be a comfortable position anymore. Except maybe if this chair were replaced with the wooden ones in our dining room and Dr. Harris' table gone, the glass table marked with scratches and stains instead. Dr. Harris' words have made the possibility of being home again feel so real, I suddenly experience an antsy emotion.

"Thank you," I tell him genuinely. "Do I have a release date yet?"

"I'm afraid not, Derek," he tells me, and I can't help but feel like he's not really sorry. I shake the thought off, though. "We'll have to see if this progress continues and keeps up. But if you continue on this road, it won't be long. That depends completely on you, however. Just so you know."

I clear my throat again, but this time it's more forced. "Right. Of course." I try not let my posture deflate too much. After all, what was I expecting? I'm not running the corridors with balloons with happy faces painted on them, singing about the beauties of life yet. I'm not cured. After all, I don't want anything like happened with Jake to happen to me. It's true, but if I ever do get cured, the thought of relapse scares me more than anything.