Finding Hiccup - Modern!Au ✔️

four

At my next session with Dr. Gobber I tell him about Astrid and the whole anxiety attack thing, and he listens thoughtfully. Dr. Gobber does everything thoughtfully. He listens thoughtfully, he writes thoughtfully with beautiful loopy writing, and he even taps at his computer thoughtfully.
His surname is Belch but we call him Dr. Gobber because they brainstormed about it in a big meeting and decided first names were approachable but Dr. gave authority and reassurance, so Dr. First Name was the perfect moniker for the children's unit.
(When he said 'moniker' I thought they were all going to be renamed Monica. Seriously, for about ten minutes, till he explained.)
The children's unit is at a big private hospital called St. John's, which Mum and Dad got the insurance for through Dad's job. (The first question they ask when you arrive is not 'How do you feel?' It's 'Do you have insurance?') I lived here for six weeks, after Mum and Dad worked out that there was something really wrong with me. The trouble is, depression doesn't come with handy symptoms like spots and a temperature, so you don't realize at first.

You keep saying 'I'm fine' to people when you're not fine. You think you should be fine. You keep saying to yourself: 'Why aren't I fine?'
Anyway. At last Mum and Dad took me to see our GP and I got referred and I came here. I was in a bit of a state. I don't really remember those first few days very well, to be honest. Now I visit twice a week. I could come more often if I wanted—they keep telling me that. I could make cupcakes. But I've made them, like, fifty-five zillion times and it's always the same recipe.
After I've finished telling Dr. Gobber about the whole hiding-behind-the-curtain thing, he looks for a while at the tick box questionnaire I filled in when I arrived. All the usual questions.
Do you feel like a failure? Very much.
Do you ever wish you didn't exist? Very much.
Dr. Gobber calls this sheet my 'symptoms.' Sometimes I think, Shall I just lie and say everything's rosy? But the weird thing is, I don't. I can't do that to Dr. Gobber. We're in this together.
'And how do you feel about what happened?' he says in that kind, unruffled voice he has.
'I feel stuck.'
The word stuck comes out before I've even thought it. I didn't know I felt stuck.
'Stuck?'
'I've been ill for ever.'
'Not forever,'he says in calm tones. 'I first met you...' He consults his computer screen. 'March sixth. You'd probably been ill for a while before that without realizing. But the good news is, you've come such a long way, Henry. You're improving every day.'

'Improving?' I break off, trying to speak calmly. 'I'm supposed to be starting a new school in September. I can't even talk to people. One new person comes to the house and I freak out. How can I go to school? How can I do anything? What if I'm like this forever?'
A tear is running down my cheek. Where the hell did that come from? Dr. Gobber hands me a tissue without comment and I scrub at my eyes, lifting up my dark glasses briefly to do so.
'First of all, you will not be like this forever,' says Dr. Gobber. 'Your condition is fully treatable. Fully treatable.'
He's said this to me about a thousand times.
'You've made marked progress since treatment began,' he continues. 'It's still only May. I have every confidence you will be ready for school in September. But it will require—'
'I know.' I hunch my arms round my body. 'Persistence, practice, and patience.'
'Have you taken off your dark glasses this week?' asks Dr. Gobber.
'Not much.'
By which I mean not at all. He knows this.
'Have you made eye contact with anybody?'
I don't answer. I was supposed to be trying. With a family member. Just a few seconds every day.
I didn't even tell Mum. She would have made it into this huge palaver.
'Henry?'
'No,' I mutter, my head down.
Eye contact is a big deal. It's the biggest deal. Just the thought makes me feel sick, right down to my core.
I know in my rational head that eyes are not frightening.

They're tiny little harmless blobs of jelly. They're, like, a minuscule fraction of our whole body area. We all have them. So why should they bother me? But I've had a lot of time to think about this, and if you ask me, most people underestimate eyes. For a start, they're powerful. They have range. You focus on someone a hundred feet away, through a whole bunch of people, and they know you're looking at them. What other bit of human anatomy can do that? It's practically being psychic, is what it is.
But they're like vortexes too. They're infinite. You look someone straight in the eye and your whole soul can be sucked out in a nanosecond. That's what it feels like. Other people's eyes are limitless and that's what scares me.
There's quiet in the room for a while. Dr. Gobber doesn't say anything. He's thinking. I like it when Dr. Gobber thinks. If I could curl up in anyone's brain, I think it would be his.
'I've had an idea for you.' He looks up. 'How do you feel about making a film?'
'What?' I look at him blankly. I was not expecting this. I was expecting a sheet with an exercise on it.
'A documentary film. All you need is a cheap little digital video camera. Perhaps your parents will get you one, or we could find one here to lend you.'
'And what will I do with it?'
I'm sounding deliberately stupid and uninterested because inside, I feel flustered. A film. No-one ever mentioned making a film before. Is that a thing? Is it the new version of cupcakes?
'I think this may be a good way for you to transition from where you are now to..." Dr. Gobber pauses. 'To where we want you to be. At first, you can film as the outsider. Fly-on-the-wall. Do you know what that means, "fly-on-the-wall"?'

I nod, trying to hide my rising panic. This is happening too fast.
'Then, after a while, I'd like you to start interviewing people. Could you make eye contact with someone through a camera, do you think?'
I feel a blinding shaft of terror, which I tell myself to ignore, as my brain will often try to send me messages that are untrue and I do not have to listen to them. This is lesson one at St. John's: your brain is an idiot.
'I don't know.' I swallow, feeling my fists clench up. 'Maybe.'
'Great.'Dr. Gobber gives me his angelic smile. 'I know this feels hard and scary, Henry. But I think it will be a great project for you.'
'OK, look, I don't understand...' I pause, gaining control of myself; trying not to let tears of fright well up. I don't even know what I'm frightened of. A camera? A new idea? A demand on me which I wasn't expecting?
'What don't you understand?'
'What do I film?'
'Anything. Anything you come across. Just point the camera and shoot. Your house. The people in your house. Paint a portrait of your family.'
'Right.' I can't help snorting. 'I'll call it My Serene and Loving Family.'
'If you like.' He laughs. 'I look forward to seeing it.'