Out of the Blackness (7 page)
But before that hope can take root, Sam frowns and urges me to sit up slowly. He takes a paper cup of water from Dr. Moorhead’s outstretched hand and presses it into mine. “Sip it slowly,” he cautions before turning back to the shrink. “Kendall, can you give us a few minutes, please?”
I hear the concern in her voice—
real or pretend?
I wonder—as I stare at the lukewarm liquid in the cup. “Of course. Let me know when you’re ready for me to come back in.”
As she closes the office door behind her, Sam takes a seat next to me on the World’s Lumpiest Couch. My head still feels woozy, but the intense anxiety that caused me to pass out has receded to its usual level, spiking just a little bit in anticipation of Sam’s next words. I don’t want to hurt him, but even more than that, I don’t want to hurt
me
, which is why I really don’t want to continue this experiment. I know all my demons so well I’ve given them nicknames. They’re part of me and I’m, well, if not okay with that, I’m at least resigned to their presence and influence in my life. I know that to try to exorcise them will cause me unimaginable pain. And to what end? I’ll still be me: the walking target, the one who shouldn’t draw breath.
Sam sighs heavily and I flinch slightly when his hand comes up to stroke my hair out of my face. “Did you forget your anxiety meds this morning? Or are they not working again?” he asks gently.
I replay the morning in my head, but I honestly can’t remember. It fits both ways. I can see me taking the ugly little pill, but I can just as easily see me forgetting it. So much for I-witness testimony. “I can’t remember,” I confess hesitantly.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m going to have to keep a better eye on that, I guess. Your medicine is just as important as the therapy. You’re going to need both if we’re going to heal you.”
I close my eyes and nod. Apparently Sam isn’t giving up on the therapy. I turn pleading eyes to him. “I don’t want to be here, Sam. I don’t want to do this. Please don’t make me.”
“Avery….” The disappointment I hear lacing my name hurts. “I know this is going to be tough, but you’ve had a lot of really horrible things happen to you that you need to learn how to deal with in a healthy, constructive way. You blame yourself for things that are not now and never have been your fault. You need to learn how to stop taking that blame and then figure out how to love yourself for the totally amazing guy I know you to be.”
I flush and stare again at the cup of water I’ve been nervously rotating in my hands.
“Did you know I went to therapy, too, Aves? In the time between moving out and coming back to get you, I saw a counselor.” He chuckles slightly at my look of total astonishment. “Oh, yes, I sure did. It was tough, but absolutely necessary, just like for you. The difference being, I’m right here to give you support. I’m here to tell you what an incredible little brother you are and how much I love you. And I’m here to hold you while you cry when it’s hard and to cheer you on when it starts getting easier.
“Right now I know you’re doing this because I asked—okay, coerced—you to, but pretty soon you’ll be doing it because you’re feeling better about yourself and you’re putting your demons and doubts in the past where they belong. I promise you that as painful as it is to start the process, you’ll be so much stronger and feel so much better after a while. If you can just hang in there until then, you’ll be so very glad you did.”
I never knew, never even suspected that Sam had undertaken counseling. I can’t even fathom such a thing, but I know he would never lie to me about it, which also means he wouldn’t ever lie to me about it making him happier and healthier. The questions for me are both simple and complex. Can I force myself to go through this? And what happens when I’m done? Sam has always tried to convince me that the things that were done to me, the beatings and abuse, that all those things had more to do with my abusers than with me, that I wasn't responsible for any of it, that I never asked for it to happen. As much as part of me wants to believe him, I’ve always known better. It was and is because of me. Because I am not supposed to be here.
I don’t believe that therapy can possibly change that fact, but maybe the good doctor can teach me ways to cope better when it does happen again. Maybe Dr. Moorhead can even help reduce the level of fear I feel every day in every situation. And maybe, just maybe, she can help end the nightmares. That alone could make it worth going through emotional hell three times a week.
Slowly, I meet Sam’s eyes. “Okay, I’ll take my meds like I’m supposed to and I’ll give this head shrinking stuff a try.”
I’m rewarded with a relieved smile and a tight hug.
If only I could stay safe in my big brother’s arms always
, I think.
When Dr. Moorhead returns, she smiles slightly at me and retakes her seat beside her desk. “We’re going to try something a little different today, Avery. I can see with my own eyes that you’re still very distressed about coming to see me, so I’d like to explore some options that might lower your stress levels. Are you okay with that?”
Still somewhat embarrassed by my panic attack, I merely nod, keeping my eyes on the carpet in front of me.
“Good. First, I think it would be advisable for you to take a Valium about thirty minutes before our sessions are scheduled to start. Now this isn’t something I want you to make a habit of, but I think for the next few sessions, at least until you get used to being here and talking with me, it will help to alleviate some of your anxiety about being here. Are we agreed?”
I smother a smile, wondering why I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t really like to take the Valium because it seems like another crutch and it sometimes makes my mind foggy, but in this case, it’s the perfect reason to take them. “Okay.”
“Excellent. Now, tell me something that makes you happy, something you enjoy doing more than anything else.”
Surprised, I glance at her green silk blouse before finding the carpet again. “Puzzles,” I croak. “I like to do jigsaw puzzles.”
She writes something on her notebook and I cringe, waiting for the judgment. “That makes sense, actually. You’re already making order out of chaos, which is really what therapy is all about. In our case, instead of creating a physical picture out of jumbled pieces, we’re taking the fragments of your memories and fitting them into the proper ways of dealing with them. That’s good, Avery. Is there anything else? Do you like to write or draw?”
My hands clasp each other so tightly my fingers have gone to sleep. For some reason the answer has me back on the verge of tears. “I used to draw when I was little.”
“Do you think you’d like to start again?”
“No,” I whisper, the image of my torn and discarded drawings fresh again in my mind.
Dr. Moorhead leans back in her chair. “It’s very important that you have an outlet for the emotions we’re going to be sorting through in our sessions. I usually suggest that my clients keep a journal of their thoughts after each session. Many people find it helpful to work though their thoughts and feelings while writing them down. But I think visual images might be a better way to go for you. I’d like you to visit the art supply store down the street on your way home. Pick up some sketch pads and colored pencils or crayons or whatever you’d like to make pictures with. Then, after each session, I’d like for you to draw your emotions. You don’t need to try to make a pretty picture if that’s not what you’re feeling; just let the pencil and the moment guide you. This isn’t for a grade and I’m not going to judge you for any of it. I won’t even look at it if you don’t want me to; but you will need some way to let it all out. Give yourself a time limit if you like, say, thirty minutes. When your time is up, you can either finish what you’ve started or leave off right there. You’ll feel a lot better about our time together and you’ll get to rediscover something you once loved to do.”
I nod imperceptibly, remembering how I’d vandalized the orphan trains book. I wouldn’t have imagined ever drawing again, but obviously my subconscious was way ahead of the good therapist. I suppose it won’t hurt anything to try at least.
Somehow I make it through the session with Dr. Moorhead. Out of stubbornness, I refuse to call her Kendall. If I’m going to be coerced into therapy, I’m going to hang on to a few of my own thoughts. Perhaps because of the traumatic beginning or because that caused a truncated session, I think she goes easy on me. There are no major dark secret questions and she doesn’t ask about Joey. I wonder if Sam warned her that would be a bad idea. Whatever the case, I walk out of the session on my own power without another round of tears. Sam beams such a huge smile my way that I can’t help but feel like I’ve accomplished something.
***
Inside my closet, I stare at the blank sketch pad with an equally blank brain. What am I supposed to do now? Draw something. Draw what? When I was little, I drew the usual kid stuff, houses and sunshine and rainbows, but I felt those things. I don’t feel anything now. So maybe that’s the key. How does one draw blankness? How does one draw his emotional state when he hasn’t the foggiest clue what that is? I blink away tears of frustration and grab the first colored pencil I find.
Of course, it’s the black one.
Okay
, I tell myself,
you can deal with that. It’s just a doggone drawing. It’s not rocket science
. But it seems as complicated and as alien as rocket science. I haven’t held a colored pencil since I was six years old; it doesn’t even feel right in my hand.
Hesitantly, I put it to the paper and draw a line across the top of the page. I stare at the line, connect a few more to it and I have a box. I start to shade in the box and completely lose myself in the process.
Yes
, I think,
this feels right. This feels like me
. Without letting myself think, I simply let the pencil work across the page, letting it fill the entire space with blackness.
When it’s full, I frantically flip to the next page and repeat the process. I give in to the process and force it all out through my pencil. I can practically feel the energy flowing from my body onto the page.
The alarm on my phone startles me out of my trance. Aware once again, I stare at the half-finished page. What I’ve finished is completely black. I flip back through the pages and realize I’ve done the same thing on the four previous pages. Shaken, I toss the pad into the far corner and scramble out of my closet.
Four and a half pages of nothing but blackness.
Fighting back tears, I stumble to the kitchen and grab two pills. I know I shouldn’t mix the valium and the Ambien, but
four and a half pages of nothing but blackness!
I skip the grinding up of the Ambien, skip the hot chocolate, and just swallow both pills with a half-glass of water. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I want to sleep, need to sleep. And until I sleep, I need to be able to calm the demons inside me. Forcing my mind to blankness, I stumble back to my bedroom and collapse in tears on the bed.
I
t’s Thursday morning, Thanksgiving, and I have no idea what I’m going to do. My years in the group home taught me to hate the two biggest holidays of the year. Thanksgiving serves to remind people who have nice, happy families that they should cherish the ones they love and be thankful for all they have. For those of us whose families abandoned us as children, it’s merely the first of two times a year we see lots of strangers who wished they had children of their own, but take none of us. Around this time every year, the guilt begins to weigh heavily on the more fortunate—those blessed with families or wealth or both—and they begin to bring us “poor orphan children” food and gifts, not the gifts Joey and the others wanted most—a warm, safe home with a family who loves them—but material gifts the bigger and older kids beat us up for anyway.
Not once in all the years I spent in state care did I hold out hope of being adopted by some mythical happy family, not like the other boys did and do. I knew those people could see the real and true me, the one who doesn’t deserve to be loved, the one whose own birth mother tried and failed to kill him, and then categorically rejected me. Instead, Thanksgivings and Christmases were merely further reasons for Tommy Blevins and his gang of thugs to beat the holy heck out of me and Joey and the rest of the smaller, younger kids.
Sam, of course, has tried almost desperately to change my view of those two holidays. He thinks we can reclaim the spirit of them by creating our own traditions. Basically that means I have to play nice with Kira today while the three of us fumble around the tiny kitchen making Chinese food. Why we can’t just order in like the rest of the non-turkey-eating world, I don’t know.
I glance at the clock and groan quietly. It’s only seven a.m. I’m tempted to roll back over and try to reclaim sleep, but I know that’s a useless endeavor. Instead, I force myself out of bed and into the shower.
After scrubbing myself clean twice under water that is almost too hot to stand, I dress in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, the gift of the clothing gods. I plaster a smile on my face and head into the living room expecting Sam and Kira to already be there reveling in holiday…revelry or whatever.
Instead, I find a note from Sam taped to the television. I cross the room to read it and breathe a little easier.
“A – Gonna try something a little different this year. Be back by eleven.
Do not
eat anything after 10. Loves – S.”
I make myself a fried egg sandwich on toast and actually remember to take my anxiety meds. I know I’ll need them today. As much as I like Kira I can’t help but resent her just a little bit. After all, I know she’s about to take Sam away from me. They’ll soon be a happily married couple with children of their own to provide a better life for. I know Sam wants to be a father something fierce. Heck, he’s been training for the job since the first day he met me. I know he wants to adopt, to create a family for some kids like us whose biological families didn’t care enough or didn’t have means enough to support kids. I know he’ll be a fantastic father and Kira will be an awesome mom. I just wish their happiness together didn’t mean leaving me to my own devices.
