Bring Me Home

“What we haven’t really discussed yet, Hugo,” Phoebe said, “And what I think is really important to remember given this concern you’re having over your need to rely on people, Helen in particular, is your autism.”

My eyes narrowed, confused. “I…don’t understand.”

“You’re here, ultimately, because of your mental health. That’s taken priority, but autism isn’t a mental health problem and that’s not something you’re ever going to ‘fix’.”

“Right.” I nodded. “Of course. I know that…but I’m still kinda confused here.”

“I can see where your concerns have come from by the things you say to me. You’ve been here almost a month. I know how your mind works, it’s my job. I’ve never uttered the words ‘learning to live with yourself’, or ‘cope independently’, yet you keep using them. You’ve either been hitting our library or scouring the internet in the day room doing your own research.”

My face made a weird shape. A ‘busted’ shape. I liked knowledge. Needed it. If I was going to do the rehab thing, I needed to know everything I could about it in order to do it properly.

“There’s a lot of conflicting information out there. Also, every single mind is different. The writers of whichever articles you’ve read don’t know you. They’re likely also written with a neurotypical brain in mind. You need to remember that even when you’re not in a mental health crisis, you might always need an extra level of support that the person next to you doesn’t because you and the world see each other differently, and that’s okay.

“Going forward, I want you to remove the word fail from your vocabulary. You’re not failing if you find yourself relying on someone; humans are a sociable species for a reason. We need each other. You’ve not failed if you fall. You haven’t failed if you took a wrong turn. You can’t fail at life, Hugo. If you’re breathing, you’re succeeding. You’re living. That’s all there is to it. Breathe, then breathe again, and just keep doing that until you’re back on your feet and on the right trail again. There will be days when you’re not excited for the future and that’s fine. You don’t always need excitement; a little curiosity is enough to keep you ticking forward.”

“That’s…literally the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.” It was Helen who answered. I looked at her. Her mouth was agape as she stared at my therapist in awe. “S-sorry,” she stuttered as an afterthought. “That wasn’t for me, I know.”

So adorable.

“It absolutely was,” Phoebe said. “It was for both of you. You’re going to be travelling this journey together and, honestly, it won’t be easy the entire way along. It’s just as important you get the support you need as well, Helen. That support should be from Hugo and other sources outside of your relationship.”

The session ended on a positive note. I noticed my posture had straightened. My eyes were wider. The colours in the hallway when we left the room looked brighter. All in all, a stark contrast to the gloomy and shameful entrance I’d made an hour earlier. Helen accompanied me as far as visitors were allowed at that time of day, which was through the day room and past the offices.

“Holy shit…” Helen skidded to a halt, started tugging at the sleeve of my jumper. “Is that…that’s…is that Wesley Porter?”

It was, indeed, Wesley Porter, star of several box office hits. “You’re making this weird. Don’t be the weird girl, Heli.”

She looked surprised, and then like some kind of clay animation when Wesley waved at her. “He looked at me. Hugo, he just looked at me.”

I laughed a little. This wasn’t like her. Maybe she had a thing for Wesley I hadn’t known about. “I saw.”

“What’s he in for?” she asked, staring after him as he walked away.

“None of your business.” Besides, I didn’t know. I hadn’t really spoken to him. Hadn’t spoken to anyone. I’d seen others buddying up in the gardens and the day room, but I kept to myself. Thankfully, I hadn’t been pushed to join group therapy, abandon my comfort zone and all that bollocks.

“I was only asking,” she replied, pouting.

“No, what you were doing was…” I grabbed at her sleeve, tugged like she’d tugged at mine. “Oh my God…look! Look at me! Look, Helen, it’s me, Hugo Hayes! I’m a famous person and I’m here because I tried to kill myself!”

Her shoulders sagged and her pout morphed into a scowl. “Okay. I get it. I may have gone a little Chrissie for a second. I just…I forget that you’re, you know, one of them.”

“A person?”

“Famous. Which I suppose means I forget famous people are, you know, normal, too. Occasionally. Sometimes. Like when Wesley bloody Porter just strolls on by and throws me a wave like I’m a regular person off the street.”