Outside
Days since The Heartstone Incident = 93
“Have you thought about it? Since we last talked.”
“Yes.”
I sit up on my couch. “I mean, not actively.”
“Define actively,” Ruth, my Outside therapist, asks.
She reminds me a little of Josie from the Inside. Blonde hair and slender, but no glasses. She’s also very fond of her notepads. She should be. Her penmanship is excellent. I’ve peeked into her notes, or rather tried to, and the glimpses I caught were pretty beautiful.
I cross my thighs, tapping the heel of my left boot on my right leg. “Well, you know, I didn’t want to jump in front of the bus like I wanted to last month. So, yay me.”
We both chuckle, and she asks, “What was it this time?”
Squinting my eyes, I try to look for the correct term. “A general wonderment,” I say, truthfully. “I was walking down the street and I stopped in front of this building in my neighborhood. I looked up and I kind of thought about how it would feel to jump from it. It was for a second, I think. And then I walked away.”
She nods and gets her pen ready to write something down. She’s very good at not looking away from me, even when she’s writing. She must have had loads of practice, which in turn means she must have a ton of clients like me.
All lost. All struggling every day. The network of all the chosen ones. People like me.
I’m not alone. And neither am I fighting alone.
“What made you walk away?” she asks.
I sigh, drum my fingers on the armrest. “My mom. She was the first thing or person I thought of. Then my grandma, my aunt. My entire family. Then I thought of all the kids at the bookstore. You know, I pictured them waiting for me to do the story-time but I wasn’t there and they were crying, and yeah. That was slightly more unbearable than living one more day. So.”
Ruth nods again, smiling. “Good. That’s actually very good.”
“Yeah. I’m reading them Goblet of Fire, and Harry’s just about to fight a dragon. I cannot leave them hanging. That’s torture.”
She laughs. “One of these days, I’m going to read those books.”
I feel excited, and a tiny bit sad too. I still haven’t found my Harry Potter soul mate. “Oh my God, you should. Just please, please read the books. Don’t watch the movies. They suck. I mean, watch them after you’ve read the books. But please, read them first.”
“I promise I will.” Then she gets serious. “Tell me about Columbia. Are you still struggling with classes?”
I deflate, sitting back. I still don’t like admitting that I’m struggling either with my depression or with my courses. I don’t think it will ever go away, this tiny sting when it comes to admitting things. I’ll always have to remind myself that I’m a fighter and there’s no shame in fighting.
It’s the most honorable thing you can do for yourself.
Swallowing against the rush of emotions those strings of words invoke, I reply, “A little bit. But it’s not as bad as it was in the beginning, or even a month ago.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. Nothing is ever easy in the beginning, Willow. Beginning is the hardest part.”
“Yeah.” I nod.
She’s right. It would seem that ending might be the hardest part, and saying goodbye hurts the most. But it’s beginning something new after that goodbye that’s harder to cope with. Because when you begin something new, after leaving something behind, the ghosts of that past always, always linger.
And sometimes those ghosts never go away. You carry them in your heart, in your veins.
“Any progress on the task I gave you?”
Sighing, I rub my palms over my jeans. They actually got wet in the rain a little bit while I was getting in. It’s still raining, water and light snow. Roads are gonna be a biatch, getting back to the Village from the Upper West Side.
Maybe I can take the subway. But that would mean like, more than half an hour worth of detouring going from the West side to the East, and I’m not looking forward to that.
Maybe I should change therapists. Find someone closer to where I live. It’s about the convenience more than anything. Truly.
“Willow?”
“What?”
“Are you going to answer me?”
I bite my lower lip. “I’m thinking.”
“You’re stalling.”
I sigh again. “No.”
“No means? You’re not stalling or there hasn’t been any progress?”
Wedging my hands between my thighs and the leather couch, I mumble, “No progress.” Then, more loudly, “But I’m working on it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Well, kind of.” I grimace. “I just don’t get asked out much, honestly. I’m not, you know, the popular type. Guys are not interested in me. Not that it’s a bad thing. I’m not putting myself down, but they aren’t really.”
“I think it’s the other way around. I think you’re not interested in any guys. Because you’re still interested in him.”