More Happy Than Not

I sneak into my mom’s room and steal her pamphlet.

8

MEMORIES AND SUCKER PUNCHES

I want to undergo the Leteo procedure.

It was originally just an insane thought, the kind of thoughts one has at 6:00 a.m. after a sleepless night when life is sucking, but I spent my weekend researching all things Leteo and there’s actually hope for me. The main red flag is all the controversy surrounding the unsuccessful procedures lately. But I discovered for every backfire all over the country in the past month, there were twelve successful alterations. If others believe this procedure is worth the risk of ending up brain dead, I can’t help but agree that it’s probably better than me trying to you-know-what myself again out of pure defeat.

Leteo is this place of second chances. I read a lot of the stories provided online through Leteo’s site, all names and intimate details redacted, of course.

A soldier known only as F-7298D was crippled by post-traumatic stress disorder until Leteo stepped in and buried the worst of his memories. Now F-7298D isn’t suffering from disturbing dreams and sleeplessness. A mother of twins, M-3237E, was afflicted with agoraphobia after witnessing a bomb go off during a marathon. Leteo hid the memory away so M-3237E no longer fears the outdoors and can open more doors for herself and her children.

And they take care of kids like me, too.

A seventeen-year-old girl, S-0021P, was sexually abused by her uncle and even though he’s in prison, she began burning her thighs. Leteo gave her the power to move on and trust her family again by suppressing past events where she blamed herself for leading her uncle on. Another seventeen-year-old, J-1930S, suffered from crazy panic attacks and always assumed the worst scenario possible if his family wasn’t home when he returned from school. Leteo figured out the source of his problems and healed him.

Leteo takes our stories seriously.

But that’s not what has me itching for the procedure.

I stumbled on a story of a fifty-year-old father in Russia, A-1799R, who realized he spent half his life being someone he isn’t, and a quarter of that time married to a woman he doesn’t love—can’t love. But he couldn’t uproot his family, couldn’t abandon them or abandon Russia for a more accepting country, so he flew out here and asked Leteo if they could make him straight. And Leteo played with his head and did it. I followed that article to another about a nineteen-year-old teenager, P-6710S, who wanted to escape bullying and this feeling of wrongness. After her parents tried everything in their power to make her feel accepted, they turned to Leteo who “straightened her out.”

I don’t want to be me.

I don’t want to second-guess if my friends are going to be okay with me being me, and more importantly, I don’t want to see what happens if they’re not. I don’t want to be someone who can’t be friends with Thomas, because if there’s anything worse than not being able to be with him, it’s knowing our friendship will ultimately have an expiration date if being around him becomes impossible.

I know not being me will be a lie, but I know I’m doing myself a favor in the long run if I can somehow book a Leteo procedure. Because as I stand now, I have so much bullshit to look out for.

Happiness shouldn’t be this hard.

The downside to this whole Leteo pursuit: you need an adult if you’re a minor seeking a consultation. I’m already down one parent, and I’m sure as shit not asking Eric to accompany me, but this means I’m going to have to tell my mom what kind of Leteo procedure I want, which sort of feels like when she used to take me to the barbershop and would tell the barber what kind of haircut I wanted. Except Leteo isn’t a barbershop—it’s more of a tattoo removal clinic, if anything—and this means I gotta tell her everything.

I run to catch her at Washington Hospital before she can leave for her night shift at the supermarket. Considering she’s only right across the street, this is hardly the most difficult thing I’ve done today. No, that would’ve been when I was working a morning shift at Good Food’s and I smelled Thomas’s cologne on a customer and my heart just fucking hurt. Surviving that was today’s battle. I’m done fighting.

I get to Mom’s office where she’s ending a call with someone. “Aaron . . .”

I close the door behind me and sit down. The truth is kind of, sort of, insanely crushing—but if I tell her and she gets behind my plan, which she will because she wants what’s best for me, then I can make a happy liar out of myself. Best of all, I’ll probably forget this awkward moment ever even playing out.

“What’s wrong, my son? Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m okay,” I say, and okay feels like too strong a word because I’m not even that. It’s all hitting me hard right now—the rejection, the fear, the uncertainty. So thank God I’m here with my mom because I might need one of her hugs that always made me feel better as a kid, like that time I got in trouble with security for running in the hallways, or when Skinny-Dave’s father made fun of me for being a waste of height during a basketball game, or every other time I was feeling ashamed or worthless.

“Talk to me,” Mom says, sneaking a peek at the clock on her monitor screen. I know she’s not rushing me, especially when she has no idea what the hell I want to say, but our bank status is no doubt still on her mind as it has to be.

“I want a Leteo procedure.”

I have her full attention again. Her stare is so intense I look around her desk, wondering when she took down the photo she had of me as a kid on Dad’s shoulders with Eric in his lap, the three of us in my grandpa’s recliner chair. “Aaron, please, whatever it is—”

“No, Mom, listen, because time is very important here and I’m already feeling crazy and scared of what might happen if I can’t have this procedure.”

“What could you possibly want to forget?”

“I hope this isn’t hard to hear, but I sort of have—had something . . .” I thought I would spit it out, but no matter the possibilities of forgetting this moment, living in the now with this weight still feels pretty impossible. “Um, I had something going on with Thomas. Maybe you guessed that because you have eyes.”

She rolls her chair over to me and grabs my hand. “Okay . . . but what’s wrong?”

“Me.”