Page 68 of Actions and Reactions
I’m confused by the topic change, but I try to keep up and shake my head.
“She only said dinner is at seven, breakfast at eight, and I can have fifteen minutes with my phone at three every day if I want.”
“That’s right, but actually, breakfast is from eight to ten, and then you have your time with me from ten to eleventhirty since you’re in the early rotation. From eleven thirty to twelve you have free time, then from twelve to one thirty you have lunch, from one thirty to three it’s the other individual therapy rotation which means you have more free time. From three to three fifteen you can have your phone, three thirty to five thirty is group therapy in the common room I showed you before, and seven to nine is dinner. Lights out at ten thirty. Sometime in there we’ll fit in your physical therapy for your hand.”
That sounds like . . . a lot.
“Sunday’s are the same, but your therapy time changes to family therapy and group therapy is a workshop with the families of everyone here.”
“All right.” My voice comes out croaky.
What the fuck am I going to do with my “free time” for the next three fucking months?
With no TV that I could see, no cellphone, no Netflix... God, this sounds like torture, but I can’t complain about that, so...
“How can listening to other people’s real trauma help me deal with my imaginary one?” The question pops out of me before I can even think it through.
“I actually think group therapy will give you the perspective you need to really get started on the work. Other people’s stories help us see our own in a different light, I think, and community—a supportive, loving community—is the antidote for many of life’s troubles. Being grateful for being alive isn’t easy, not all the time, but that is what keeps us alive when we think there’s no reason to be.”
“I’m not suicidal,” I protest.
“I know you’re not, but nothing you’ve told me makes me think you’re actually living, or happy.”
“That’s an awful thing to say,” I whisper, seriously dumbfounded that anyone would say shit like this to someone else’s face.
“We don’t believe in sugarcoating things here.” His voice is so calm and... passive, but not like a pushover, more like he believes what he’s saying completely. Like nothing I say could change his mind.
Should I change his mind? Do I have to change his mind?
“You have a lot to think about and our time is almost up, so why don’t you go back and think over what you want your life to look like in the future, and we can work on that tomorrow, yes? Make a list of ten things you want to have or be working toward when it’s time to go back.”
“Yeah, okay,” I mumble, my body suddenly weighing a lot more so it’s harder to stand when he does.
He moves a lot quicker than I expect him to, and he’s waiting by the door with a notebook that’s a lighter shade of tan than his own when I finally get there.
“You can have this,” he says brightly.
I take the notebook and instantly know it’s good quality. I have my pencil back in my room, so I give Dave a nod and then walk away without seeing anything around me.
17
Silas
I spendthe next hour just staring at the first blank page of the notebook, but when nothing comes to mind and twelve o’clock rolls around, I snap it closed and take it with me to the cafeteria—maybe I’ll think of something while I eat.
I see everyone from last night. The other six patients are there, and most of them talk to each other but no one talks to me, and I have no way of knowing if that’s normal or if they’re avoiding me specifically for some reason.
I sit with my back to everyone again, but eat slowly this time, and actually enjoy the salad and salmon steak more than I thought I would.
While I do, I look down at my watch and see it’s quarter to one, so I have roughly three hours before group therapy and no idea what I’m going to do with all that time.
Sure, right before I can finally send all the messages I can squeeze into fifteen minutes, but what about before...
What is group therapy even going to be like?
I know I don’t belong here, so maybe I can just find more proof by hearing what the other patients have to say?
I really don’t want to, though. It sounds fucking exhausting, and I can’t imaging depleting my empathy reserves will do me much good.
