Chapter 11: Facing Facts

You know that feeling you get when you’re reading and your mind goes into autopilot? Then you have to go back because you realized your were reading the words but you didn’t register anything that was being read. It’s that fuzzy feeling of vague déjà vu but everything you start paying attention to is totally new. My next week was like that. It was a flash of denial and regret. I was skating by, skipping school, and sitting alone in my room. Melanie called me a few times, worried that I would follow Michael into the abyss. I never answered my phone. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I barely talked to my parents anymore. They were getting upset and started talking to a psychiatrist to see how much it would be for me to start seeing him. I didn’t want to see anyone or talk about it. I was doing a good job of blocking out the mental torment on my own. Days flew by without notice. Staring out the window for so long became a game of “I-Spy”. No one would have noticed that Mr. Hitchens always seem to leave at 5:30 am and Mrs. Hitchens seemed to leave 10 minutes late every day. She was always in a hurry and murmuring to herself as she tries to put on makeup.
The day of the funeral came and went. People crying and semi-sincere apologies filled the day as I did my best to block everything out. I didn’t feel a thing. I looked at Michaels still, white, lifeless body lying in the casket. It was hard to think that he was actually dead. I wanted to shake him and wake him up but I withheld my urges in order to seem as if I had not lost my mind. There was a lot of suppressed emotion that day and sometimes I wonder if it had affected my mental health. Melanie had come to be supportive for me. I was glad she was there. I’m not sure if I would have made it through the funeral without her. After it had ended, she brought me off to the side to talk. We walked around the corner of the church entrance, away from the crowd of people leaving. She was really worried about me. “Nick, I haven’t seen you for a week. You don’t seem fine to me.”
“Mel, what do you want me to be like? My best friend was murdered.”
“I know what Spaz did was horrible, but Mike had a choice in the matter. You haven’t left your house since Sunday. I would feel better if you would talk with someone.”
“What like a shrink? You think I need a shrink?” I was a little mad.
She replied calmly, “I think you need to talk with someone. I don’t care who, but someone.”
“If I feel like I need to talk with someone, I will.” I walked off irritated at her.
As I did, she said softly, as if she wanted me to know, but it was too late to say, “I’m here for you.”
I walked over to my parent, who had brought me there because I originally wasn’t going to go. I asked if we could go now, in an annoyed tone. My mom, who was giving her condolences to Rose and her mother, turned around and told me to go wait in the car if I was so ready to be done. I rolled my eyes and went to the car. My parents followed about 10 minute later. It felt like forever while I stared out the window at a group of kids playing tag football across the street. I had to look away, remembering the days of Mike and I playing in the streets until the sun set and we would hear our moms call us in for dinner. I buried my face in my hands and began to cry. The reality was setting in and I wasn’t ready to face it. As soon as I felt the grief rise up in me, and the tears started to flow, I tried my hardest to suppress it. Like reshutting a lid on a shaken up bottle of soda, I built a wall, and extra layer of protection from the hurt. I literally felt the heartache being pushed back down my throat and into my chest, being locked away in my heart for as long as it took to dissipate.
As my mom and dad got back in the car and drove off to go home, I whipped my eyes and kept as quiet as possible. I looked back out the window towards where the kids were playing and saw one of the kids trip. As one of his teammates, who reminded me of myself when I was that age, tried to help him up, a girl they were playing with, who was on the same team, ran over and pushed the him down. He fell on top of his friend, who was already on the ground. They both looked at her in shock as she walked over, laughing with everyone else, and gave the quarterback of the other team a high five. I looked away as they got up and started to quarrel with each other. I thought of my friends and said to myself, my friends would have helped me get him up.
The rest of the drive home was just as quiet. I stared out my window, trying to block out thoughts of Michael and suppress the anger and grief in side of me. As I did, I realized how easy it was for me to do this. Throughout my child hood, I was bullied. The nice guys always are. I had to learn how to not show emotion because after all “The only reason kids bully you is because they want to get a reaction out of you”, or that’s what my dad always said. So I figured if I didn’t give them a reaction they would stop. But they didn’t and I kept suppressing. I became so good at it that when our pets died, one by one throughout the years, I never shed a tear except for twice. Even then, though, it was brief and short lived. I was ready to move on. I had realized that I would do this with everything. It was even hard for me to be excited for someone, or truly be thankful for something. Not because I wasn’t but simply because anytime I had gotten excited about something when I was younger, there was always someone to put me down and tell me that I was wrong for liking it or there was something so wrong with it that it wasn’t worthy of my affection. It was easier to not be excited for something and not have my hopes and dreams be smashed on rocks of disappointment than to experience happiness. That is when I realized I had a problem. That’s when I made up my mind.
We finally got home and we pulled into the driveway. My dad got out and went to unlock the front door as my mom was getting her stuff together. I didn’t move but I did stop my mom from getting out after I knew my dad was out of earshot. I always had an easier time telling my mom things that I was insecure about. Maybe it’s just because I take after her so much. I stopped my mom from getting out and said, “I want to see a psychiatrist.” My mom was taken back. “I thought you were adamant about not seeing one?”
“Mom, I have an issue that I need to work out and I think it would be better for me to talk to a professional. No offence.”
“Non taken. I think that is a very responsible thing to do. I’ll call Mr. Krimpen in the morning.” I nodded and got out of the car
The next day, I went to see Mr. Krimpen. He was a friend of the family so I didn’t feel too awkward talking to him. My dad had met him in high school and I guess they were close for some time. He had been there for my first birthday and he had come on some trips with us when I was younger. He was a Dutch native, single, and full of what I called “bachelor humor”. You know the kind that guys would get but might not be so entertaining to girls. It’s the kind of attitude that is trained out of you when you get married. He was cool and I didn’t mind seeing him once a week.
The first day I saw him, I was unsure of what to say or do so I just kind of sat there. He was sitting in a maroon arm chair, like the one I was sitting in, and was wearing a dark green sweater vest over a faded light yellow dress shirt. His light brown slacks finished the stereotypical psychologist get-up he had on. It was very different from his usual stone washed jeans and band t-shirts I usually saw him wear. He had long brown hair tied back in a ponytail at the base of his skull. He was a little younger than my dad but just as tall as me, if not taller. He always seemed like a giant to me until I caught up with him in height a few years ago. He had his reading glasses on and peered at me over the top of them for a few minutes before asking me the obvious question. “So Nick, your mother tells me that it was your decision to come see me. She didn’t tell me why. So, why do you want to see a psychiatrist?” I sat there for a second thinking about where I wanted to start. I figured I would start from when I realized I had an issue. “My best friend, Michael, died this last week and at his funeral, as I stared at his body, I didn’t feel anything except for surrealism. I just wanted to wake him up. After I went out to the car to wait for mom and dad to come out, I wanted to cry but I wouldn’t let my self grieve. Any time that emotion came up I suppressed it automatically. I didn’t feel like I had a choice in the matter. I haven’t been able to grieve properly because of it and I feel like I might be going crazy. I keep seeing us as kids in other kids and sometimes I think I see Mike out in public. I haven’t gone to school or even left my room except for the funeral and here, because I’m afraid I’ll run into him… Or the guy that caused his death. I know if I see him, I’ll do something I will regret for years and possibly go to jail for. I need some serious help.”
“Well the good news is you’re not crazy. If you were you wouldn’t think you were. Sometimes the best way to understand a problem is to talk about where it came from. Do you want to talk about when this problem might have started?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” I didn’t at the time. “Where would I even start?”
“Well, lets talk about your past. What was it like growing up?
“Oh come on, you know most of this already.”
“True, but it helps to talk about it.”
I conceded and talked about how the kids in school would make fun of me on a daily basis and make me feel worthless time after time. I explained how I would make up facts about things and over exaggerate events in my life to either gain pity or respect, neither of which usually happened. I became an excellent liar in order to save face. Not only lying with my words but also lying with my expressions and even to myself in order to not face reality some times. I talked about events in my life that I was regretting and things that other kids had done to me while growing up. Everyone has this picture of this big bad bully picking on this feeble, wimpy, little kid, but the portrait I painted was of quite the opposite. Everyone who picked on me was smaller and much more feeble than I was. Mr. Krimpen explained that it isn’t the bigger kid picking on the smaller kid, it is usually the meaner kid picking on the nicer. He went on saying, “Those kids that bully some one usually are the ones that have poor self esteem and the only way they can feel better about themselves is by making someone who is truly happy feel worse than they do. What parents and even other family members might not know is that the most important thing to instill into a young kid is the fact that they are valuable and a sense of self worth. Like you said, your parents just kept telling you to shrug it off and not let it effect you, but in a lot of cases, like yours, they end up just suppressing those emotions of hurt and self loathing and that doesn’t benefit anyone. Do you think you have low self esteem now?”
“No, not really... Not since I started dating Melanie, at least. She made everything better. I didn’t feel like I was trying to find who I was anymore. I mean, I don’t know everything yet, like what I want to do with my life, but I’m more confident when I’m with her. I stand up to people better when I’m with her. I’m not so hot headed and can stay calm and think clearer. I know I’m a nice guy and that people like me so I’m confident with myself there. I don’t know, I guess before Melanie I was scared to go past the friend barrier with girls because I was scared of rejection. Is that a part of low self esteem?”
“Not always but it can be. I think for you it might have been, but that’s something all men battle with is the fear of rejection in one situation or another. Lets talk about your need to suppress emotion. Do you do it consciously?”
“Like do I do it knowingly instead of without thought?”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes… Most of the time.”
“Well, one thing you might use to help work out your suppressed feelings is some sort of creative project. Focus all of your emotion into one singular goal and see what happens.”
“What do I do though?”
“You’re a creative guy. You’ll think of something.” He smiled at me and I smiled back, thinking of a good project. We sat there for a minute or so in silence. He then looked at the clock and said, “Well, our time is up. Think of something to work on and let know next week, alright?” “Alright.” I said as I got up and went to shake his hand. He grabbed my hand, pulled me close, and gave me a hug instead. I hugged him back and then thanked him for his time, then walked out.
When I got home, I sat on my bed. What am I good at? I thought. I remembered back in school when I had to write a paper or story or something, I would make it up right there. I was pretty good at writing. I figured I had a talent and the project had to do with what had hurt me in the past so I figured I would write a narrative biography. I sat down and thought about where to start. I didn’t want to start too far back. My life wasn’t too exciting, I thought, so I was trying to think of where the adventure would start. After some brainstorming and some serious paper chucking at the waist basket, I decided on a good starting point. I sat down on my bed with a pen and a note pad and began to write. “My 18th birthday was a month ago…”