The Quiet of Compazine

I felt like I was doing the walk of shame as I left Dr. Coleman’s office that day.

John hopped off his trunk, smiling warmly at me, but he looked troubled when he saw the way I was trudging over to him. “What’s wrong, girl?” he asked, opening his arms to me. I walked into his arms and let my head fall onto his chest, feeling drained, but feeling somewhat better when he wrapped his arms around me tightly.

“Can we go back to my house and cuddle? I could use a cuddle session right now.”

“Sounds good,” John chuckled, pressing a kiss to my forehead before letting me go and walking me to my side of the car before opening my door for me. The drive was quiet, except for the playlist John had on from his iPod. “So, are you going to tell me why you have to go to a therapist, or…?”

“Come in first,” I sighed, pulling my house keys out of my pocket. But when I opened the door of my house and stepped inside, John simply stood on my porche awkwardly, staring at the inside of my house without stepping in. “Are you going to come in?”

“Is your dad gonna be mad?” John asked almost fearfully. “I’ve never been inside your house before,” he mumbled, taking his shoes off in the foyer like I was doing.

“Oh, right…well, let’s get the tour over with,” I laughed before showing John around the house. It didn’t take long. Our house was small, since there was only me and my dad living in it. “…And this is my room,” I sighed when I opened my door.

My room was…compact, to say the least.

There was this little alcove where my desk and bed were. My bed was just this bunk bed type thing, and I had to climb up a ladder to get into it. The ceiling was pretty fucking close to the bed, so I would scribble quotes or poems I liked onto index cards and stick them onto the ceiling so I could read them at night because my wall space was already consumed by my string of paper lanterns. My desk was as disorderly as ever – books and papers and my backpack sitting on the chair with some art supplies on the floor and the glitter I haven’t managed to get out of the carpet and my Macbook precariously stacked on top of my pencil box…

The rest of my room consisted of a futon, a fish tank, a semi-decent stereo system hooked up to my small entertainment area at the other end of the room, and my walk-in closet. I kicked my closet shut. There were more clothes on the floor than on the hangers. The rest of my room was mostly in order, but my bookshelf was immaculate, of course, and it was the first thing John walked over to examine.

I climbed up into my bed as John paced about my room. He plugged his iPod into my stereo system, an unfamiliar, but lovely song streaming through my speakers, before joining me on my bed. “Watch your head,” I giggled as John slowly, carefully crawled into my bed space with me. I felt like he was too tall for my room, and definitely too tall for my bed. His feet were hanging out of the bunk.

“Porter?” John said my name softly, slipping his arm under my neck so my head was resting on his chest.

“Hi,” I mumbled, snuggling into him. I liked these small, cute moments. I hoped he did, too. I reached up to push my hair out of my eyes and he took my hand, winding our fingers together.

“So what’s with the shrink?” he asked lightly, playing with my fingers.

But this was a heavy subject for me. Not even John could change that. “I… I have a lot of problems, John.”

He shrugged. “Everybody’s got their problems. We all feel a little fucked up sometimes, Porter.”

I sighed. I couldn’t discern if he was being callous or nonchalant about this. “Well, I’m not fucked up sometimes, John. I’m fucked up all the time. I’m on actual medications and everything, alright?”

John fell silent at that. I turned over so I was on my side and my back was facing him. “Porter,” he said my name, shifting so we were spooning now. “You know you can tell me anything, right? And unlike that shrink of yours, I won’t charge you anything,” John tried to joke. I appreciated the effort, but it just wasn’t working.

“Yeah…but I know you wouldn’t want to hear everything, either.” I felt John somewhat tense momentarily.

“Then give me the abridged version,” John coaxed, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.

...I couldn’t say no to that.

“It’s not depression. I think. Because…that’s not what the meds I’m taking are used to treat. My meds treat, um, schizophrenia, but that’s not what I have either… I don’t know how to say this the right way. There’s a word for it, I know, but it’s not coming to my mind right now… It’s a, um, lack of motivation, will, interest in life in general…”

“Avolition.”

“What?”

“Avolition. That’s the word you’re looking for,” John said quietly, staring at the quotes on my ceiling - Milan Kundera, Anne Sexton, Jean-Paul Sartre, Dorothy Parker, Soren Kierkegaard, Sylvia Plath, Friedrich Nietzsche... “Have you…Porter, you haven’t tried to kill yourself before, have you?” John asked, turning away to look at me and hug me tightly.

“No!" I answered his question a little louder than I intended. "See, it’s… I-I’m too afraid to die, but at the same time, I don’t want to put in the effort to live… Well, that’s the way it was before the meds – before you,” I added under my breath. John still heard me, though, because then he started “Aww”ing at me and kissing all over my neck. “John, stop,” I whined, shying away from him. He was making me want him, and I didn’t know how much longer I could control myself. I mean, we were already laying on my bed, so…

“Honestly, Porter, I’m… it makes me so happy to hear that. I mean, like, it amazes me to think that I was able to change your life for the better when I can’t seem to do that for myself…” John trailed off almost sadly. There it is again – that profound side of John that I only saw on rare occasions. I forgot it was there sometimes.

I blinked and took his hand in mine again, playing with his long fingers and licking my lips, preparing to speak again, but John beat me to the punch. “I like cuddling like this,” John said aloud, snapping back into his usual cheerful self. “Are you sleepy, Porter?” John asked, but it must have been a rhetorical question because he really didn’t let me get a word in. “I wanna fall asleep with you in my arms, just like this, just this once. Is that ok?”

I tried not to smile too hard because I had a feeling I was about to cry. “John, if I could, I’d fall asleep like this every night…Just make sure you don’t hit your head when you wake up.”