Emotionless

Tick. Tick. Tick-tick.

“Marcin, are you even listening to me?” the blonde haired man in front of me enunciates through quick exasperation.

I’ve heard the words, even comprehended them in the English language enough to contemplate the sarcastic remarks and quick jabs I could send back. I just don’t care enough to part my lips and exert those much needed breaths used for a reply.

Instead, my eyes lock onto the round Quartz wall clock, the hand tick-tick-ticking its way around. How can I still have five more minutes of this uneventful torture?

“No.” I reply, even though it’s well over twenty seconds late. “I’m really not.”

Travis, my shrink, sits back in his too-big shadowy leathered computer chair. He leans back until it touches the desk with his leg crossed over his knee. The word shrink is more than butchered and overstated in this case. I don’t want nor need to sit down in front of a man fifteen years older than me, who’s expected to know more about the human brain and emotions than the average female. As if that’s not enough, he’ll then tell me what’s wrong with my life. I know what is wrong with my life.

And a growing problem in my life happens to be this thirty-two year old man, poking and prodding his way through my seventeen years. “I said, tell me how you feel.”

Ooh. Touchy, touchy. How do I feel? What is feeling and emotion? I can express it and pitch it like a pro, but do I actually know what either of those name brand words feels like? Does anyone truly know for that matter?

Impishly, I reply, “What is feeling?”

“Puh.” He spits under his breath, “Now isn’t the time for your ridiculous damaged-poet scenes. Just answer the question.”

“I feel like going home.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t for another two minutes.” He growls. The sound is low in the back of his throat. Normally that sound will scare a troubled teenager into confession. For me? It has me falling back into my chair and pressing my lips together to keep from laughing. The image alone of a lanky, long-legged, dark-haired, dark-eyed kid stretching back into a semi-circle chair was awkward enough. Add in the death glares of disapproval and you have the perfect awkward situation.

I nod and flick my gaze over to the clock again. “Right, I’ll have my mother refund you your precious time.”

He scoffs and shoots to his feet and I climb to mine, slinking my black messenger bag onto my shoulder and saluting him as I make my famous getaway. I trot out of his home office and out the crystalline wood-bordered front entrance with Travis hot on my trail.

“You can’t run away forever, Marcin!” Travis’s yell should have raised the hairs on the back of my neck, but all it truly did invoke is an exasperated sigh.

I wave my hand over my shoulder in a dismissive gesture. “Sure I can.”

As I walk home, I reflect off myself. Sure, I can’t run away from my problems, but I’ll try. I can ignore them for a while before they become nagging. This is one of the limited things I don’t like about myself. I’m not very confrontational, especially when I should be. I.e., when pertaining to myself. I have problems stacked on top of each other and I openly choose to ignore them for my own simple benefit. But do I really need a shrink to help me see through the problems that become my life?

What is a shrink? It’s a person that you can sit and talk to while they openly choose to bombard you with questions tenfold. Then you’ll stop, listen, and answer back appropriately. Those are simple guidelines to follow. Why can’t I follow them? Why do I have to be the exception to the rule?

I choose to ignore it as I round the corner of my block. From this distance, I can tell if my mother and father are home, and to my relief, they aren’t. It’s only a short teetering walk from Travis’s house to mine, which always gives me a pounding headache because he heads to my house whenever I don’t show up for my session.

Those are the kinds of things I can’t stand about Travis. I’m like a half-aged replica of him with the obvious exception to how emotional he can be at times. He is stubborn, he is easily angered, he is sarcastic, he is all about the “my way, highway” deal – he is just like me.

Back on track. With my parents’ obvious absence, I take full advantage of kicking the door closed and bouncing my way up the short staircase and straight into the kitchen. It is a poor excuse of a kitchen, the kind with the poor lighting, the too dark cabinets, and the tinted white appliances. Not to mention that the food storage itself is poor.

A sandy blonde haired boy set in his late teens/early twenties comes slithering out from his holed confines called a bedroom in plaid flannels and a dark blue tank top. One hand strewn into his tangled mess of hair and the other scratching at his side, he grumbles, “Do you have to be so loud? Just because you’re home doesn’t mean that everyone else in the world cares.”

Rolling my eyes in his direction, I pull out the box of Apple Jacks and dig my hand arm-deep. “Maybe if you had a job and a reason to wake up in the morning, I wouldn’t be disturbing your afternoon slumber.”

“Afternoon slumber,” Carson scoffs and shakes his head at me. “Seriously, shouldn’t you be at Cutter’s Anonymous?”

If I have feelings to be hurt, that’d have crushed me. It’s widely known throughout my whole family, nuclear and extended, that I’m suffering through the lonely journey called depression. Carson usually isn’t so rude and outright, but he and Jess must have had a bad night.

Slamming the box of cereal down onto the counter, I stare depths through the drywall. I have to portray some sort of outrage and brotherly hurt, don’t I?

Quickly, Carson clears his throat and moves a couple feet closer to me. In a small, apologetic voice, he whispers, “Look, I didn’t mean it … like that. Ma and dad fought all morning. I’m dead tired, and that’s not… much of an excuse. But, it’s all I can really offer. I’m sorry.”

Carson, Carson, oh dim-witted, emotionally-compelled Carson. Yeah. His name is Carson. I know, my parents must have laughed hard for years naming their first kid Carson and then two years later, they named their second child Marcin. I could see it being cute if we were twins, but we weren’t twins. Quite frankly, I think it’s just stupid, but I think Carson likes it.

Clearing my thoughts back to my brother standing awkwardly behind me, I nod once. “It’s whatever. Dad left today, right?”

He must be nodding, because after a couple seconds he clears his throat and lightens his tone. “Yeah, he’ll be gone until the end of the month. Mom won’t be back until Monday, she’s got some sort of conference in the next state over.”

“Of course she does.” I sigh and shake my head to release the thoughts full of deadbeat parents.

That’s the thing about my parents – about adults in general – they don’t care if you have a scarce food supply, three more uses of body wash left, or next-to-no laundry detergent. They have to work, they have to shop and feed us, and we were deadbeat for not having our own jobs. Now, Carson, he has no excuse. He does nothing all day long and then goes to night school from five to ten. He could have a fulltime job if he wanted to. Instead he decided to be a fulltime boyfriend and a part time couch potato.

I, on the other hand, can’t work because of my failing grades and my unwillingness to care. I mean, I can try to get a job, but my counselor already notified everything within walking distance. So, I’m stuck to wallow in the depths of my mind from four-thirty until whatever time my mind decides to shut down for the night. Really, it’s always such a treat to call this my life.

Sighing slowly, I nod once more to Carson and head toward my own holed confines simply labeled as a bedroom. It’s the one place where being my stoic-self feels okay, the one place where I’m not constantly observed by everyone like a science experiment.

The four walls are a dark maroon color and the bed is a worn-in futon with a dark grey comforter. My room is quite tidy, or as tidy the smallest room can truly be. Dirty clothes are dunked into a self-painted silver hamper and everything else belongs in the redwood dresser. If I have any other open space, it’s occupied by a three foot long desk with a narrow path between everything else.
Spinning the computer chair around, I collapse down and kick my feet onto my bed. Well, there’s nothing else to do, so I drop my head backwards and close my eyes.

_______________________________

Pushing open the glass doors of the Guidance office, I head straight down the hallway to my counselor during the passing period before fourth hour. I spot him sitting at his desk in black slacks and a purple button-up, hold the tie. Bright and shining as always, Mr. Barker flashes a quick smile. It’s too quick, which is my forewarning that something more is in the office with him.

When I walk across the threshold, I find that there is something more in the office with him. And they call it Travis. I’m forced to flick my wavering gaze between both adults sitting around the desk like they’re the best of friends, infectious smiles broadening their features.

“Uh… okay.” I nod towards the dark haired man and then the light haired man. “What’s going on?”

They laugh lightheartedly and turn their gazes back to me. Adults are another species within itself. I think they believe us teenagers to be magicians or psychic, possessing the ability to read their minds through their smiles and gleaming faces. For the moment, I’m damn glad that I don’t understand happiness like they do.

“Well, Marce, Travis here called my cellphone last night half-past livid and demanded he be here for the session tomorrow. And here we are.” Mr. Barker says all too carefully.

Turning my hardening gaze onto Travis, my eyes narrow just the slightest, “Is this seriously about the two minutes from last night?”

“No, Marcin, this isn’t about the two minutes. This is about your unwillingness to open up to anyone, especially me or Mr. Barker.” For once, Travis sounds patient and calm with me. This, his calmness rather than his instantaneous rage or his growling voice, has the power to illicit some type of fear in the form of chills up my spine.

“And what about it?” I can feel the caution in my voice, the stutter threatening to shake the walls of my throat.

“Well,” Mr. Barker piped, “When Travis told me this and I found that I wasn’t the only one you shoved your cold shoulder at, I suggested the Struggling Youths group here at school. It’s when kids like you, Marcin, who are failing and possess some type of struggle – like depression or anxiety or home problems – get a tutor for one hour at school every day.”

“And I thought that sounded like exactly where you needed to be.” Travis jumps in, nodding with encouragement.

I don’t know if I widen my eyes like I think I do or if it’s just a response somewhere in my brain, but they’re wide open and flicking between each adult. “So, let me get this straight. You’re tossing me in a youth group that I want no part of for this hour and the one that I hold outside of school?”

“Actually,” Travis stresses, “We were only thinking of the one hour session you have here at school, but I like your idea better.”

If they were wide before, my eyes narrow on their own accord at the light haired man. Me and my big mouth. Is this what insecurity tastes like? Bitter and unbidden to my tongue, like Brussels sprouts or sour candy. I put up an iron fortress to keep these two specific adults out; I don’t know if I have the mental stamina to protect my skin from another questioner.

“Come on.” Barker pushes back from his desk and they both rise. I’m left flicking my eyes between the men, my feet rooting themselves deep to the ground.

They start moving and exiting the room around me before they stop, turn, and stare at me until I trudge after them. All of a sudden, it feels like I’m a prisoner trailing after my jailers to the chair or lethal injection. I follow a couple feet behind them as they strike up conversation that I’m far too uninterested in, weaving through the slim corridor until we come to a large room with hospital fluorescence and white walls.

Oh, this is definitely lethal injection.

Once we break in through a door near the back, I see the room is full of prestigious looking adolescents as well as grimy, sweatshirt hidden teens that seem completely at ease with the exception of a select few. They smile widely and roll their hands around, their shoulders shrugging. They look happy, they seem happy. And somehow, I find myself actually wanting to embrace the welcome they all individually send when they see us standing at the back of the room.

A pretty, educated-looking woman with a bright smile and bright eyes comes skipping back to us, her hands stretched out for some sort of embrace. I don’t know if she wants to shake my hand or if she wants to bury me in a hug. I truly hope it’s option one, though.

I find that it’s neither. She presses her hands to my shoulders and then shakes Barker’s hand, then Travis’s. “Welcome to Struggling Youths.”

Her voice is like honey, it’s warm, sweet, and inviting. My eyes flick to the long dry erase board behind her and I locate that her name is Miss Liz. Welcome to Struggling Youths. Why does this sound more like a rehab group rather than a high school program?

“I’m Miss Liz. You must be Marcin. Mr. Barker and Travis here haven’t stopped talking about the arrangement since this morning.” She’s smiling like she’s the happiest person in the world and her life just became more bubbly because I’m entering into it. Happiness. I’m positive I’ll never understand it.

She takes my hand and nods to the gentlemen behind me. When I look back at them after she starts tugging me to the front of the class, they hold the expression of a father watching their toddler enter through the doors of their first day of preschool – happy, proud, and tinged with fear. Miss Liz pulls me to her side once we reach the front of the class and presses her hand gingerly to the top of my shoulder.

“Okay, everybody! Here’s that newcomer I was telling you about before.”

Oh god. She was talking about me? Seriously.

“His name is Marcin Smith, he’s failing Math and English, he’s a senior, he takes Antidepressants and that causes him to be stoic and unemotional. Anyone up for the challenge?” Why is her voice so enthusiastic while discussing my damaged life to this group of people?

Why does she have to make it sound more like a damaged, deranged speed dating circle rather than a supporter’s youth group? I search through the well-dressed kids who aren’t sitting around the obviously damaged teenagers. My selection is poor and minimal.

There’s a dark haired girl with a scarf that she keeps staring at as if it’s the Eye of Sauron. There’s a boy with wavy hair that could be nothing less than some sort of star athlete. There’s a girl with pale brown hair who’s eyeballing me like she realizes how much of a challenge I really am. She’s smiling so widely that any dentist would be more than proud. I find myself desperately hoping that she doesn’t try to help me.

But, to my dark demise, she looks at the scarf girl and the jock before she jumps to her feet and throws her arm high up. That smile grows bigger, if that’s even logically possible. I feel my eyebrows rutting together as she starts to move from the side of the room and towards me.

“I’ll do it!” she emphasizes when she’s between Miss Liz and me. Great. Just what I wanted.

“I’m Sadie Gilles. I’ll be your new partner.” She smiles wide, her pale green eyes glistening from the lighting. I try to return the smile, I really try. It’s just that it ends up looking more like a grimace. I really did try, though.

“Oh, Sadie!” Miss Liz gushes, “See, you told me just yesterday that you’d never find someone to connect with and help, but I told you that patience would pay off. And pay off it did.”

“Oh, joy.” I pipe, a smirk forming at the edges of my lips. Damn that Travis. He’s just become the biggest problem in my life besides this slaphappy girl.

She takes me by the hand, throwing a smile at Miss Liz and then at me before she tows me off to the back corner of the room. She pulls out a seat for herself and I travel around to the other side, sitting across from her. She folds her hands in front of her and I lean back in my chair, my arms left dangling.

“So, tell me about yourself, Marcin?” Sadie smiles again. I want to tell her to stop smiling, that she couldn’t have so much to really be happy every five seconds over, but that’s just rude.

A normal boy would be focusing on her assets, assessing her by her lovely figure, her high cheek bones, her sparkling pale green eyes, her full smiling lips. All I can wrap my head around is how much I want to sneak out of this room and run as fast as I can. The only thing I think I like about her is her voice, it’s sweet, soft, and the perfect pitch before annoying and nauseating. Still, even that’s pushing her luck.

“Well, I’m seventeen, I enjoy long walks on the beach, dangerous British novels of the nineteenth century, snuggling up with my Great Dane, Charles and sitting by the lavish fireplace. And yourself?” Oh, sarcasm, my life’s greatest joy.

She giggles. That’s definitely not the reaction I was going for. Then, once again, she smiles widely, “That’s a security mechanism that I must break you of.”

“Security mechanism?”

What was this outlandish, impractical, muddled-brained girl talking about?

“Yes, your over excessive use of sarcasm is considered a security mechanism. It’s what you use to ward people off and drive them away so they only have thoughts of you being rude instead of scared.” She reaches over to press her hand at the halfway point between us. “It’s okay to be insecure and scared, Marcin.”

My eyes gravitate to that hand, perfectly manicured and lotion-scented sitting there on the arbitrary line between us that keeps my iron fortress tall and expanding. My lips part and words form. “It’s not okay. Not when you live the life I lead. I have myself and myself alone.”

“Now you have me, too, Marcin.” Sadie firmly states, her palm pressing determinedly against the wood of the table. This causes my eyes to flick up and get captured by hers.

“There’s no room for you in my life.” I reply to the hope in her eyes, shooting it down with my chilled voice.

She smiles. She smiles! I just rejected her with my famous cold shoulder and she still has the heart to smile as if I hadn’t. “I’ll show that you’re wrong. I’ll show that you need someone in your life. And I’ll show that you’ll find that it’s me you need.”

“I don’t even know you.” The definite positivity of my voice bounces between us and that’s still not enough to rattle her.

“That’s the beauty of it. You’ve known your counselor for four years now and your father your whole life.”

“He’s not my father. He’s my shrink.”

Her eyes flick over to Travis dismissively then return to me before nodding. “Still, you’ve known him for some time now. You’re comfortable with them, which is what causes you to clam up.”

“So you’re trying to tell me that, because I don’t know you, I’ll open up to you easier? Are you sure you’re cut out for this helping-struggling-teens thing?” God, it really is a mechanism, isn’t it?

She shakes her head before I even finish my statement, her eyes locking strenuously onto mine. “No.” her voice jeers harshly. “What I’m saying, Marcin is that you talked to them when you hid in your shell, and you were comfortable that way. Not to mention that because they’re adults, it’s already harder to open up to them. But, I’m going to break you of that habit. I’m going to pull you from your shell and help you stand up straight.”

“Why?” I growl, her persistency is far too much for me to grasp and understand. Her use of emotion is her mechanism like sarcasm is mine.

She stares at me for ten seconds longer than I’m comfortable with before she whispers only loud enough for me to hear. “Because I believe in you, Marcin. I know you’re not used to hearing something like that, or you’re used to hearing exactly the opposite of that. But I believe in you. I know you can pass class, I know you can feel emotion, and I know that together, you and I can beat depression better than any shrink ever thought you could.”

I don’t like her. Nothing between us is clear enough for me to sit there and spill my life’s story to her. I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable enough for that, but she’s right. I’m tired of living my life through blank emotions. I’m tired of relying on just myself. Maybe this pie in the sky, this slaphappy, outlandish girl can cure me.