Status: Active Once More
The Girl Who Cried Rape
Hearts Breaking Even
I chew on the chord of my earphones waiting with a bouncing knee for the familiar turn of my therapist’s voice. Bon Jovi plays softly in my ear and it is making my heart hurt but I don’t really mind because it sounds so beautiful and that almost makes it worth it. I know if Eric were here he would get mad at me for adding to my sadness, but he isn’t and I don’t want to think about him right now, not while I am waiting for Petunia.
Petunia is running five minutes late and I want to think that I am strong enough to stand and walk away but I don’t. I stay seated and I wait because that is all I ever do anymore. Wait for the sadness to pass, wait for Eric to leave me alone and wait to feel better. Waiting is hard, I am an impatient person but somehow I have found myself lost in a sea of waiting, it drowns me opportunity it gets and leaves me breathless.
“Ryan,” Petunia asks sticking her head out of her office and door and surprising me. I jump and watch a boy in all black make his way out of the room he looks as sad as I feel, and I wonder what is wrong with him. He appraises me briefly, probably wondering the same thing. I want to tell him my truth, the one that is squashed up against my lips begging to be released but I know he does not care.
No one really does,
“Come on through,”
I follow Petunia into her small office and take a seat on the leather couch that groans under my weight, I shift to find a comfortable position. Across from me Petunia sits in her large arm chair and clicks her pen on a pad of paper making a few quick notes. I lean forward desperate to see what she is writing about me she quickly covers them obscuring my view.
“So how are you today?” I am used to this question because she asks me it every week at the start of our session, but for some reason today I am unsure of what to answer. The truth seems too real for 11am on a Wednesday morning but a lie feels like going backwards, like I am cheating.
“Managing,” And it is a half-truth because I am managing, sort of, almost. Petunia nods her head in a thoughtful way and I wonder how long it took for her to master that head nod, it is one of a true psychiatric professional.
“And what does that mean? What does managing mean?” I hate this question almost as much as I hate her, because what does managing mean? It means exactly what it means, nothing more and nothing less. I wish she would understand that, but she doesn’t and I realise I need to answer her I realise as silence stretches between us.
“I’m not sure,” I really want to tell Petunia her question is ridiculous and stupid but I don’t because I think I might need Petunia and our weekly sessions to survive. I think I might need to know that someone cares, even if they are being paid to.
“Okay,” She says with that thoughtful head nod again, I wish I were back in the reception area listening to Bon Jovi, “How has your week been?”
“Fine, how was your week?” I’m not sure why I ask but the question slips from my tongue easily and I wait for her to answer.
“Good thank you, but I don’t think your parents are paying me to talk about myself. So let’s talk about you okay?” She poses this as a question but there is no room for argument, what she says goes and I am helpless to stop it all.
“Fine,”
“How is Eric?”
“Fine,” But I pause because there is a question bubbling on my lips desperate to be asked, and despite my better judgement I ask it, “What is love like?”
“Love?”
“Yeah,”
“Oh love… Well I’m not sure there is any one feeling connected to love Ryan, do you think you are in love?”
The truth?
I’m not sure.
I am completely and utterly unsure, a part of me wants to believe what I feel for Eric is love but another part of me knows that I am just happy someone has taken an interest in me, and I’m not sure that qualifies as love. I want to tell Petunia all of this but something stops me, guilt maybe. I am not really sure; all I know is I can manage a shrug. I don’t want to talk anymore, not to Petunia and not about love.
“Do you love Eric Ryan?”
And I guess that is the million-dollar question…
Do I love Eric?
Petunia is running five minutes late and I want to think that I am strong enough to stand and walk away but I don’t. I stay seated and I wait because that is all I ever do anymore. Wait for the sadness to pass, wait for Eric to leave me alone and wait to feel better. Waiting is hard, I am an impatient person but somehow I have found myself lost in a sea of waiting, it drowns me opportunity it gets and leaves me breathless.
“Ryan,” Petunia asks sticking her head out of her office and door and surprising me. I jump and watch a boy in all black make his way out of the room he looks as sad as I feel, and I wonder what is wrong with him. He appraises me briefly, probably wondering the same thing. I want to tell him my truth, the one that is squashed up against my lips begging to be released but I know he does not care.
No one really does,
“Come on through,”
I follow Petunia into her small office and take a seat on the leather couch that groans under my weight, I shift to find a comfortable position. Across from me Petunia sits in her large arm chair and clicks her pen on a pad of paper making a few quick notes. I lean forward desperate to see what she is writing about me she quickly covers them obscuring my view.
“So how are you today?” I am used to this question because she asks me it every week at the start of our session, but for some reason today I am unsure of what to answer. The truth seems too real for 11am on a Wednesday morning but a lie feels like going backwards, like I am cheating.
“Managing,” And it is a half-truth because I am managing, sort of, almost. Petunia nods her head in a thoughtful way and I wonder how long it took for her to master that head nod, it is one of a true psychiatric professional.
“And what does that mean? What does managing mean?” I hate this question almost as much as I hate her, because what does managing mean? It means exactly what it means, nothing more and nothing less. I wish she would understand that, but she doesn’t and I realise I need to answer her I realise as silence stretches between us.
“I’m not sure,” I really want to tell Petunia her question is ridiculous and stupid but I don’t because I think I might need Petunia and our weekly sessions to survive. I think I might need to know that someone cares, even if they are being paid to.
“Okay,” She says with that thoughtful head nod again, I wish I were back in the reception area listening to Bon Jovi, “How has your week been?”
“Fine, how was your week?” I’m not sure why I ask but the question slips from my tongue easily and I wait for her to answer.
“Good thank you, but I don’t think your parents are paying me to talk about myself. So let’s talk about you okay?” She poses this as a question but there is no room for argument, what she says goes and I am helpless to stop it all.
“Fine,”
“How is Eric?”
“Fine,” But I pause because there is a question bubbling on my lips desperate to be asked, and despite my better judgement I ask it, “What is love like?”
“Love?”
“Yeah,”
“Oh love… Well I’m not sure there is any one feeling connected to love Ryan, do you think you are in love?”
The truth?
I’m not sure.
I am completely and utterly unsure, a part of me wants to believe what I feel for Eric is love but another part of me knows that I am just happy someone has taken an interest in me, and I’m not sure that qualifies as love. I want to tell Petunia all of this but something stops me, guilt maybe. I am not really sure; all I know is I can manage a shrug. I don’t want to talk anymore, not to Petunia and not about love.
“Do you love Eric Ryan?”
And I guess that is the million-dollar question…
Do I love Eric?
♠ ♠ ♠
-- TItle : Hearts breaking even by Bon Jovi