Page 73 of Chasing Headlines
“I don't have to say anything. Like I indicated before, you're an intelligent young man. You know what's really bothering you. Why you're so angry at everyone and lashing out. You're not ready to face her death, accept it and heal.”
I gritted my teeth and checked my watch. Thirty-two minutes, barely over halfway. “Is that anofficial diagnosis?” I made air quotes to hammer home that I was mocking her.
Her mouth tightened and she blinked slowly. “Everyone has to work things out in their own way. But you're here because you don't have positive or effective coping skills. And that's what we need to focus on.”
She was going to move this shit to weekly, I just knew it. Fuck. How about scotch? Probably not positive, but effective.
“Tell me about . . . what you do when you're not in class, or at practice. How do you take care of?—”
“Exciting community service at the cowboy old folks’ home. And studying.” I rolled my left shoulder. I needed to move, stretch, run. “Just trying to stay focused right now,” I mumbled. “Exhibition game's coming up in a little less than a month. I need to produce. Get stronger. Every practice, every?—”
“You do that. You retreat into baseball.”
“According to my father, it's my whole world.” I scoffed.
“It's, at the very least, a meticulously constructed world.” She stood and moved to the front of her desk. “One in which the universe revolves mostly the way you want it to.”
I laughed. “I wish.”
“Doesn't it?”
“If it did, I'd be starting instead of riding the bench.” I grumbled at her.
“Not what I mean. It's a game constructed of well-defined rules. Measurable results and goals. It's easy compared to real life—which is messy and hard.”
“There's nothing easy about the game.”
“You're mistaking my words.” She lifted an eyebrow. “I assume on purpose.”
“What is it, just everyone pile their shit on Breslin month? Before my dad kicked me out he was begging me to come home on the weekends. The deputy sheriff of this tiny town has nothing better to do than count and nag me about community service hours. Which, to make my court-mandated requirement, I'm spending every extra minute at the senior place. But I'm still running out of time. Everything's on a ticking clock right now, make the roster, midterms, this legal shit. My dad's mess, prove I can do an interview, make friends, make practice, produce, focus, these sessions. And I keep fucking up, and she's always there to see it. Why her?”
“That's a lot. For anyone.” The therapist's voice finally sounded closer to soothing.
“It just seems like everything keeps getting worse.”
“I get that.”
I leveled a glare at her. “How?”
“Doesn't matter if I personally relate, what's important is to honor our feelings. You have to experience them. Honor them by naming them. Knowing them. I hear frustration, overwhelm, anxiety, and guilt every time you open your mouth. Any others you'd like to call out?”
Fear. Some weird stew of a wishful-achey misery I kept trying to push aside. “Think that covers it.”
“Most of those stem from a combination of fear and pride. You're afraid of disappointing people who matter to you. Your pride pushes you to be the best. In healthy doses these can be motivators. But when you're already damaged and grieving, this is a toxic and ruthless combination. It's hard, but sometimes, we need to take a step back and find joy or at least satisfaction in smaller wins.”
Toxic? Ruthless?
“You got your community service hours in last week. Excellent job. You didn't get cut from the team, so there's still a chance at a starting position.”
“It's not enough to not-get-cut. I need?—”
“It's a starting point. You can't make the roster if you've been cut. So step one is you're still there, still competing for your chance. Take a breath, let it out.”
Fuck me.But I did her breathing thing. Because scotch from Dad’s liquor cabinet wasn’t an option.
“What are some other wins?”
I just stared at her. Had she not been listening?