FicWad

On Wednesday during the week of his suspension, Connor’s mom woke him up at his regular school time, telling him to get into the shower because he had a doctor’s appointment. He did it without complaint because he was trying not to keep opening his mouth and making things worse for himself. That was his new plan. Shutting up, saying nothing. Potentially forever.

He got undressed while he waited for the water to warm up in the shower, catching his reflection in the mirror despite his best efforts to avoid looking at it.

It.

That was what he was. He didn’t even look like a person. His reflection didn’t resemble a human being.

The bruises on his face had faded a bit, yellowing around the edges.

His hair still looked really stupid, so he didn’t bother looking at that. He knew it was only a matter of time until you could see down to his scalp, but it was still a bit of an alarming change for him to focus on.

He didn’t like looking at himself.

He knew he wasn’t much to look at. Skinny and pale and like something that shouldn’t be exposed to light. Like a worm or something.

But then his eyes caught.

Shit.

His arms were a mess.

A really, really noticeable mess. There had only been four marks this weekend, but it had been a bad week and…

Shit.

One or two near his shoulder.

A few on the inside of his left elbow.

Several on his left wrist.

All of them bright against the white of his skin.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

They took your pulse at the doctor’s office, didn’t they? And your blood pressure. He was screwed. He was screwed.

Crap.

Could he get away with just handing his right arm over to the nurse? He could probably do that. He could...

Connor sighed, and showered fast, because he was going to need some extra time to pick out fucking clothes.

Naturally this had to happen when it was practically May. Naturally the moment it was getting warm… His mom was going to notice, she was going to say something…

He brushed his teeth fast, and rushed back into his bedroom, picking out this one long sleeve shirts his mom had picked out for him around his birthday. He was banking on her getting distracted by the fact that he was wearing something she had picked out that she wouldn’t question the fact that he never willingly wore longsleeves.

As he was about to run down the stairs to meet his mom and try to convince her that really, he was a little bit old for her to come into the doctor’s office with him, why didn’t she just sit in the waiting room….Connor paused.

Fished the pocket knife from his desk.

And decided he shouldn’t have that for a while, since he didn’t seem capable of being careful.

He chucked it into his closet, under a box of old stuffed animals and toys his mom kept forgetting to donate when she went into town.

“Connor come on, you need to eat before we go!”

“Coming!” He yelled distractedly, hurrying down the stairs.



He knew something was up when he got into the car.

Should have fucking known.

“I’m not going in there,” He said, shaking his head violently as they approached the door which read “Pine Ridge Health & Psychiatry” and listed a few names underneath, Dr. P. Sherman, Dr. C. Collins…

“Connor, you agreed…” his mother said, sighing.

He crossed his arms over his chest tightly. “You said you wanted to go to the doctor . Not a shrink. You think I’m crazy.”

His mother’s face fell. “No, sweetheart… of course I don’t. I’m worried about you. I just want you to talk to Dr. Sherman, that’s all, I swear…”

“I’m not crazy,” Connor said desperately, even though, like, objectively he probably was crazy. Like, clinically speaking he was losing it if the last couple of weeks were anything to go off of. But this town was way too small to get away with seeing a therapist. Someone at school’s mom would work here and mention it and it would just make things worse. “I’m sorry I said all of that stuff the other night, I didn’t mean it, I was just… please don’t make me go in there.”

His mom crossed her arms over her chest. “Connor. Please.”

He shook his head again, “I’m not going.”

Connor watched his mom look at her watch, frowning. “Yes. You are. I’ve already made this appointment, and I spent all week arguing with your father to get him to even consider letting you speak with a therapist. You’re going.”

“I don’t want to go,” he said, and he knew he was just being whiny, he knew he was pushing it and any moment she’d be dragging him inside by the elbow. “ Please .”

“This will be good for you,” She insisted, trying to smile, putting her arm around his shoulders and giving him a not-so-gentle nudge toward the door. “You just need a little help honey, and this will help.”

There were at least two hundred things he could say to hurt his mom that second. He could yell that he hated her, make a huge scene, carry on about how she clearly didn’t give a shit about him because if she did she would have had to decency to take him out of town before forcing him to go to therapy.

But he kept his mouth shut and his head down.



“Hi Connor. I’m Dr. Sherman. It’s nice to meet you.”

He was holding out his hand for a handshake. Connor took it numbly, shaking it.

The guy wasn’t old, really. Maybe as old as Connor’s parents. His skin was a warm brown, his black hair wavy and probably a little too long for someone as almost as old as his dad. Connor wondered if his dad would think Dr. Sherman needed a haircut.

He also wondered why his dad had said it was okay to be here.

“Follow me please.”

Connor shot one last desperate look at his mother, but she was just smiling at him over a copy of Good Housekeeping.

Resigned, Connor followed Dr. Sherman down a short hallway. All of the doors had little white machines outside of them. They looked like UFOs.

White noise machines, Connor thought, because he had read a book about this girl in a mental hospital and she had talked about the UFO white noise machines. To mask the voices inside of the room.

“In here please,” Dr. Sherman said, pulling open a door. He stood back from it, waiting for Connor to go inside.

So he walked in.

The room was painted yellow. Like a sunflower. He thought that was an odd choice. As were the little decorative giraffes on the table and in the corner.

There were two arm chairs, with a small table in between them. The table had a box of tissues, placed slightly off center.

Tissues.

Because crazy people cried in here.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Dr. Sherman said, smiling. They were both standing in the middle of the room. Connor felt stupid because in his mind there would be, like, a couch or something, like in movies. He hadn’t expected a pair of armchairs.

He didn’t know the rules here, which chair Dr. Sherman usually sat in. Connor bit his lip, frustrated. He looked at this guy, this shrink, uncertainly. What did it say about him if he chose the left chair over the right? Or should he pick the right just because he wanted the left chair? He wished he could just leave, because this was…. He couldn’t actually be here, in a psychiatrist’s office. If he was here then he was actually, officially crazy. He’d end up like those zombie kids who lived out of a pill bottle and could never properly speak.

He looked back at Dr. Sherman, still smiling at him, and realized he was just standing in the middle of the freaking room like an idiot.

“Whichever one is fine.”

Connor shuffled to the left chair, perching on the edge of it, prepared, mentally, to charge out of the room if he needed. He looked down at his shoes, wishing he had worn a pair that he hadn’t drawn all over. He felt like his whole life story was suddenly on display on those shoes. All of the song lyrics, the little doodles of trees...

Dr. Sherman smiled, taking a seat in the other chair. He crossed his legs at the knee when he sat. Connor thought that made him look kind of girly. Or gay.

He hoped it wasn’t obvious that he was thinking that this therapist was gay. That seemed sort of rude.

“So, why don’t we get started by talking about why you’re here?”

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Connor snapped.

Dr. Sherman didn’t really react. “Can you say more about what you mean by that?”

Connor shifted his jaw. He didn’t really want to say anything. “My mom. Says. I need help. She made me come here.”

Dr. Sherman nodded, giving what Connor imagined he thought was an encouraging smile. Frankly, it looked a little smug. Connor wondered what would happen if he punched a therapist. He’d probably go to jail if he really hurt the guy. Maybe jail wasn’t such a terrible idea, since he was obviously crazy.

“Do you feel like you need help, Connor?”

He rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Can you tell me why you disagree with you mother?”

Connor clenched his fists tightly. He did not want to be here, he didn’t want to be here. “I mean. I can. But I won’t .”

He knew he was just being difficult. Petulant. Acting like a child.

He wasn’t telling this guy anything though. That was for damn sure.

“Connor, you can say anything you want in here. Nothing you say to me will be repeated to anyone else.”

He knew that. He’d seen a therapist on TV before. He wasn’t stupid. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Connor also knew that was totally crap. If he ran his mouth and said how he really felt, what it was really like in his head, how he wanted to die and sometimes wanted to just… hurt other people because at least he didn’t hurt when it happened…

He knew that was a one way ticket to a padded room.

“Alright… Why don’t I tell you what your mom told me about you then?”

Connor blinked, not moving any other part of his body.

Dr. Sherman smiled. “Well, your mom said you’ve been having some problems at school. That you don’t get along very well with the people in your classes.”

Connor doubted his mother would have called his classmates “people.” She’d absolutely call them “kids.” Because she treated him like he was about five years old and also a moron.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, tried not to breathe too hard.

Dr. Sherman went on. “She also mentioned that you got suspended for getting into a fight with some guys who were picking on you.”

“Guys?”

This guy was trying too hard to talk like kids did.

He’d probably call someone a dude in a second.

Fucking weirdo.

“Your mom said that after that happened that you told her you wanted to die.”

Connor froze. Felt utterly betrayed, by his mom for blabbing, by his own big mouth for saying that in front of her in the first place.

“I was thinking… if it’s okay with you… that maybe you could tell me about that.”

No. That was not okay by Connor.

No fucking way.

He said nothing.

“Do you want to know what I think, Connor?” Dr. Sherman said after a few minutes. “I think it was incredibly brave of you to tell your mom that was how you were feeling. I know that can be a really scary place to be. You made the right call, telling someone.”

Well that was obviously a lie.

If he had made the right call his mom wouldn’t have dragged him to see some shrink.

Connor rolled his eyes.

Dr. Sherman’s smile slipped a little. “Connor, you know, I think I can help you. I think you really could start to feel better, and very soon, if you were willing to tell me a little bit about why you told your mom that you wanted to kill yourself. But I can’t do much of anything if you’re not going to talk to me.”

Connor bit his lip. There was…

He wasn’t stupid enough to feel hopeful anymore.

But there was this sudden pain in his chest. Like some part of him was hopeful even if he tried to crush it down.

“Everyone hates me.”

“Why do you say that?”

Connor stared at his shoes. “I don’t have any friends. Everyone at school makes fun of me. My little sister… her name’s Zoe…. she hates me too.”

“And how do you know that people hate you, Connor? Have they told you that they hate you?”

Connor nodded, feeling somehow ever stupider.

Dr. Sherman’s eyebrows flew up. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Connor. That sounds incredibly painful.”

Connor glared at him. No shit, Sherlock.

“Why don’t you tell me more about yourself, Connor? It might help me-”

“Why do you keep saying my name like that?” Connor asked, cutting across him irritably. It was really bothering him that he’d heard his name more times in the few minutes he had been in this room than he had in months at home or school.

Dr. Sherman leaned forward. “Does it bother you that I’ve been saying your name?”

“Wouldn’t it bother you if I ended every sentence with ‘ Dr. Sherman ,’ Dr. Sherman?”

“Not especially,” He said, smiling a little. “But if it bothers you, I won’t say your name.”

Connor slouched back into chair, crossing his arms tighter. Now he felt even stupider. Why had he said anything at all.

“Can you please tell me more about yourself?” Dr. Sherman said, still smiling. “It would really help me to better understand how you’ve been feeling lately.”

Connor shrugged. “There’s not a lot to know.”

Dr. Sherman smiled. “Still. I’d like to know more about you.”

Connor straightened up, uncrossing his arms. He clenched his hands into fists, rubbing his knuckles on his jeans. “I like to read…”

“What do you read?”

Connor shrugged. “Just… everything. Books, mostly. Sometimes I’ll read the newspaper… I go on a couple of websites too, mostly to find more books to read...”

“What’s your favorite book?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know… I read the Harry Potter books a lot when I was younger. I still read them sometimes. And Lord of the Rings, I guess. I really liked this book called Speak that I read recently. I just did a school project on Bridge to Terabithia. ”

“Is there anything that those books have in common?”

Connor sighed unclenching his fists and rubbing his sweaty hands on his jeans again. “I dunno. I guess they all… all of those ones are… they let the main characters be sad sometimes.”

“And you like that? That they’re allowed to feel sad?”

Connor shrugged. “I guess.” It sounded so stupid once he said it outloud. Dr. Sherman was writing something down on his clipboard. Probably something like, “Damn this kid is so lame.”

“How come?”

Connor looked up, not understanding.

“How come you like that the characters in books you read are allowed to feel sad?” Connor shrugged again.

“Are you sad, Connor?”

He flinched at the sound of his name. He bit his lip. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay if you are sad.”

“It’s not though.”

“Why?”

He bit down on his lip harder, the feeling of emptiness rising in him again. He imagined spilling his guts. Shouting, crying. Admitting that he was hurting himself because recently he felt like nothing was real, like he was imaginary, and how he thought about hurting Zoe this weekend and how sick that made him feel. He thought about just screaming, screaming that everyone hated him, his dad hated him, his mom was scared of him, Zoe thought he was a loser…. He thought about just dumping out all of the stuff about Jared. About how he thought Jared was his friend, how he thought about making Jared laugh for days after it happened, how sad he was that he’d been the one who broke Jared’s old glasses because he liked those glasses, how it hurt that Jared hadn’t invited him to the bar mitzvah because it popped the idiotic bubble inside of him where he thought that maybe, just maybe, someone from school actually liked him.

Connor thought about the scene in the fifth Harry Potter book, after Sirius dies, and Harry smashed everything in Dumbledore’s office until he felt better. He tried to imagine doing that. Screaming that he didn’t want to be human anymore if it meant feeling the way he felt all of the time.

“THEN — I — DON’T — WANT — TO — BE — HUMAN! I DON’T CARE! I’VE HAD ENOUGH, I’VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON’T CARE ANYMORE —”

But the thing was he didn’t deserve to freak out like that. Harry Potter, the character, had lost people. That scene saw him after he lost the closet thing to a dad he had ever had, the only adult who had known Harry’s parents and cared about him. He had lost nearly everyone he cared about and everyone who cared about him.

Nobody cared about Connor because he was awful.

And worse, he knew it.

He knew how awful he was but he couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

He wasn’t defeating evil wizards or even speaking up about someone who hurt him. All he did was sulk and read and cry and hurt people.

He didn’t want to be human. He wanted out, he’d admitted as much to his mom.

But he didn’t even deserve to feel that way.

“You don’t have to tell me why you don’t think it’s okay to feel sad if you don’t want to talk about it,” Dr. Sherman said, smiling this weird smile, like a kindergarten teacher. “Though I might ask you to think about it after you leave.”

“Like homework?”

“A little bit, yeah. I just want you to give it some thought.”

Connor sighed. Great .

“What do you do to make yourself feel better when you’re sad?” Dr. Sherman asked him.

Feel better?

Feel better ?

There was no feeling better. There was not better, at all. Period. He knew that now.

Even books, even reading which was about the only thing he even liked didn’t help.

There was no better. Nothing was going to get better for him.

He shrugged again. “Read mostly.”

“Anything else?”

He thought about the cutting. The smoking, cigarettes and weed. The time he got drunk with Jake and the others just to throw the empty bottle at the train.

If he told Dr. Sherman, then Dr. Sherman would absolutely tell his mom. Confidentiality or not, he thought that this doctor would count that as an acceptable reason to tell on him.

“Not really. Sometimes I practice piano…”

“Piano?”

“I play the keyboard in jazz band.”

“The keyboard? Wow. That takes talent.”

Connor shook his head. “I think I’m the only kid dumb enough to tell the band teacher that I took piano lessons.”

“I want to ask you something… Do you really think you’re dumb?”

Connor sighed. “I mean I get okay grades…”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Dr. Sherman said, and Connor could tell he was trying to be nice. “I meant: do you think you are a smart person, in general?”

Connor shook his head. “No. If I was smart I wouldn’t be in trouble all the time.”

“Are you in trouble a lot?”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” he said, staring at his shoes. “Because I’m always in trouble.”

“No. You’re here because your mom thought you might need someone to talk to.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t even want to talk to me. I think she’s scared of me.”

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugged. “I get mad sometimes.”

“What happens when you get mad?”

He picked a string on his ripped jeans. “I used to throw things a lot. I threw a printer at a teacher once.”

“Why?”

Connor sighed. “It’s stupid… it was my turn to be the line leader and she skipped me.”

“And that made you angry?”

He nodded.

“What else happens when you’re angry?”

He sighed. “I hit my dad once.”

Dr. Sherman’s eyebrows traveled up again.

“He told me to…” Connor mumbled.

“He told you to hit him?”

Connor nodded. “I got beat up. At school. And he said I needed to know how to… stand up for myself,” He said, stupidly. “He showed me how to make a fist and told me to hit him and then I did.”

Dr. Sherman said nothing.

“I didn’t want to hit him,” Connor went on, stupidly, just not able to keep from speaking. “But then he called me a pussy and I…” He stopped. Wished he hadn’t said it. “His lip started bleeding.”

“I see.” He wrote something else down. “Did hitting your dad make you feel better?”

Connor shook his head.

“Then how did it make you feel?”

“Sick. Like, really sick. Like I might puke.”

They chatted a little more. Mostly get-to-know-you stuff, but then Dr. Sherman would throw in a question or two about how he was feeling, asking if he ever thought about hurting himself, things like that.

Connor did his best to lie.

At the end, Dr. Sherman walked him back to the waiting area. On the way, he chatted about the weather. Asked Connor if he was getting excited for summer vacation.

Back in the waiting room, Connor saw him mom, still looking at that same copy of Good Housekeeping. “I’m going to speak with your mom really quick, okay? I hope I’ll see you again soon.”

Connor doubted that enormously. Nobody ever wanted to see him.

He watched Dr. Sherman hand his mom two little pieces of paper, and gestured to the first one a few times, smiling.

His mom was smiling too.

“See you later, bud,” Dr. Sherman said to Connor, walking back toward his office.

Connor waved, then turned and headed toward his mom.

“How was it?”

“Fine,” he said shortly. “What did he give you?”

“Oh, a few dates he has open to schedule you another appointment.”

Connor nodded. Didn’t fight back, just nodded.

“He also wrote you a prescription…”

“For what?” Connor asked.

“He said…It’s a medication. that it might help you to feel.. Better. Less sad.”

Connor rolled his eyes, but.

Well.

Was there something he could take that would help?

But then the happiness bubble deflated.

Because his dad thought most medications were stupid and unnecessary. Connor remembered hearing a rant the whole car ride from his Aunt Christine’s house last year about how her “pills” made her “even more of a bitch” than usual. His dad commented that his aunt was seeing some new shrink and he was “really changing Chrissy’s outlook on life, which is a load of horseshit if I’ve ever heard one Cynthia.”

Connor looked at his mom, frowning. “Dad doesn’t know I’m here, does he?”

His mom tried to smile. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll talk to him.”



He knew he should have worried.

He could hear them arguing from the minute his dad got home.

“Please, Cynthia, we’re not letting him go around doped up out of his mind so he never gets sad.”

“The doctor he saw today said he’s showing signs of clinical depression, Larry, and everything I’ve read says that a combination of antidepressants and therapy could really help-”

“Jesus, Cynthia, he’s moody because he’s a teenager. He’s going to grow out of it.”

“I don’t think so, Larry, that doctor seemed really serious when he said he wanted to see Connor once a week-”

“-And how much is that going to cost me, Cyn? How much money are you going to start flushing over an imaginary problem?”

“I’m worried about him, Larry. If it’s this bad now, I’m scared of how bad it could get. What if he’s not being dramatic, huh? What if he means everything he’s been saying and we find him dead some day?”

“I’m not having this conversation.”

“Larry!”

“And if you want him medicated so badly, you might want to update your resume. Tell me, does pilates go under special skills these days?”

Connor clenched his fists tightly.

He got up, feeling shaky all over. Mad. Really mad.

He wanted to go yell at his dad for talking to his mom like that. He wanted to yell at his mom for ever marrying his dad.

Connor walked out of his room and was surprised to find Zoe was standing outside of his door already, looking ready to cry. “Zo?”

She shoved a note into his hand. Connor opened it, heart in his throat. In some chicken scratch handwriting someone had written, “Zoey I really like you, do you wanna go out? If yes, come sit by me at lunch today. Brian.”

“He spelled your name wrong,” Connor said, rolling his eyes.

“It wasn’t him,” Zoe said, and then she was crying. “It was that kid Josh whose jaw you broke. He… put that in my locker, and I went to sit by Brian at lunch…”

“Oh no,” Connor said.

“They all laughed at me,” She said, crying harder now. “They said… They said I was stupid for thinking that Brian would go out with someone who grew up with a loser like you. And that kid with the glasses, Jared? He was there too. They said it was his idea.”

He felt like his heart was working too hard.

It was the Janice Avery prank.

From Bridge to Terabithia .

Connor remembered saying to Jared that he thought that was a messed up thing to do to someone.

And since he was clearly pissed at Connor, but Connor wasn’t in school, Zoe was the next best way to get to him.

Connor regretted ever letting Jared Kleinman read that fucking book. If he and Jared hadn’t worked together, then maybe he wouldn’t have thought it was funny to write a pretend love note to Connor’s sister. Maybe she wouldn’t be crying in his doorway right then. “Zoe, I’m so sorry.”

“You told Jared to do it, didn’t you?” She said, voice quiet. “You and him are friends and you… You told him that he should mess with me since you’re not allowed at school.”

“Zoe, no! I… how could I, I don’t even have a phone-?”

“I know you were in my room the other night. I know you borrowed my phone.”

Shit.

“I didn’t do that , Zoe, I wouldn’t-”

She shoved him, hard, so hard he had to take a step back not to fall. “I hate you!” She screamed. “You’re ruining my life! I wish you would just go away forever!”

Connor watched her race down the stairs, probably to their dad who would make her feel better.

He wished he could go away forever too.



At breakfast that Thursday, once Zoe was at school and his dad was at work, his mom told him with a sad smile that she didn’t think they’d be going back to see Dr. Sherman again.

Connor had figured.

He nodded, it it wasn’t tearing him up.

He spent all day in his bedroom, just reading. He finished Stargirl and Love, Stargirl. The librarian had recommended them when he was there last week, but Connor didn’t especially love them. He thought the girl was just sort of weird… like that girl in (500) Days of Summer or something. Someone who is just weird to be weird and there’s no point to it.

He was getting started on The Fault in Our Stars. He had been putting it off because he knew it was sad. But so far he could see liking it. The girl in the book, even though she was, like, dying of cancer, really liked this one book.

There was something in there about how pain demands to be felt.

Connor thought he understood that.

He pushed up his sleeve, looking at the marks he had left.

Pain.

Demanding to be felt.

He read too much, so much that he started to get a headache. He stayed up too late, reading despite the headache, only really noticing the time when his mom knocked on the door, saying, quietly, “Connor, sweetheart, it’s almost midnight…”

“I didn’t tell Jared to do anything to Zoe,” he said suddenly. It had been gnawing at him for two days but he hadn’t been able to say it before.

“I know you didn’t, sweetheart.” She came and sat down at the foot of his bed. “Honey, I… I need to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“You know your dad doesn’t want you seeing Dr. Sherman anymore.”

“I know.”

“Is that….Are you okay? Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear, don’t say what you think your dad would want… I just. I need to know. Are you okay?”

Connor realized he had a choice here. His mom was looking at him, helplessly, her eyes watery.

He could tell her everything. Just put it all out on the table. Every sick thought in his mind. He could roll up his sleeves and expose it.

Or he could bury it.

Pain demands to be felt.

But it didn’t get a say in how you felt it.

When you’re in pain you can either scream for help or swallow it and smile.

Connor smiled.

“I’m fine mom. Really.”

The lie came so readily that Connor didn’t know how he had even entertained the idea of telling the truth.

“Connor, please, you can talk to me… I want to make sure that if you need help that you get it.”

He shook his head. “What’s there to help? I’m fine. Really. Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re sure?” She wiped her face, smiling at him, putting her hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah mom. I’m great.”

She kissed his temple.