for Henry ;; dated early May
I'd walked by the door labeled Psych Office about a dozen times by now; just in passing, but I'd noticed the sign the first time. I didn't think much about it at first-- I hadn't had therapy from anything but a paintbrush in almost a year, and I didn't think I needed it much. Of course, I wasn't so in denial that I didn't know damn well that part of my reluctance came from thinking of Kamen, but I took that awareness as further proof that I was doing okay.
Right around the turn of the month, I started rethinking that assessment.
It was two weeks or so since I'd dragged myself out of the jungle and dropped myself at Ilse's feet. We'd been living companionably since then; I kept my bed in the crash room but more than half the time ended up staying in her little hut near the Hamlet. It wasn't the palace that Big Pink had been (and God knows we could've used some AC to keep the humidity to a dull roar) but it was home sweet peaceful home. And we'd had nothing even resembling a disagreement-- at least not until the day my brain remembered it was a few cards short of a full deck.
It had started over something small-- I don't even remember what anymore-- but once I went aphasic and was saying cooking ninja instead of clumsy idiot, the red rage grabbed me (oh yes, it was RED) and I was swearing a blue streak at myself while Ilse stood frozen in the doorway, watching me with a look of worry and confusion. As soon as I calmed down I was hit with an avalanche of guilt and remorse, and between apologizing myself sick and trying to explain, I realized there was a way to make sure it never happened again.
When I stopped outside the Psych Office door the next day, I hesitated for only a few seconds before squaring my shoulders and opening the door. The guy inside was younger than me by about a decade, maybe more. Didn't look much like a shrink to me, but given that my experience was limited to Kamen and Dr. Phil, I shouldn't have been surprised. He looked up as I opened the door, and I slipped inside and shut it behind me. "Hi," I said, grinning awkwardly. "Are you... one of the doctors?"
Right around the turn of the month, I started rethinking that assessment.
It was two weeks or so since I'd dragged myself out of the jungle and dropped myself at Ilse's feet. We'd been living companionably since then; I kept my bed in the crash room but more than half the time ended up staying in her little hut near the Hamlet. It wasn't the palace that Big Pink had been (and God knows we could've used some AC to keep the humidity to a dull roar) but it was home sweet peaceful home. And we'd had nothing even resembling a disagreement-- at least not until the day my brain remembered it was a few cards short of a full deck.
It had started over something small-- I don't even remember what anymore-- but once I went aphasic and was saying cooking ninja instead of clumsy idiot, the red rage grabbed me (oh yes, it was RED) and I was swearing a blue streak at myself while Ilse stood frozen in the doorway, watching me with a look of worry and confusion. As soon as I calmed down I was hit with an avalanche of guilt and remorse, and between apologizing myself sick and trying to explain, I realized there was a way to make sure it never happened again.
When I stopped outside the Psych Office door the next day, I hesitated for only a few seconds before squaring my shoulders and opening the door. The guy inside was younger than me by about a decade, maybe more. Didn't look much like a shrink to me, but given that my experience was limited to Kamen and Dr. Phil, I shouldn't have been surprised. He looked up as I opened the door, and I slipped inside and shut it behind me. "Hi," I said, grinning awkwardly. "Are you... one of the doctors?"