68 Vhalar, 723
.
You find yourself slumbering in a field of dreams that can only be grasped by a hand experienced in the concept of slow motion. You are purely designated with the completion of the tasks of the day as they are presented to you, not persuaded by thought or opinion. They simply reflect your coat of armour- a shield crafted from an indifferent and unsuspecting blacksmith. You are unable to view the reason nor understand the delegation of completing such a task, and it is one that is without any implication of sound logic. Your story is infinite, but the words have to be concise. The paragraphs are welcoming but only to those who hold an intelligent regard to secrecy. The truth is not for the feeble or weak of heart. It isn’t for the doltish or those who hold strong belief in the erroneous confidence of what they are doing. They are for the overworked, those who feel taken advantage of, those who feel their expertise is something that is limited by the duties requested of them. Performance should be compensated justly, and that is not the case.
This is what Kotton was experiencing at the moment.
“I feel devalued,” Kotton announced, realising the challenge it took to conceal the sneer that lined his lips. He was wearing a thick smear of resentment that was unmatched by any lipstick of similar title.
“Have you brought this feeling of yours to others? Those who are important to you?”
Instead of ‘superiors’, his mentor had used the phrase ‘those who are important to you’. Kotton acknowledged this phrase with a pregnant pause of uncomfortable nature. He found this indiscretion as a form of salvation to his wounded heart, but he resisted and inevitably persisted in finding the strength to continue with a polite, “I have.”
“And what became of it?”
“I was ignowed.”
“Please explain.”
Kotton picked at the spots of his brain for the specific moments in time when he had complained and thus was overlooked. But he was greeted only with the need to have his complaint unearthed at a former date, taken seriously. “I had bwought up the ewwow by telling my supewvisors. I saw them wwite it down but it took an entiwe season, and anothew employee’s complaint before anything was done about it. Thewe was a leak in the dwain and it flooded then entiwe woom."
Cyndica stifled the rolling of her eyes. Instead, she offered a professional puffing of her lip- a distasteful smirk- and prodded with a stray justification of the wave of her hand. “Perhaps they listened to your complaint but hadn’t the time to respond to you directly.”
“Then why did it take someone else to bwing up the pwoblem befowe anyone took action?”
Cyndica sighed and adjusted her face so that it reflected a tremendous effort of energy. She needed to cross this perplexing encounter with logic and ratiocination. Her decision to discontinue with the prospective contemplation of foreseen advocation was brief. “People are mysterious,” she consummated, throwing her hands into the air with a universal sign of defeat. “I wish I could be the spokesman for every living being on the planet, but I can't.”
Kotton couldn’t help but feel indirectly attacked. “I didn’t mean fow you to.” He didn’t hesitate to think before declaring his negative emotional registry. It was a “talk out of your arse and without proper judgement” kind of statement and he recognized it as immediately at it had left his lips.
“That’s not what I meant,” Cyndica deadpanned, her tone more serious than ever before. “What I meant was… that doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we reconnect with the concept of perfectionism and people pleasing that you have heavily hinted at since day one.”
Kotton felt ashamed. He had undoubtedly thrown off his conversational healer, making her feel something she shouldn’t need go. And his feeling? Bad. It was bad for putting her on the spot and pinpointing an expedited tangent that was beyond his conversational comprehension. But wait- wasn’t that the job of a counsellor? Wasn't there directive to decipher the condemning inquiry a of a patient so far from he realm of being consoled?
“I want to make peopuw happy,” Kotton stated with a stoicism that made him wonder if he was even human.
“And why is that?”
“Because they desewve it.”
“Why do you feel they deserve it?”
“Expewience. Pewspective. Obsewvation. Whatevew you want to call it.”
“Do you give happiness to those who deserve it at the cost of your own?”
Kotton absentmindedly ground his teeth. “Not always.”
“And what about those times that you do?”
The young man glanced to his side- a blank wall with popcorn texture that invited no inspiration. It was painted a hideous egg shell that was in desperate need of repainting. With so few words, Kotton didn't want to reply to the question. But he had to, didn't he? He was here to talk, to listen to another's point of view about his mental illness and all that, right?
“Listen,” Kotton begrudgingly began, “Thewe are those who need guidance and those who do not. I find those who need it and help them. Those who don’t? Well, sometimes they fall under the wadar.”
“What about yourself?” Every word from her lips was an inquisition that required hefty deliberation.
Kotton recoiled- that was only natural after having been bombarded with such a query. “I can take cawe of myself.”
“If that’s true, then why are you seeking my help for mental healing?”
At one point Kotton had loved his counsellor, but now he wasn’t so sure. She was giving him immaculate advice and irrefutable argumentation. Did he really dislike being argued so relentlessly? Was it her lack of agreement that frustrated him? Was it the fact that she didn't agree and instead offered an alternative point of view that caused him to trembled with irritation? He knew intent was to supply modicums of thought that were alternate in the traditional thought of his own, so why was he so irritated by her replies?
“I don’t know,” Kotton grunted, looking to the floor with the hopes of staunching his perpetual taste of resistance.
“I think you do know,” Cyndica pressed after patiently waiting for her client to lock eyes with her. Her lips glued themselves together, even the composed master of psychology.
Kotton couldn't resist the feeling of frustration that gnawed at his extremities. Perhaps this was a natural reaction toward counselling. Maybe he was less frustrated with his counsellor than he was with himself. Was this a symptom of depression and/or anxiety? Why did it perpetuate so? Whatever it was, the young man calmed himself and accepted the line of questioning. He was here by choice after all.
“I’m hewe,” Kotton sneered, before regaining his composure. “Because I want to get bettew.”
“Are you here for help because you want to help yourself or because someone else told you?” Cyndica was not short when it came to any of the crucial questions; each and every one were thought out and well devised. It was aggravating to someone who simply wanted to talk and be drunk.
“I guess both,” Kotton shrugged. His mind gravitated to thoughts of gin and tequila. He kicked himself for it, but maintained his composure in the presence of his mentor.
“You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to,” Cyndica said softly. She looked at the journal in her hands with indifference. Regardless of her nonchalance, she took several notes before peering back up towards her client.
Kotton had all the time in the world to mull over her statement. He was here for his father. He was here because he liked this counsellor. He was here because he knew he was plagued with problems. that needed to be solved. He was here because he wanted to gain control over those very problems. He was here because his issues seemed almost too cumbersome to manage all on his own.
“No,” Kotton blurted. “I want to be hewe.”
“Good," Cyndica almost shouted. "That means you have the willpower and want to get better.”
Kotton nodded ferociously. He really did want to get better. He hated the stigma of mental illness and its association with craziness. Some people were bombarded with visions they’re unable to see, and others with thoughts unable to be thought; some still, like Kotton, with feelings incapable of being ignored. And sometimes these things made people lash out in ways that precluded the flow of the status quo. But these people were not crazy. They were just overwhelmed with the perplexities an otherwise healthy mind could handle. Or so Kotton liked to think.
He was not crazy. Instead, he had been blessed with an ultra-challenging life, one he despised and if able to be ridded of, would accept with a full-heart- the craziness, or life itself, he honestly didn’t care- he would. But since that hadn't seem sensible, he was starting here, unfortunately just before reaching rock bottom. He had met this level plenty of times. The recent markings on his arm, which had been securely hidden under his cotton shirt, was evidence of that. The many terrible nights he couldn't remember but instinctively knew of were also proof.
“You seem to be deep in thought. Do you care to share? I am someone you pay to talk to about these thoughts, you know.”
Kotton smirked at the jest and acknowledged the playful smile Cyndica threw his way. He was going off on many different tangents inside his head; that swirled and swarmed like a tropical storm. There was nothing really worth sharing that he hadn’t already or wouldn’t soon. Except...
“Addiction,” he interjected.
“And what of it?”
The young man ushered in a cold breath of stale air and with it the sweet smell of lilac perfume. “It isn’t what I thought it would be. I don’t necessarily get shaky and I don’t constantly think about it; I don’t have the wegular symptoms of withdwawal that other addicts have.”
Cyndica chronicled something in between the lines in her journal. “That doesn’t make you any less valid. Addiction can be a fickle thing that portrays itself in different fashions depending on the person it's trying to control.”
Well-spoken, Kotton tittered.
"It’s just something I want to do,” Kotton went on. A scab on one of his knuckles was ripped off by his long nails. “I’ve even gotten kind of bowed of dwinking lately. It almost feels like I do it just because I can.”
“You do it because you’re restless and bored with life such as you’ve said, right? Alcohol is a coping mechanism, Kotton. And from what I hear, it sounds like you are dependent on it like much like any other addict would.”
“But I don’t want to have to dwink in owder to deal with life. I want life to be enticing all on its own. Alcohol just makes me…”
“Happy?”
Kotton paused. It was exactly the word he would have chosen. More like, content, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah.”
“Can you think of a time when you were happy before you took up drinking?” Cyndica’s questions were quick to the point in terms of addressing underlying issues. It's like she went to school for this sort of thing...
It took more time than Kotton cared to admit to think of the last time he had been happy without any involvement of vodka or whiskey. But his mentor was patient and waited for the memory to register. At long last time picked up where it had stopped, Kotton now able to find a small, glimmering light at the end of the ruinous library encasing all his memories. He reached for it, stretched his body to its absolute limit before grasping it with rigidity.
“I think I was in intewmediate school, yeah. I was leawning about something I had always been intewested in. I was home with my fathew. The kettle was on and a fiwe woared above the heawth in the living woom. I was looking ovew my textbook. I was wawm and my fathew was wight there behind me making us dinnew. It was quiet, peaceful, and the wowds I wead on the page wewe awe-inspiwing.”
This reminiscence jostled a tear from the corner of his eye. He wiped it away before it had a chance to slither down the side of his face. He had almost forgotten about this particular memory. His head was always so full of negative thoughts that he had stripped away his positivity. And to think that it only required a question and a moment's time to think.
“It sounds like you felt safe in your childhood home; you have a strong bond with your father,” Cyndica offered. She gave him a warm smile before tapping the end of her pencil against her chin.
In hindsight, Kotton wished he could have abridged and refined his words, but they were already tumbling out of his mouth. “He accepted me when my own pawents couldn't.”
Dark, watery eyes opened wide in surprise- a gasp of emotion leaving impetuously from out of collapsed lungs- an unnatural silence from the otherwise pertinent tumult inside his skull. It was troublous, but essential.
Cyndica’s mouth opened slightly. Her eyebrows raised with bemusement. “Sounds like a worthy topic to discuss during our next session.”
This is what Kotton was experiencing at the moment.
“I feel devalued,” Kotton announced, realising the challenge it took to conceal the sneer that lined his lips. He was wearing a thick smear of resentment that was unmatched by any lipstick of similar title.
“Have you brought this feeling of yours to others? Those who are important to you?”
Instead of ‘superiors’, his mentor had used the phrase ‘those who are important to you’. Kotton acknowledged this phrase with a pregnant pause of uncomfortable nature. He found this indiscretion as a form of salvation to his wounded heart, but he resisted and inevitably persisted in finding the strength to continue with a polite, “I have.”
“And what became of it?”
“I was ignowed.”
“Please explain.”
Kotton picked at the spots of his brain for the specific moments in time when he had complained and thus was overlooked. But he was greeted only with the need to have his complaint unearthed at a former date, taken seriously. “I had bwought up the ewwow by telling my supewvisors. I saw them wwite it down but it took an entiwe season, and anothew employee’s complaint before anything was done about it. Thewe was a leak in the dwain and it flooded then entiwe woom."
Cyndica stifled the rolling of her eyes. Instead, she offered a professional puffing of her lip- a distasteful smirk- and prodded with a stray justification of the wave of her hand. “Perhaps they listened to your complaint but hadn’t the time to respond to you directly.”
“Then why did it take someone else to bwing up the pwoblem befowe anyone took action?”
Cyndica sighed and adjusted her face so that it reflected a tremendous effort of energy. She needed to cross this perplexing encounter with logic and ratiocination. Her decision to discontinue with the prospective contemplation of foreseen advocation was brief. “People are mysterious,” she consummated, throwing her hands into the air with a universal sign of defeat. “I wish I could be the spokesman for every living being on the planet, but I can't.”
Kotton couldn’t help but feel indirectly attacked. “I didn’t mean fow you to.” He didn’t hesitate to think before declaring his negative emotional registry. It was a “talk out of your arse and without proper judgement” kind of statement and he recognized it as immediately at it had left his lips.
“That’s not what I meant,” Cyndica deadpanned, her tone more serious than ever before. “What I meant was… that doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we reconnect with the concept of perfectionism and people pleasing that you have heavily hinted at since day one.”
Kotton felt ashamed. He had undoubtedly thrown off his conversational healer, making her feel something she shouldn’t need go. And his feeling? Bad. It was bad for putting her on the spot and pinpointing an expedited tangent that was beyond his conversational comprehension. But wait- wasn’t that the job of a counsellor? Wasn't there directive to decipher the condemning inquiry a of a patient so far from he realm of being consoled?
“I want to make peopuw happy,” Kotton stated with a stoicism that made him wonder if he was even human.
“And why is that?”
“Because they desewve it.”
“Why do you feel they deserve it?”
“Expewience. Pewspective. Obsewvation. Whatevew you want to call it.”
“Do you give happiness to those who deserve it at the cost of your own?”
Kotton absentmindedly ground his teeth. “Not always.”
“And what about those times that you do?”
The young man glanced to his side- a blank wall with popcorn texture that invited no inspiration. It was painted a hideous egg shell that was in desperate need of repainting. With so few words, Kotton didn't want to reply to the question. But he had to, didn't he? He was here to talk, to listen to another's point of view about his mental illness and all that, right?
“Listen,” Kotton begrudgingly began, “Thewe are those who need guidance and those who do not. I find those who need it and help them. Those who don’t? Well, sometimes they fall under the wadar.”
“What about yourself?” Every word from her lips was an inquisition that required hefty deliberation.
Kotton recoiled- that was only natural after having been bombarded with such a query. “I can take cawe of myself.”
“If that’s true, then why are you seeking my help for mental healing?”
At one point Kotton had loved his counsellor, but now he wasn’t so sure. She was giving him immaculate advice and irrefutable argumentation. Did he really dislike being argued so relentlessly? Was it her lack of agreement that frustrated him? Was it the fact that she didn't agree and instead offered an alternative point of view that caused him to trembled with irritation? He knew intent was to supply modicums of thought that were alternate in the traditional thought of his own, so why was he so irritated by her replies?
“I don’t know,” Kotton grunted, looking to the floor with the hopes of staunching his perpetual taste of resistance.
“I think you do know,” Cyndica pressed after patiently waiting for her client to lock eyes with her. Her lips glued themselves together, even the composed master of psychology.
Kotton couldn't resist the feeling of frustration that gnawed at his extremities. Perhaps this was a natural reaction toward counselling. Maybe he was less frustrated with his counsellor than he was with himself. Was this a symptom of depression and/or anxiety? Why did it perpetuate so? Whatever it was, the young man calmed himself and accepted the line of questioning. He was here by choice after all.
“I’m hewe,” Kotton sneered, before regaining his composure. “Because I want to get bettew.”
“Are you here for help because you want to help yourself or because someone else told you?” Cyndica was not short when it came to any of the crucial questions; each and every one were thought out and well devised. It was aggravating to someone who simply wanted to talk and be drunk.
“I guess both,” Kotton shrugged. His mind gravitated to thoughts of gin and tequila. He kicked himself for it, but maintained his composure in the presence of his mentor.
“You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to,” Cyndica said softly. She looked at the journal in her hands with indifference. Regardless of her nonchalance, she took several notes before peering back up towards her client.
Kotton had all the time in the world to mull over her statement. He was here for his father. He was here because he liked this counsellor. He was here because he knew he was plagued with problems. that needed to be solved. He was here because he wanted to gain control over those very problems. He was here because his issues seemed almost too cumbersome to manage all on his own.
“No,” Kotton blurted. “I want to be hewe.”
“Good," Cyndica almost shouted. "That means you have the willpower and want to get better.”
Kotton nodded ferociously. He really did want to get better. He hated the stigma of mental illness and its association with craziness. Some people were bombarded with visions they’re unable to see, and others with thoughts unable to be thought; some still, like Kotton, with feelings incapable of being ignored. And sometimes these things made people lash out in ways that precluded the flow of the status quo. But these people were not crazy. They were just overwhelmed with the perplexities an otherwise healthy mind could handle. Or so Kotton liked to think.
He was not crazy. Instead, he had been blessed with an ultra-challenging life, one he despised and if able to be ridded of, would accept with a full-heart- the craziness, or life itself, he honestly didn’t care- he would. But since that hadn't seem sensible, he was starting here, unfortunately just before reaching rock bottom. He had met this level plenty of times. The recent markings on his arm, which had been securely hidden under his cotton shirt, was evidence of that. The many terrible nights he couldn't remember but instinctively knew of were also proof.
“You seem to be deep in thought. Do you care to share? I am someone you pay to talk to about these thoughts, you know.”
Kotton smirked at the jest and acknowledged the playful smile Cyndica threw his way. He was going off on many different tangents inside his head; that swirled and swarmed like a tropical storm. There was nothing really worth sharing that he hadn’t already or wouldn’t soon. Except...
“Addiction,” he interjected.
“And what of it?”
The young man ushered in a cold breath of stale air and with it the sweet smell of lilac perfume. “It isn’t what I thought it would be. I don’t necessarily get shaky and I don’t constantly think about it; I don’t have the wegular symptoms of withdwawal that other addicts have.”
Cyndica chronicled something in between the lines in her journal. “That doesn’t make you any less valid. Addiction can be a fickle thing that portrays itself in different fashions depending on the person it's trying to control.”
Well-spoken, Kotton tittered.
"It’s just something I want to do,” Kotton went on. A scab on one of his knuckles was ripped off by his long nails. “I’ve even gotten kind of bowed of dwinking lately. It almost feels like I do it just because I can.”
“You do it because you’re restless and bored with life such as you’ve said, right? Alcohol is a coping mechanism, Kotton. And from what I hear, it sounds like you are dependent on it like much like any other addict would.”
“But I don’t want to have to dwink in owder to deal with life. I want life to be enticing all on its own. Alcohol just makes me…”
“Happy?”
Kotton paused. It was exactly the word he would have chosen. More like, content, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah.”
“Can you think of a time when you were happy before you took up drinking?” Cyndica’s questions were quick to the point in terms of addressing underlying issues. It's like she went to school for this sort of thing...
It took more time than Kotton cared to admit to think of the last time he had been happy without any involvement of vodka or whiskey. But his mentor was patient and waited for the memory to register. At long last time picked up where it had stopped, Kotton now able to find a small, glimmering light at the end of the ruinous library encasing all his memories. He reached for it, stretched his body to its absolute limit before grasping it with rigidity.
“I think I was in intewmediate school, yeah. I was leawning about something I had always been intewested in. I was home with my fathew. The kettle was on and a fiwe woared above the heawth in the living woom. I was looking ovew my textbook. I was wawm and my fathew was wight there behind me making us dinnew. It was quiet, peaceful, and the wowds I wead on the page wewe awe-inspiwing.”
This reminiscence jostled a tear from the corner of his eye. He wiped it away before it had a chance to slither down the side of his face. He had almost forgotten about this particular memory. His head was always so full of negative thoughts that he had stripped away his positivity. And to think that it only required a question and a moment's time to think.
“It sounds like you felt safe in your childhood home; you have a strong bond with your father,” Cyndica offered. She gave him a warm smile before tapping the end of her pencil against her chin.
In hindsight, Kotton wished he could have abridged and refined his words, but they were already tumbling out of his mouth. “He accepted me when my own pawents couldn't.”
Dark, watery eyes opened wide in surprise- a gasp of emotion leaving impetuously from out of collapsed lungs- an unnatural silence from the otherwise pertinent tumult inside his skull. It was troublous, but essential.
Cyndica’s mouth opened slightly. Her eyebrows raised with bemusement. “Sounds like a worthy topic to discuss during our next session.”
