55 Vhalar, 723
.
Kotton had been in rapt awe after having met his new mentor/healer, so much so, that he had requested to book another session for the following week. The weekend came and went terribly slow, but finally gave way to the much anticipated day.
They hadn’t made much headway during the first session apart from describing the basics: did Kotton have siblings, a mother and a father, were his parents still together, did he have friends, a steady job that he liked or didn’t like, and most importantly, what were the issues that prevailed in plaguing his mind.
He had answered her every question, but he had paused mid-way. In finding an all-encompassing word that truly embraced the characteristics of how he felt, he couldn’t articulate one. His pause had turned into a long silence that had him twiddling his thumbs. It wasn’t just depression. It wasn’t sorrow or melancholy. He didn’t think it was grief or an episode of a blue funk. His heart was heavy, sure, but it was so much more, and whatever it was, it was coupled mercilessly with the claws of anxiety. He had ultimately come up with a philosophical and overly-thought expression for what he felt: stagnation due to chronic disinterest.
Cyndica had looked at him blankly; she was trying to figure out how to say the right thing without coming off as offensive. Her true tongue couldn’t be held. She was not like those people who smiled too much just because, for those individuals usually hid a forked tongue. Besides it wasn’t a counsellor's job to give what their pupil wanted. The hard truth was something no one really wanted.
She had cleared her throat and bluntly announced, “that’s depression, my dear.”
Kotton had shrugged. Okay, he had to admit to himself that what he had coined was a definition of sadness, albeit an unreasonably deep and unnecessary descriptive one, but did that matter? He still felt like he didn’t fit into the ubiquitous catch-all terminology. Cyndica had reassured him that just because there was one word to ultimately define specific symptoms and emotions, didn’t mean that everyone felt it in the same way. She had explained that it was an umbrella term used for ease. Kotton had spent the rest of that night trying to accept that. Now, he wanted to be more precise in the way he worded things. He wanted to circumscribe the definition of sadness so that it fit him and not the other way around. But above all, he needed his mental coach to know that he was not like everyone else. He couldn’t be stuffed inside a small box and left for experimentation.
These thoughts were the first to emerge from his mouth once they both had taken a seat in her office.
“One of your strengths, I have come to notice, is your intelligence. You articulate your thoughts and feelings very well,” Cyndica commended with a gentle smile. “Are we conversing with our mouths today or with our hands?”
The fact that she had asked made Kotton’s heart palpitate an additional beat or two. The sensation was quickly followed by a moment of warmth.
“We can talk today.” Kotton felt comfortable speaking with Cyndica. It didn’t matter how sloshed his sentences sounded or how mispronounced his words could be. He was more vowel than consonant, and was only confident demonstrating this quirk with a select few people: his father, Worick, another friend here and there, and now Cyndica. Everyone else? It made his stomach muscles clench with mistrust just thinking about it. He had been made fun of by many ignorant and brutish fools and that was why he had drawn up the bridges to his castle. Let those distasteful souls drown in the moat they tried to cross.
Cyndica nodded her head. As if reading his mind she inquired, “are you someone who finds yourself embarrassed to speak aloud? Is this something that causes insecurity in your life?”
Whilst it was impressive she had made that conjecture, it was more feasible to assume she came up with it based on his tense body language. Or maybe, she had super mentor powers he didn’t know about.
He shrugged and adjusted himself in his slippery leather chair. “I don’t like to be made fun of.”
Cyndica nodded, but not in the way most people do. She didn’t nod as if she solely heard the words he said. She nodded like she truly appreciated his answer. “I don’t like being made fun of either, but I also feel it’s important to take baby steps outside of your comfort zone. It’s imperative to own those parts of yourself that make you who you are, and to not care so much about what other people think of you. Especially if it is something you can’t change, or don’t want to.”
The back of Kotton’s mouth lost all lubrication. He coughed and covered his mouth with a fist. What had she just said? “I can’t make peopuw not laugh at me,” he countered, his lisp slipping as his state of calm dissipated.
“No,” Cyndica agreed. She crossed one leg over the other. “But you shouldn’t have to. People will be people. That’s on them. You can’t control the way people act, but you can control the way you do.”
Kotton’s stubbornness had difficulty accepting this. It was a challenge because try as he might he couldn’t find any loopholes to poke at. Her reasoning was sound and sound judgement was something he appreciated. His thoughts were scrambled. He found it vexing that he didn’t quite know what to say. Was he trying to be a difficult patient by feeling this way?
“I just- It’s hawd not to- to think about what othew peopuw think.”
“I can see you like to make people happy. It says here you met with another mental healer because your father encouraged you to do so? After speaking with you for an hour during our last session, I noticed just how considerate a person you are. I don’t want to put out the term people pleasing, but I will. It can be a common trait found in those who feel anxious, especially socially. I know it’s hard not to worry about how others’ view you, but if you change yourself based on the opinions of some else, then are you really you?”
Kotton’s eyebrows drew down in a complicated sense of determination. He deliberated her words, trying to connect one with another and make sense of the underlying riddle she had proposed. Who was he even supposed to be?
Cyndica saw his contemplation and added, “before you can consider another person’s feelings, it is extremely important to consider your own.”
This was not the turn of events Kotton would have thought to transpire. He had predicted they would divulge into his history, how he was practically an orphan, adopted, and most importantly, deaf in a world of hearing. At any rate, the evening was making turns and stops at unprecedented places. Did he like the route that was being taken? He couldn't say he didn't exactly.
He was admittedly astonished by the philosophical, psychological and open-minded approach Cyndica was making in giving him cousel. She was sensitive, but did not refrain from bearing the honest truth. She was understanding and accepting, but did not withhold argument against his own perspective.
“But-”
There were little ‘hims’ he had figuratively created in his mind. They were supposed to personify different emotions and responses in correlation to the situations he found himself in. They were flailing frantically in his mind now. All of them rushed to find the files kept on how to correctly react to certain stimuli. If he had been asked something about beer, he had a cabinet designated with files on that particular topic. If he had been asked about how he felt about school, he also had a designated place for all related information. But right now, it seemed the correct file for this scenario was secured away in a drawer in the far reaches of his brain, with its key missing. The appropriate file couldn’t be pulled, not without correct authorization, and this left him at a loss for words.
Did Cyndica know this? Could she see the little ‘hims’ running around in a panic trying to ascertain the protocol on how to properly respond? Whatever the case may be, she continued the conversation in his stead.
“So our last session left off with talking about depression and what that word means to you. I said depression was an overarching term that described general emotions and feelings, but the people suffering from it may not all experience them the same way. I also told you that you may be struggling with being anxious. What does anxiety mean to you?”
Kotton picked at the dead skin lining his fingernails. He found his left thumb to be a point of interest, a loose piece of skin flaying from the nail. He picked at it until the string of skin was replaced with a blob of red liquid.
“I guess I haven’t thought about that,” he said regretfully. He continued to pick at his bleeding finger even after the hangnail had been removed. His body began to crumple in on itself. He raised both his knees up toward his chest, his back curving down to his legs. He focused in on a random crack in the tile near his left shoe.
“I’m not here to make you confess anything you don’t want to. I’m here to listen and offer guidance. Think of me as a mirror. To me, talking is a way to relinquish your negative energy and to reflect on it. You are to find your own revelations with input and feedback from someone who has the experience of listening to countless stories like your own.”
Her words were a bandage to his open wounds. His eyes closed with the comfort of being treated by someone who knew how to render hospitality to its fullest degree. He expanded his chest, finding the lost air he knew was missing. Then he exhaled at length.
“Anxiety to me is someone twailing my evewy move. They awe watching me, stalking me. It wants to make me twip and fall just so it can wwap its nasty fingews awound my throat and fowce me to fight for the aiw I wightfully desewve.”
Was the air playing to his anxiety’s wishes right now or was it simply his emotional declaration that made it so hard for him to find breath?
“Anxiety is being chased by something I can’t see. And it seems to always be with this loathing shadow of sadness. And angew. It’s like all thwee of them are fwiends and they take turns making my life misewable. It makes me claustwophobic.”
The energy it took for Kotton to expel out all this venom lingering inside him like a swallowed piece of gum- it nearby forced him to heave.
Cyndica closed her eyes and rocked in her chair. She lifted her chin with devout comprehension. Then she whispered, “now we’re getting somewhere.”
They hadn’t made much headway during the first session apart from describing the basics: did Kotton have siblings, a mother and a father, were his parents still together, did he have friends, a steady job that he liked or didn’t like, and most importantly, what were the issues that prevailed in plaguing his mind.
He had answered her every question, but he had paused mid-way. In finding an all-encompassing word that truly embraced the characteristics of how he felt, he couldn’t articulate one. His pause had turned into a long silence that had him twiddling his thumbs. It wasn’t just depression. It wasn’t sorrow or melancholy. He didn’t think it was grief or an episode of a blue funk. His heart was heavy, sure, but it was so much more, and whatever it was, it was coupled mercilessly with the claws of anxiety. He had ultimately come up with a philosophical and overly-thought expression for what he felt: stagnation due to chronic disinterest.
Cyndica had looked at him blankly; she was trying to figure out how to say the right thing without coming off as offensive. Her true tongue couldn’t be held. She was not like those people who smiled too much just because, for those individuals usually hid a forked tongue. Besides it wasn’t a counsellor's job to give what their pupil wanted. The hard truth was something no one really wanted.
She had cleared her throat and bluntly announced, “that’s depression, my dear.”
Kotton had shrugged. Okay, he had to admit to himself that what he had coined was a definition of sadness, albeit an unreasonably deep and unnecessary descriptive one, but did that matter? He still felt like he didn’t fit into the ubiquitous catch-all terminology. Cyndica had reassured him that just because there was one word to ultimately define specific symptoms and emotions, didn’t mean that everyone felt it in the same way. She had explained that it was an umbrella term used for ease. Kotton had spent the rest of that night trying to accept that. Now, he wanted to be more precise in the way he worded things. He wanted to circumscribe the definition of sadness so that it fit him and not the other way around. But above all, he needed his mental coach to know that he was not like everyone else. He couldn’t be stuffed inside a small box and left for experimentation.
These thoughts were the first to emerge from his mouth once they both had taken a seat in her office.
“One of your strengths, I have come to notice, is your intelligence. You articulate your thoughts and feelings very well,” Cyndica commended with a gentle smile. “Are we conversing with our mouths today or with our hands?”
The fact that she had asked made Kotton’s heart palpitate an additional beat or two. The sensation was quickly followed by a moment of warmth.
“We can talk today.” Kotton felt comfortable speaking with Cyndica. It didn’t matter how sloshed his sentences sounded or how mispronounced his words could be. He was more vowel than consonant, and was only confident demonstrating this quirk with a select few people: his father, Worick, another friend here and there, and now Cyndica. Everyone else? It made his stomach muscles clench with mistrust just thinking about it. He had been made fun of by many ignorant and brutish fools and that was why he had drawn up the bridges to his castle. Let those distasteful souls drown in the moat they tried to cross.
Cyndica nodded her head. As if reading his mind she inquired, “are you someone who finds yourself embarrassed to speak aloud? Is this something that causes insecurity in your life?”
Whilst it was impressive she had made that conjecture, it was more feasible to assume she came up with it based on his tense body language. Or maybe, she had super mentor powers he didn’t know about.
He shrugged and adjusted himself in his slippery leather chair. “I don’t like to be made fun of.”
Cyndica nodded, but not in the way most people do. She didn’t nod as if she solely heard the words he said. She nodded like she truly appreciated his answer. “I don’t like being made fun of either, but I also feel it’s important to take baby steps outside of your comfort zone. It’s imperative to own those parts of yourself that make you who you are, and to not care so much about what other people think of you. Especially if it is something you can’t change, or don’t want to.”
The back of Kotton’s mouth lost all lubrication. He coughed and covered his mouth with a fist. What had she just said? “I can’t make peopuw not laugh at me,” he countered, his lisp slipping as his state of calm dissipated.
“No,” Cyndica agreed. She crossed one leg over the other. “But you shouldn’t have to. People will be people. That’s on them. You can’t control the way people act, but you can control the way you do.”
Kotton’s stubbornness had difficulty accepting this. It was a challenge because try as he might he couldn’t find any loopholes to poke at. Her reasoning was sound and sound judgement was something he appreciated. His thoughts were scrambled. He found it vexing that he didn’t quite know what to say. Was he trying to be a difficult patient by feeling this way?
“I just- It’s hawd not to- to think about what othew peopuw think.”
“I can see you like to make people happy. It says here you met with another mental healer because your father encouraged you to do so? After speaking with you for an hour during our last session, I noticed just how considerate a person you are. I don’t want to put out the term people pleasing, but I will. It can be a common trait found in those who feel anxious, especially socially. I know it’s hard not to worry about how others’ view you, but if you change yourself based on the opinions of some else, then are you really you?”
Kotton’s eyebrows drew down in a complicated sense of determination. He deliberated her words, trying to connect one with another and make sense of the underlying riddle she had proposed. Who was he even supposed to be?
Cyndica saw his contemplation and added, “before you can consider another person’s feelings, it is extremely important to consider your own.”
This was not the turn of events Kotton would have thought to transpire. He had predicted they would divulge into his history, how he was practically an orphan, adopted, and most importantly, deaf in a world of hearing. At any rate, the evening was making turns and stops at unprecedented places. Did he like the route that was being taken? He couldn't say he didn't exactly.
He was admittedly astonished by the philosophical, psychological and open-minded approach Cyndica was making in giving him cousel. She was sensitive, but did not refrain from bearing the honest truth. She was understanding and accepting, but did not withhold argument against his own perspective.
“But-”
There were little ‘hims’ he had figuratively created in his mind. They were supposed to personify different emotions and responses in correlation to the situations he found himself in. They were flailing frantically in his mind now. All of them rushed to find the files kept on how to correctly react to certain stimuli. If he had been asked something about beer, he had a cabinet designated with files on that particular topic. If he had been asked about how he felt about school, he also had a designated place for all related information. But right now, it seemed the correct file for this scenario was secured away in a drawer in the far reaches of his brain, with its key missing. The appropriate file couldn’t be pulled, not without correct authorization, and this left him at a loss for words.
Did Cyndica know this? Could she see the little ‘hims’ running around in a panic trying to ascertain the protocol on how to properly respond? Whatever the case may be, she continued the conversation in his stead.
“So our last session left off with talking about depression and what that word means to you. I said depression was an overarching term that described general emotions and feelings, but the people suffering from it may not all experience them the same way. I also told you that you may be struggling with being anxious. What does anxiety mean to you?”
Kotton picked at the dead skin lining his fingernails. He found his left thumb to be a point of interest, a loose piece of skin flaying from the nail. He picked at it until the string of skin was replaced with a blob of red liquid.
“I guess I haven’t thought about that,” he said regretfully. He continued to pick at his bleeding finger even after the hangnail had been removed. His body began to crumple in on itself. He raised both his knees up toward his chest, his back curving down to his legs. He focused in on a random crack in the tile near his left shoe.
“I’m not here to make you confess anything you don’t want to. I’m here to listen and offer guidance. Think of me as a mirror. To me, talking is a way to relinquish your negative energy and to reflect on it. You are to find your own revelations with input and feedback from someone who has the experience of listening to countless stories like your own.”
Her words were a bandage to his open wounds. His eyes closed with the comfort of being treated by someone who knew how to render hospitality to its fullest degree. He expanded his chest, finding the lost air he knew was missing. Then he exhaled at length.
“Anxiety to me is someone twailing my evewy move. They awe watching me, stalking me. It wants to make me twip and fall just so it can wwap its nasty fingews awound my throat and fowce me to fight for the aiw I wightfully desewve.”
Was the air playing to his anxiety’s wishes right now or was it simply his emotional declaration that made it so hard for him to find breath?
“Anxiety is being chased by something I can’t see. And it seems to always be with this loathing shadow of sadness. And angew. It’s like all thwee of them are fwiends and they take turns making my life misewable. It makes me claustwophobic.”
The energy it took for Kotton to expel out all this venom lingering inside him like a swallowed piece of gum- it nearby forced him to heave.
Cyndica closed her eyes and rocked in her chair. She lifted her chin with devout comprehension. Then she whispered, “now we’re getting somewhere.”
