Chapter 4 Jesse

I couldn't decide if it annoyed me that my therapist's waiting room had such cliché elements, like an essential oil diffuser, watercolor landscapes, and a white noise machine, or if it annoyed me that they actually did make me feel calmer.

It was only my fourth or fifth session since my mom coerced me into coming to therapy. For my mental state rather than my knee, that is. I had been considering it anyway, but seeing my mom cry because she was worried about me was enough to make me do just about whatever she wanted. The armor of anger that had been so prevalent in the past year was starting to come down. I was scared shitless to think about what would be left once all of it was gone.

In the middle of that uplifting thought, Dr. Merrill came to get me. I sank into the pale green armchair across from her and accepted a water bottle.

"Did you do your homework?" she asked.

"Ah, so we're jumping right in then." My throat became suddenly in need of that water.

"Would you rather talk about the weather first? It is unseasonably warm, even for the end of July, yes?"

"Point taken. Yeah, I did my homework." I pulled out some sheets of paper I had folded in my pocket and smoothed them out. "This was...a lot harder than I thought it would be."

Dr. Merrill nodded. She had asked me to write out four versions of my future. The best-case and worst-case scenarios of each possibility: being able to go back to baseball and, well, not.

"It had seemed like getting back to my team was the only good outcome for so long that I couldn't think about what might be bad about it. But when I had to write it down, it was... difficult."

"How so? What is the worst thing that could come out of returning to baseball?"

I took a purposeful inhale. The essential oil diffuser was going to have its work cut out for it today.

"I guess I always assumed I'd return because I would recover completely. I never thought about returning if I just recovered partially . I could re-injure my knee to where I'd never walk without a cane or some other support again. I could keep playing but never get back to the same level and never move on from Triple-A ball. I could be second string or lower and rarely even see the field. I—I don't know how to explain it. But the worst-case scenario would be going back, but it being like an alternate universe where I'm not the same."

"So, it sounds like the sport itself isn't the thing you want to get back to. It's the version of you from a year ago, at the top of your game, that you miss."

The sound of her pen sliding along her notepad used to make me anxious, but I'd gotten over it. I didn't particularly care what she was writing anymore as long as I was feeling better.

"Yeah. It wouldn't feel like home if I'm not the same player. Writing it all down was helpful, even though I thought this whole exercise was kind of ridiculous before I started. Ridiculous because I don't think I'm going to have a choice. Not really, anyway."

My voice grew thick, and I willed my throat to relax and let me just get through this without breaking down.

"Sorry, I haven't said this part out loud to anyone yet."

"You know the only rule I have. No apologizing for having emotions. Take your time."

God, why is this so hard? Just spit it out.

"I'm not going back. My rehab has been stalled for a while, no matter how hard I work. My doctor says it's likely that this is as healed as it will get. While I'm a lot stronger than I was after surgery, it's nowhere near where I was, and definitely not good enough to play professionally. So. I'm out. I am no longer a shortstop, baseball player, athlete, whatever."

Dr. Merrill was quiet for a moment, which felt appropriate. Those words were like lead coming out of my mouth. I sucked down what was left of the water, welcoming the cold sensation along my throat.

"Okay. It sounds like you've accepted this as the outcome. Before we get into some of that, can I ask about your best and worst cases for this path? For not returning?" Her eyes were soft, and I knew I didn't have to share them if I didn't want to.

What else is therapy for?

"Can I just give you the highlights?" I asked, knowing I wouldn't get through reading what I'd written without losing it.

She just nodded again and waited.

"The best thing I could think of would be to find something that makes me feel even half as good as being on the field, like I'm where I'm supposed to be. Having people in my life that support the new version of me instead of people who only saw me as a player, or people who are waiting for me to go back to ‘normal,' whatever that is."

"I think those are both really important things to find for yourself."

I nodded, almost embarrassed at being complimented on the pretend life I'd created. The other details would have been even harder to share, though.

She doesn't need to hear about how your girlfriend and your teammates stopped answering your calls and texts once you were off the roster.

"And the worst thing would be to just continue on where I am now. I am... floating down a river without a paddle, and it feels like people are just watching me and rolling their eyes, asking why I can't steer the damn boat. Not everyone, obviously. I've got my parents and my sister and a couple of friends. Maybe I should be more grateful than I am. I just... I feel like I'm not me, and that's something I've never felt before."

I ran a hand over the stubble that was threatening to turn into more of a beard from the last week of me not caring enough to shave.

"The craziest thing is that I've been doing well running my dad's business. A lot of it sort of came intuitively for me, and maybe I should feel good about it and lean into it. But that sound's awful."

"There's nothing wrong with you for feeling like you do. You're allowed to be angry and grieve the loss of the life you thought you'd have. It doesn't matter if other people have it worse. Because your life and your experiences are yours, and theirs are theirs. You don't have to fit your loss or disappointment on some sort of scale to see where it fits with everyone else's."

I breathed out, some of the weight leaving my chest. A lot of well-meaning people would remind me I still had my family, still had my health, or at least I got to live my dream for a little while. And absolutely none of that shit made me feel better at all .

"Okay. That helps. So, where do I go from here?"