Chapter 9

Sen

Friday was here and I felt sick. It seemed like that was becoming my new normal. Dad would hate to hear how much anxiety I'd been experiencing. He'd probably tell me to suck it up. Well, I was trying.

It wasn't too cold, but it had started to drizzle and the water falling from the sky felt ten degrees cooler than the air. I should've checked the weather before I left. My t-shirt did nothing to keep the rain from chilling me by the time I'd walked a few blocks. Welcome to Seattle, I guess.

This was the first time it had rained since I got here almost two weeks ago. Maybe that meant something. It could be a portent of doom, for all I knew.

I glanced at the map on my phone, then looked at the building in front of me. It wasn't very nice. The picture on his website must've been old or maybe he'd doctored it. I thought back to what my dad said about first impressions. It seemed worse to make a good impression only for it to end up being fabricated. Authenticity might've been more important.

After I swiped away the text from my mom, I entered the building. I took the stairs to the second floor, then scanned the numbers on the doors. His looked like it had seen better days.

This was a bad idea.

Regardless, I pushed through into a tiny waiting room. There was a window directly across from me, which looked down on a sketchy alley. Two chairs were stationed sadly on either side of it. There was a button on the wall beside another door and a sign that said, ‘Push for Service.' Did he get that at the Dollar Tree? Yikes.

It only took a few seconds for him to open the door. Derek Hamilton was what I would call average in every sense of the word. He was shorter than me, but not exponentially so. His face was round and his suit clearly hadn't been tailored to fit him unless he'd recently lost weight. The hair on his head was a dull brown that matched his eyes in both color and spirit. He looked like a man who wasn't thrilled about his life but was satisfied enough to keep living it.

"Come in," he said exuberantly. "You must be Seneca."

"Just Sen."

He settled behind a small white desk and I took the seat across from it. It squeaked every time I moved and the arm rests felt like they boxed me in tightly, even though I wasn't abnormally broad. The chair seemed a better choice than the dingy yellow sofa smooshed against the wall.

"Sen," he mused. "Interesting choice. Did your parents shorten it or did you?"

"Me."

He stared at me for a moment, then grabbed a folder with my name on it. There were quite a few papers already in it. I wondered how much my dad had told him. Probably everything from my birth. I wouldn't be surprised if he sent over all of my medical records and printed out my Facebook posts to show a pattern of behavior.

Look, Mr. counselor man, he said the word flowers in this one. That means something, right?

My own internal criticism surprised me. I tried to push back those kinds of thoughts while I waited for him to say something else.

"Your father told me all about you."

One point for me.

"I heard that you went to Camp Dumont in 2017. I went through the program in 2012. How did you like it?"

"It was fine."

He tutted at me. "You'll have to open up more than that, Sen, if you want to get something out of this. Tell me what your experience was like there."

My gaze moved to the bookshelf behind him. There was a framed degree sitting on it and some random trinkets. Weird things like a Jesus bobblehead and a figure that was half banana, half duck. I kind of liked that one, actually.

"I had the same experience as most people, I think. We did the exercises and the counseling. When I went home, I knew how to deal with the thoughts."

"What thoughts are those?"

Gritting my teeth, I focused on the banana-duck. "About guys. Before I went, I had a crush on one of my friends, Victor."

"You thought you had a crush on him," Derek corrected. "These aren't natural or based in reality, remember?"

I nodded. "Right."

"You seem a bit uncomfortable discussing these things. How are you doing with all of that now?"

"Perfect. No issues."

He was silent, so I returned my gaze to him. Something told me that he didn't believe me.

Because you're a liar.

"Your father is concerned that being in a city like this could trigger those thoughts again or make you regress. Do you think his concerns are well-founded?"

"No. Being here isn't going to magically turn me gay."

He chuckled and wrote something on the paper. I tried to see what it was, but his handwriting was shit, even if it wasn't upside down.

"As a formerly confused man myself, I can say that a place like this does pose its challenges. There are parades, pride events, and even rainbow crosswalks in Capitol Hill. You're going to a school that is known to be very supportive of that lifestyle. Do you have any concerns about that?"

This wasn't counseling. It was an interrogation. I was surprised he didn't whip out a polygraph and strap me to the chair.

"I'm not more concerned here than I would be anywhere else," I said.

"And how have you been faring overall? Any incorrect thoughts recently?"

"No," I lied.

"It's just you and me here, Sen. I can't help you if you're not honest with me."

"You're a real counselor, right?"

"Yes."

"So, you can't tell my parents about anything we talk about."

"Except in very limited circumstances, that's correct."

I chewed on my lip as I continued to study the room. "I don't know if I'm doing anything wrong or not. There's this guy at school. He's a friend, that's it, but he's gay. Personally, I don't give two fucks about it, but it feels like I'm supposed to."

He hummed thoughtfully while his pen scratched across the paper. "Let me ask you this. If you're supportive of his lifestyle, does that create a slippery slope for you to decide it'd be okay for you to live like that?"

"No. It's just being supportive of a friend because I care."

"It's not wrong to associate with him, but you have to make sure that you don't begin to see what he does as normal. The longer we're around something, the more desensitized we become to it. If you value this friendship, I think it's best to be honest and tell him that you need to set certain boundaries. Make sure he understands that you support him, but not what he does."

That didn't sit right with me, but I nodded. Derek seemed pleased by that, which should've made me feel happy. Sitting here, though, stuck in this conversation for the past twenty minutes, I couldn't help but wonder if that was what I wanted. I didn't really like this guy. Did I want to be like him or take his advice?

He launched into the equivalent of a lecture about ‘recovery' and ‘maintenance' of the program. When he suggested that I look into attending workshops, I started to tune out. It sounded like he wanted this to become a major part of my life. Good things took effort, he said. So did forcing something bad.

If I voiced any of my true thoughts, he'd probably try to send me directly to another camp. Maybe this place was screwing with my head already. Or the distance from my parents had upset some pre-established balance in my life.

Was this a midlife crisis at twenty?

"Do you have any questions?" Derek asked, bringing me back to the present.

"Nope. I feel good about what we talked about."

"Alright, let's go ahead and schedule your next session. Does this time next Friday work?"

"You can't expect me to come here every week."

His eyes widened. "Well, your father-"

"I'm not a child."

When I got to my feet, he followed suit. I felt anger rising again, but I didn't know why I felt so reactive right now.

"What would work for you, Sen?"

I paused beside the door. "I need to check my schedule. Between work and school, I just don't know yet. I can call you, right?"

"Of course. Do you have my-"

His voice was cut off when I shut the door behind me. I burst into the hallway, breathing as if I'd just run a mile. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest that I swore I could hear it.

This was so dumb. I was overreacting, clearly. It was just a therapy session.

I punched the button for the elevator, then thought better of getting in a tiny box. Holding onto the banister, I took the stairs down to the main floor. My field of vision seemed to pulse and I had to stop for a second to reorient myself.

Air. I needed air.

Once I was outside, I realized that all of the added stimuli might make it worse. Still, I was glad to be out of the building. I had this lingering fear that he would run after me and make me call my dad to tell him how shameful I was.

Leaning back against the wall of the building, I ran my fingers through my hair. It took a ridiculous amount of time and measured breaths to get myself to a place where I could think straight. This anxiety was getting out of hand. It had always been there, but this was worse.

There was no way I'd be able to walk back in this state, so I ordered a ride and put it on my dad's card. He wanted me to come, so he could pay for my transportation. It was the least he could do after putting me through that nightmare.

He told me to see how I felt about it. I came, I saw, I had anxiety. If he wanted me to go again, he'd have to fly out here and drag me into that office by my hair.