Being Me

Chapter Seven

(tw: conversion therapy (only very brief and not heavy) vomiting, hints of transphobia.)

The ride to counseling the following day is an awkward one, I sit slouched in the back of the car as mum drives.
I hadn't eaten the day before and I'm now beginning to regret it.
After what was probably the longest drive ever, the car parks and mum gets out, gesturing at me to follow.

We're outside a big yellow building, I don't have time to read it's name before mum pulls me inside.

"Séan Walsh." Mum says plainly to a red haired receptionist, the guy looks up then types something on his computer, looks at the screen, then back up at us, before gesturing for us to take a seat in the waiting area.
Mum marches me over before turning to me, still not actually looking at me, "I'm going shopping now. I'll be back when your session is over."
And with that she's left.

I sit down on the hard plastic chair, my gaze flicking around the waiting space.
There's nine chairs in total, a small desk with several magazines and comics sits nearby, and of course, a acrylic holder is attached to the wall, full to brim with pamphlets, I catch sight of some of the names; "PTSD, what is it really?" "Panic attacks and you, 100 ways to calm yourself" "Bulimia, do you have it? "
A poster on the same wall shows several depressed looking people in a collage, a hotline number stamped in the middle.

My chair squeaks against the rubber flooring as I shift in it, there's something so unsettling about doctor and therapist waiting rooms, that I just can't stand.

After several minutes of sitting there, the receptionist spoke up, "Séan Walsh, room 3 please."
Slowly, I stood up, glancing at the receptionist who was pointing at the double doors that led to the hallway.
I pushed through the doors, the hallway was brightly lit and my shoes squeaked as I walked down it, stopping outside a pale birch door with a number 3 on it, I reached up and knocked.

"Come on in." A low voice called out in answer to my weak knock.

The room was, nice? If that's what you call it, it looked like the cliché therapy office, cream walls, birch wood floor, floor to ceiling windows on the wall opposite the door, covered with white blinds, the room had a desk with a computer, a plush sofa that sat opposite a matching armchair that was occupied by a tanned man with short black hair, holding a clipboard. "Please, sit." He said, gesturing to the sofa, I did as he said, sitting stiffly on the soft sofa. "Now, you must be Séan." He said, leaning forward with a outstretched hand, something in me snapped and I glared at him.

"No." I replied coldly.

"No?" He echoed, "did you enter the wrong room then?" He asked, extremely confused.

"No. "I replied again, twisting at the fabric of my jeans.

"May I enquire then, what is your name?" He asked, a frown on his face.
That's right...what is it? I shrugged, staring at my lap before instantly regretting it and just closing my eyes.
"Are you the kid I'm meant to be seeing? Walsh?" He asked, I nodded slowly and the room was silent for a few seconds before the slight sound of pen on paper filled it.
"Okay then Mister Walsh," I cringed inwardly at that but decided to let it go, "I'm Frank Davis, do you know why you're here today?" The man, Frank Davis,asked calmly and softly.

"Because my parents think I'm sick." I mumble, opening my eyes and lifting my head up so I'm not staring at my lap.

"And, what do you think?" Said mr Davis.

I frowned, "that they're dumb, close minded, ignorant...right." I add the last word mentally, not daring to speak it in case it'll become true.

"I see," mr Davis murmurs, "I see, do you want to talk more about it? We can just sit here if you don't want to."

"If I'm sick then why didn't they notice it before?" I blurt.

"Sicknesses can be hard to notice if we're not given the symptoms first mister Walsh." Mr Davis replies, still in the same calm tone, "now, lets talk about this, thing you've come up with."

The whole session went on slowly, Mr Davis pressuring me to speak about my feelings, how I thought my parents felt,how I thought my friends might feel,but most of all, about my body.
It gradually made me feel more and more sick to the point I'd to run out and take a breather in the hall.

I sat there, in the hall, leaning face forward against the wall, my breath coming in small, rapid gasps, my fingers tangled in my hair as I pulled at it. "I'm not going to throw up," I chanted in a whisper, "I'm not going to throw up, I'm not going to throw up, I'm not going to-" I lurched away from the wall as I felt it coming, seconds later I wretched and chunky vomit splashed onto the floor in front of me.

Just brilliant.

The puke got cleaned up of course, once Mr Davis opened the office door to check on me and saw the puke, he called for the cleaning lady.
Then I was brought back into the room, I was given a cup of water that I sipped slowly for the last ten minutes until mum came to pick me up.

Dad didn't show up for dinner, he's been going to extreme ways of avoiding me, even going as far to refuse to sit in a car with me,which is why mum had to drive me to counseling rather than him.
I don't know why,but I expected him to not react as badly as mum, I guess because he's always been the more relaxed parent, the chill one who doesn't make a fuss if their kid stays out a couple hours longer than they're meant to, the one that buys McDonalds when there's no food in the house.
I thought he'd be fine with me.
But I guess he's disgusted.

A/n: wtf!? 1.03k reads? (⁠'⁠⊙⁠ω⁠⊙⁠'⁠)⁠！Tysm!! Hope you're enjoying and will keep enjoying this book.
[06/10/22]