Something Wicked - By Lesley Anne Cowan Page 0,76
necessarily make you happy. But it might help you better deal with life circumstances, put you on a level playing field. Help you see things a little more clearly. And help you deal with problems. Which can lead to being happier.”
“Hmm.”
There’s a new, awkward silence in the room. It just doesn’t feel the same between us.
“You had us all scared, Melissa. I want you to know I’m always here to help.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what my problem is.” I’m still looking downward, hiding under my wool toque. I just don’t feel like letting him see my face now.
“Well, we’ve spent a lot of time over the past couple of years talking about your anger, where it comes from.”
“I don’t feel angry anymore. I think it’s gone.”
“That’s good,” Eric says positively.“But sometimes the same feelings that cause the anger can cause a great sadness too. I feel like there’s something we should have talked about more before. I’m hoping we can start talking about it today, if you’re feeling comfortable enough. I don’t want to push you.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m wondering if you can talk to me a little about how you felt when Bradley died.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, death is pretty complicated. People have all sorts of responses to it, depending on the circumstances. Of course, there’s sadness. But sometimes there are also other feelings that are surprising. What happened after Bradley died?”
“You already know this. We talked about it before,” I say. “My mom got totally depressed. We lost our apartment and we stayed in that shelter for a bit.”
“Yes, that was a really tough time.”
“No, it was fun,” I say sarcastically. A stupid comment requires a stupid response.
“How did you feel about your mom then, do you remember?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“Were you angry?”
“A bit.”
“Do you know why?”
“’Cause we had to live in a shelter.”
“Was there anyone you were mad at?”
“My mom,” I say quickly. “But it wasn’t her fault. She had a mental breakdown.”
“Your mind knows it wasn’t her fault, but your emotions can have their own reaction. It’s okay to feel angry. It’s natural to feel somewhat resentful, at the same time as feeling sympathetic. Try to take yourself back to that twelve-year-old girl. Close your eyes. Imagine her. Do you remember a feeling of sadness or anger or apathy or …?”
I close my eyes and think about it for a second. I picture a skinny-legged, younger me in jean shorts and a blue T-shirt. A tomboy. Straggly hair. No socks. Runners. “I don’t know. Anger, I guess.”
“At who?”
I start to get annoyed with him. We already went over this. “My mom. For messing up.”
“Do you think you were more mad at your mom or at Bradley?”
“Bradley?” I look at Eric, horrified at the question. “You can’t blame a kid for dying. That’s the worst possible thing in the world to say. It would make me the Devil or something.”
“It would make you human, Melissa. You’re human. You were a kid. You had a right to be taken care of. If life crumbled after he died and you were a kid, you’d naturally blame him a bit for that.”
“Hmmm,” I respond, half interested. Was I mad at Bradley? “Anyway, it’s not a big deal to me now.”
“No. Probably not in your mind. But sometimes feelings or experiences, when they are planted inside you, can be seeds that grow in many different directions. These seeds can affect all sorts of decisions and beliefs in your life without you even realizing it.”
“Hmmm,” I respond again, which is how I answer when he says something that might be good and I need time to think about it. Eric knows I’m not the kind of person to just jump into an idea. I need to be alone first to contemplate it, then come back to him and talk some more.
“If it’s ever something you want to talk to your mom about, I’d really encourage you.”
“Why would I talk to her about that? She’d think I was a total bitch.”
Eric gets all serious and sincere. “I don’t think so, Melissa. I really don’t. I think she’d understand and I think there would be some beginning of healing between you two. Just think about it.”
“Okay,” I say dismissively, but after I leave the session I go to the washroom, open the windows, sit on the counter, and have a smoke to give myself time to think about what he said before I meet my mom in the waiting room.
Eric, as usual, might