4: Dissecting Feelings

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Peter

"My mom called in sick for me today," I state. Across from me, Suzanna's pencil scratches against her clipboard. Her office consists of a couch against the wall, and the table separating me from her desk. Sometimes I put my feet up on the table, or sometimes I reach into the plastic basket for the stress balls.

Mostly, though, I just sit and pluck at the loose threads on the cushion beside me. It doesn't get rid of the stress—in fact; it does the exact opposite—by making my brain go into overdrive, dissecting the way I moved, (was it too abrupt? Does Suzanna think I should be able to talk to her without avoiding eye-contact by now?) and in reality, it feels like I'm being tested. On what, I have no idea, on the account that I was not given a study guide. The answers are subjective: nothing is right, and yet everything I say feels like the wrong answer.

Suzanna lifts an eyebrow. "But you aren't actually sick, right? I don't want you in my office if you're contagious."

When I don't laugh, her expression falls. Suzanna taps her finger against the wooden desk, the metal of her wedding band scratching slightly. Suzanna's wife is friends with my mother, and has been for years; they come from nearby districts in Rwanda. When I came out, almost two years ago now, my mom insisted Suzanna and her wife were the success story, the concrete proof that I am not alone.

I don't know what I feel, but I know it isn't loneliness. At least, not really.

"So, we're back to skipping school again." Suzanna sighs and sets her pen down. "Why?"

It's not technically skipping, but I don't point that out. "I went to the party last night."

"Oh." The pen scratching resumes with full force. After a moment, Suzanna stops to ask, "And how are you feeling about that?"

"I... don't know." I've never liked that question—it's practically the hardest one to answer properly. "It was a horrible idea. I shouldn't have gone."

"Peter, what happened? You can tell me, you know," Suzanna says.

I don't answer her for a moment, preferring to stare blankly at her desk. Suzanna doesn't have a clock, and I understand why—if she did, I would spend the whole hour checking it, to see how much time I have left before I can stop answering her questions. I come wanting answers, but I want a solution without ever offering my problem. It rarely ever works in my favour.

When I manage to open my mouth, everything spills out. Sam inviting me to the party, and to his games. Since about halfway through my grade eleven year, he's been talking to me like I was part of his group, like he was interested. Over the summer, there was a distance between us, a distance that only cemented my feelings for him. And I thought he trusted me, because he was telling me about his brother, Noah, who moved away to Ontario when he was twenty and occasionally brings his partners home.

But I'm starting to think Noah doesn't exist. That nothing he told me was true.

"Peter, Peter—hold on, you're talking too fast," Suzanna interrupts. "Sam's brother is bisexual? He told you that in confidence?"

"I don't know, maybe Noah is just somebody he made up. You know, so that he could get me to come to the party. I don't know."

"You're saying that a lot today. Is it possible that you actually do know, and you don't want to tell me, or is it that you're still processing everything?" she asks.

I sigh. Mom does this to me, too. When I say, Je n'ai aucune idée, she doesn't accept that I really, truly, have no idea. Admitting that I don't know is sort of like admitting that I can't figure myself out, and I guess that's where I'm at, most of the time.

"Why is not knowing not an acceptable response?" I answer her question with another.

Suzanna's stare drills into me, and even though I know she isn't judging me, somehow I feel like she is. Outside her side window, a fawn that often inhabits the garden around the hospital gazes through the glass. I used to be prone to pulling the blinds shut, as if the trees on the other side could judge me. That one of these days I'm going to look out there, past the strip of greenery, and see something other than a reflection.

Maybe the reflection is worse.

"I never said that. Actually, not knowing is perfectly fine. Sometimes the specific emotions are hard to figure out. What I want you to tell me is what you think caused the panic attack. Not the reason, because right now, that's not importantbut what was the little moment when everything seemed overwhelming?"

I take a moment. "Besides the sound and all the people—it was that I didn't say anything. That when everyone was staring at me like I was supposed to react... I couldn't. I was frozen in place. I wanted to say something, and I wanted so badly to yell at him for doing that to me, but for some reason, it just... wouldn't happen."

"I see." Suzanna pauses, then continues, "So, if you could say something, what would that be?"

I haven't really thought about that yet. "Uh, maybe... I don't know, that it wasn't my fault? That I didn't actually do anything to... I mean, it doesn't matter. It's not like anybody would believe that."

Suzanna's pen taps the clipboard. She crosses her legs and flips her sheet of paper to the same page she's shown me many times before. It's the thinking traps of anxiety, the same ones I tend to fall into every time. She circles the top paragraph and says, "You're mind reading. Right? Nobody can guess what others are thinking. Don't assume anyone who saw you was expecting a certain reaction. There might also be some over-generalizing happening here. Not everyone will believe Sam over yourself. Not everyone is watching the conversation take place."

I lean back on the couch, my fingers picking at the fabric. I've peeled back a layer of purple cushioning, revealing the white stuffing underneath it. "Probably."

"Not probably. We aren't actors on a screen, even though it may feel like it. I do feel somewhat responsible for making you feel as though you had to follow through with the party. It was an opportunity to socialize, right?"

"Sure, I guess." My phone, which has been sitting in my lap, flashes with another message. It's from my blog again. Earlier this morning, I could have sworn I turned my notifications to silent and shut off my anonymous questions feature.

"What's that, anything urgent?" Suzanna asks.

"No, it's... my blog. I think somebody linked it on Sam's Instagram post. I've been getting messages non stop since last night." My phone is buzzing like the battery is filled with angry hornets waiting to be set free.

"Are you reading the messages?"

"I stopped after the first few." The idea of filtering through them makes my stomach churn. The weight on my shoulders hasn't faded since last night, and part of me is still struggling to make sense of it. I don't know where I went wrong, and I certainly don't know how to fix it, which is making the waves of my unease worse. I don't know if Northwood would care if Sam had crashed my closet door open with a sledgehammer, but he's laced it with another, much more volatile rumour. He's made it powerful, and even beyond that, he's warped himself into the victim.

Suzanna rubs her temple. "I realize this means you've lost your place to vent. We might consider making a new account, if you want to."

It was partially Nicole's idea to start the blog, su.peter.nova. I came up with the pun, and she designed the layout. Writing everything in a mixture of French and Creole was our plan to keep North High students away, and for a while, it worked. I was safe answering Chemistry homework problems and posting at three in the morning to nobody in particular.

"I think I want to keep my posts, though."

Suzanna nods. "Sure thing. You should do what you think is best. Can I suggest that you try to find some other outlet in the meantime? While this whole situation boils over, I want you to keep trying. I know the party was stressful, so we'll take a few steps in another direction. How about... I don't know, joining a club at school?"

"I can check. I don't remember if North High has any decent clubs." I'm pretty sure it doesn't, but I humour her for the sake of it. A few minutes later, I've loaded the school's website. The top story is about Anti-Bullying Day. I just scoff and open the drop-down menu to get to the extracurricular activities.

"A lot of sports," I say as I read the list. "I know what you're going to say, and no, I'm still not joining the GSA." The last time I showed up to Gender-Sexuality Alliance, it was me and the only other kid who was out, Jake Kelley. I promptly excused myself to the bathroom to hang out with Nicole, who didn't show up either to prevent her name from appearing in the school yearbook as a club member.

The person who came up with that bright idea probably wasn't thinking about the consequences. To be fair, I didn't either until Nicole pointed it out.

Suzanna gives me a look. "We haven't quite mastered the whole mind-reading thing yet, I see."

I guess not.

"For the time being, though, why don't you try coming up with an idea for your own club. It doesn't have to be anything official, or even anything complex. It just needs to exist as a space for yourself—and anyone who wants to join—to talk. Sharing an interest with someone makes small talk a lot easier. How are we feeling about that? Up for it?"

I shrug. Suzanna continues, "There's no need to decide right now. Think about it. Let me know during our next session what you're going to do. If you want to keep posting on the blog, that's fine. Starting a club could also be fun. It depends on how you're feeling. By the way... how are the benzodiazepines going? I know it's been at least a few weeks since you switched. Do you feel like they're working to help with the anxious thoughts?"

At fourteen, Suzanna sent me to a psychologist to be diagnosed. Officially: severe social anxiety. Unofficially: it constantly feels like I'm falling backwards, unable to stop the trajectory.

The diagnosis was followed by years of trying different medications, all of which have been unsuccessful. And yet another part of last night I wish I could erase. Sporty-guy, who still has no name in my head, definitely saw the reminder alarm to take my medication. "I don't think so." Part of me is tired of getting the side effects without any real benefit, but maybe I'm kidding myself.

"If that's the case, we'll have to book another appointment with your psychiatrist. I have a medication I can recommend, and we'll cross our fingers that this one works better. And, Peter?"

She levels her gaze with mine. "When you're feeling overwhelmed, it's okay to take a day off. However, I don't want it to become a habit. Does that make sense?"

I nod as I stand up. Suzanna opens the door for me and walks me through the winding hallways of the clinic. When I reach the elevator, she heads back to her office, and the doors slide closed.

I should talk to Nicole. She was at school today; she would know what Sam's next move is. I doubt he's planning to leave the rumours unchecked.

The elevator clunks noisily on its descent to the first floor, and I quickly send Nicole a text. It's almost five in the afternoon, meaning she's been home from school for a while.

As I wait in the lineup to pay for parking, Nicole texts me back.

Nicole:
sorry, I was napping. where were you tday?

Peter:
At home

Nicole:
duh.
do you want to tell me what happened?
bc the rumours are weird
and obviously i don't trust Sam

Peter:
What's he saying?

Nicole:
it's not him, specifically
mostly just the hockey team guys who think you assaulted him or that there was a weird love affair or something
also that ur transferring schools Apparently

Peter:
Where are they getting that idea from?

Nicole:
No clue
it's not that bad tho, you should come tomorrow
itll make it better

Peter:
Please don't suggest anything stupid.

Nicole:

who, meeeee?
make a rumour, pierre. counter it. you are LITERALLY in control and Sam can't really deny anything you say
unless he wants to admit he's lying which he won't do

Peter:
And there we have it. The stupid suggestion I was expecting.

Nicole:
don't be mean
:(((
how's suzanna?

Peter:
I thought you hated her.

Nicole:
it's a love-hate relationship
shes living the dream in northwood which is really stupid of her but I admire the audacity

Peter:
The dream is to take care of anxious teenagers?

Nicole:
maybe not that part
just the part where she gets to be married
like, happily

Peter:
Ah.
She wants me to start a club.

Nicole:

What why

Peter:
To socialize, now that the blog is compromised.

Nicole:
Brilliant stuff, Suz! Genius!
how much are u paying this woman again
granted what kind of club are we talking about

Peter:
It's my club, so who knows.

Nicole:
I love the confidence!
okayyyy, so...... you figure that out then

Peter:
I don't know, I might not. It's not like I have to. And plus, I'm busy with work.

Nicole:
EXCUSES
suz would be so disappointed

Peter:
I can't believe you're on board with this.

Nicole:
yea why the hell not
let's make a club
itll be fun

Peter:
Fun?

Nicole:
Fun!


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