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“John, trust me. Ye’ll do better havin’ one,” Ringo insists, though not harshly. He takes a sip of black coffee from his applesauce-print custom-designed mug, which was a gag gift John had given him on his 22nd birthday. Apparently, Ringo Starr was basically Japanese for applesauce/apple vinegar, and John never let him forget that fact (because yes, it is a fact. No joke).
Ringo watches as John apprehensively examines one of the two business cards in his hands for the nth time, sighing inwardly at his anxious demeanor. He holds nothing against John, of course. He just wishes things had been different for him when he was younger. It’s just speculation, but he considers it likely that John wouldn’t be suffering as much as he is now if it weren’t for years of neglect and ostracization.
“I-I-I don’t need him, Ringo. Ye, uh— how do ye put it again— ah! Sorry—ye know I don’t. I’ve managed this far without one; wh-why would I need someone like, like— sorry, excuse me—like him now?” John asks, flipping the card over and over before glancing at the address and office number at the lower left of the card. His legs bounce rapidly from under the table, and he tries to maintain eye-contact with his best friend/flatmate but fails miserably because of how he can’t help but check and re-check the card at the front over and over. When he’s not looking at Ringo nor the business card, he’s checking his surroundings.
Heart racing in his chest, John looks at the clock through his low-graded glasses, attempting to read the time despite knowing it’s pointless because of the great distance between him and the time-telling object. His gaze then flits to the window overlooking the street in front of their building, the sunlight streaming into the room; the curtains drawn apart to the opposite ends of the simple wooden pane. Surveying the entire room once again, he dares glance at Ringo before placing his gaze on him again.
Ringo sighs at the pleading look John casts his way. “John… I’ve known ye for six years now. Ever since I met ye back at the Institute, ye’ve been having problems expressin’ yerself. Ye’re either a ball of energy or a drained-out battery, but most of the time, ye can’t bring yerself to be happy. Ye’re irritated over the littlest of things, and there’ve been many nights where we’d had to share a bed cos ye’ve been havin’ nightmares. And that’s when ye’re actually sleepin’,” he says, frowning. John’s aware that it’s not a frown of pity, but he can’t help but feel angry with himself for being so helpless. Why can’t he be happy just like everyone else? Why can’t he get his emotions under control? And why the hell can’t he get himself under control? He’s being a burden to everyone who knows him, and it were better if he just—
“Ah, ah, John,” Ringo says, curling his fingers around John’s wrist to pull him away from his thoughts. Feeling at John’s pulse point, Ringo means to both reassure him and check how fast his heart was beating. Poor lad, he thought. He’d been perfectly physically healthy as a kid, but he’s the one who seems like he’d nearly died as a kid because of multiple diseases.
Ringo hums, concerned by John’s quick heart rate, but he’s confident he can help John through anything that may come up ahead. Ever since he and John were newly-acquainted, he’d known how to deal with anxiety attacks and other complications—he’d had friends in the past who’d dealt with the same.
John, however, isn’t completely clueless, and Ringo knows that as well. He knows how to slow his breathing and help himself during such situations, and he now takes deep breaths to steady himself. His chest aches and so does his throat, but he can deal with the pain as well as he’s dealt with it many times in the past.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” John says as soon as he’s gotten a full hold on himself. “I-I just… I just feel really bad these days, y’know? I can’t, ah, I can’t eat without my stomach feeling sick afterwards, I can’t sleep even if I wanted to, I can’t focus on anything I try to do… I can’t… I can’t, y’know, I can’t eat… And I can’t speak; I go around in circles again and again and annoy people b-because I stutter when I try to talk. I can’t try putting it down on pen and paper because they’ll… they’ll find me weird and feel bad for me cos I can’t fucking-ng say-say anything without, y’know. I just find it weird, y’know? I dunno why I’m like this.”
Ringo nods, ever-patient. He wishes he could deny what John’s saying, but he knows that by doing that, he’d only be lying to him. That’s the last thing he wants to do to John. He doesn’t deserve it.
Although, he really cannot deny that there’ve been people in the past who have been impatient with John. It wasn’t a rare experience for Ringo; to hear whispers of John’s unease in verbal expression and semi-frequent shifts in mood. He doesn’t understand how people can be so insensitive at this day and age; how people would choose to avoid those they can’t understand instead of trying to. A way to avoid the blame and shame when they, er, hurt their feelings.
“I know ye’ve been feelin’ this way, John. Which is why I’m recommending ye go to him! George knows he’s excellent at what he does, and though he’s friendly, genuinely compassionate, and kind, he’s professional. He won’t judge ye cos ye have problems with speakin’, luv. He understands. I know he will, at least. Geo can vouch for ‘im, too! I can call him to do jus’ tha’ if ye need him to. Not joking!” Ringo adds cheerfully, picking up his phone and waving it as if in demonstration.
“No, no, no no no!” Ye don’t need to, really,” John hurries to say, nearly stumbling entirely on his words. “Don’t wanna wake Mr. Grumpyson for this.”
Ringo chuckles, and his grin widens to see a smile of John’s own form on John’s lips. “He ain’t gonna give ye the Unibrow for wakin’ him up! ‘S for a good reason, anyway.”
“No, really! Ye don’t need to do tha’.”
Ringo puts down his phone and takes another sip. His face scrunches up as he tries to speak again, and he manages to get a syllable out before his voice catches in his throat. He clears it and apologizes.
“I… really think havin’ psychotherapy will help ya feel better, John. There’s nothin’ wrong with it, really. I wish ye weren’t so averse to it.”
John chews the inside of his lip before answering. “‘S jus’… I remember what me classmates used to talk about amongst themselves whenever they’d see me bein’ admitted to the Counselor’s Office. I just felt like I were sinnin’ or—or whinin’, or something… doin’ something completely horrible. I was miserable, Ringo. And they envied me position like… like… like wantin’ to bloody disappear forever was somethin’ to be proud of!” he exclaimed, close to snarling. His blood beginning to boil again at the memories flooding his mind, he tries to think of something else before he can continue running down the path of resentment and shame.
“I know. I can’t say I understand ya fully, but I want ye to know that ‘m tryin’ me best. Aye? But remember; ye’re not weak, or ye’re not whinin’ nor doing anything wrong by seekin’ help. ‘S normal for everyone to seek help, and those who think the opposite are the weak ones cos they don’t know how to face the fact that they’re not the strongest, or that they’re not perfect. Aight? I want ye to remember tha’,” Ringo claims firmly, holding his gaze on John’s worried features. He wishes he could take all the negative thoughts and memories teeming in John’s head, but all he can do is offer comfort and help John heal.
John sighs. “All right,” he says, looking down.
“Hey,” Ringo calls softly. “‘S gonna be all right, hm? C’mere. Wanna hug ye, right?”
John stands from his chair and approaches Ringo, leaving the chair out in the open as he wraps his arms around Ringo’s clothed chest. Ringo embraces John as well, giving him a tight squeeze as the air escapes John in a sudden oof. Ringo’s shoulders shake as he laughs, and John half-heartedly slaps his back in retaliation. In truth, he’s just happy he’s got someone like Ringo in his life.
“So what d’ye say?” Ringo asks, still not letting go. He knows John would let go if he didn’t make it clear that it was okay with him to prolong the embrace, too anxious he may overstep some unknown, unspoken boundary, but he also knows John needs the hug. More so now than ever.
John spends a few seconds just breathing, contemplating on his decision. Ringo seems really adamant about this, and from what Ringo’s told him (more accurately, from what his boyfriend , George Harrison—the ‘handsomized’ personification of a child’s stickman drawing—has told him about psychotherapy, psychology, etc.), this seems like something really, really, really promising. He could give it a try—it’s not like he’d be losing anything if it doesn’t work out, and if it does… well, maybe he’d stop hating himself (and sometimes everything and everyone in the universe) all the time.
“Okay,” John breathes. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
Ringo gives him another squeeze—a gentler this time—before pulling back. “Thank ye, John. I’m so proud of ye. I’ll call the office’s receptionist and schedule an appointment for ya, then I’ll tell ye how it goes.”
John gives him a faint smile. “All right.”
Ringo finishes his coffee and puts his mug in the sink to wash later, heading to the phone at the other end of the flat and leaving John to finish his breakfast.
John sighs, looking down at the card and examining the large, bold print.
BRIAN EPSTEIN, Ph. D
LICENSED PSYCHOLOGIST
He hums noncommittally, bringing the first card behind the other, switching his attention to the one he hadn’t bothered looking at earlier when he was still far too frantic with nerves to do so.
JAMES PAUL MCCARTNEY
ASSISTANT, PSYCHOLOGY STUDENT AT THE SCHOOL OF PSYCHOLOGY, UNIVERSITY OF LIVERPOOL