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The counselor asks them, “When was the last time you did something because you wanted to do it?”
And they don’t answer. There are many answers on the tip of their tongue.
“I asked for injera for breakfast last week.”
“I solved a million-piece puzzle yesterday, and the day before that, also.”
“I bought myself a leg brace. I don’t use it.”
“I slept with a man from the Hong Kong police force on 21 October 2011.”
The answer isn’t no, not exactly. But Near doesn’t say anything.
The counselor sighs and moves on.
“So, have you read the Dialectical Behavior Therapy book I gave you?”
“Yes. I don’t agree with chapter seven and eight.”
Tsk.
—
A week later, Near cancels their next haircut.
The next day, they ask Roger to drive them to the town center and leave them there. They walk into a store at random—they never enter a store without knowing what it sells, if it sells what they want, it it’s open for the ten minutes they can spare to window shop—and stand between the woman’s section and the men’s. Casuals. Dresses.
Shoes.
—
What you are is what you’re supposed to be. You were made as the Christian god intended.
And what did he intend? A mass of flesh and bone. A fleshy chest and narrow hips. The face of a child, now pushing twenty five.
Near doesn’t believe in gods they can’t see.
Near doesn’t fit nicely into many Boolean categories—or, they fit into all of them poorly and agree to fall to the side that’s been suggested, what’s been easiest.
True. False.
I don’t know.
Here’s the facts: To do what you want is to introduce uncontrollable variables. To bend and break plans, schedules, rules. To place your toe in uncertain lands and hope the grass is greener where you cannot see.
—
Alone in their room, they twist ten centimeters of hair between their thumb and their pointer finger and listen to the whip of the loop as it turns.
The ceiling is very far away. Under the skin, something tickles, squirms, insists to be felt.
If you don’t like the way your life is, change it.
Near is invisible and everywhere at once. A great man, an overgrown child. They look at the dark ceiling and make a map of their life. Destination: I didn’t think I’d make it so far.
The tyranny, the lie, of choices gnaws at them.
When was the last time…?
Near wants to rest. Wants to have long hair, like the woman in the magazine. Wants to walk ten miles in the snow. Wants to hold something or someone close enough to feel their own pulse. How complicated, this job of being human.
They cancel their next appointment. Nobody mandated the therapy. The Dialectical Behavior Therapy was not the correct treatment for them. They did not feel emotions strongly. They were not mad.
The internet suggests EMDR. They buy another set of clothing, a size to big. They try on the leg brace, again. They check their skin in the mirror and don’t look at the eyes.
They plan to take a walk on Tuesday at 6 AM so no one will see how slowly it goes. How difficult. Nor the way they smile at the geese and play guessing games with the cumulonimbus. You’re too old for such pastimes.
Someone will call them, “ma’am.” Another, “kid.” Most frequently, “Sir.” Nothing sits right. Not the shoes from the store. Not the leg brace.
But they want to walk on.
They have to. Which isn’t a want, at all.