Work Text:
Charles
“How are you?” Hank asks over breakfast.
I knew this question would come, especially recently, with how my anxiety has been. The past week or so, I’ve been jumpy, anxious energy crawling throughout my skin, and I’ve just accepted it as part of my rhythm at this point. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like shit. “Um…” I shrug. “I’m all right. Not great, but…not terrible.”
Hank nods. “That’s good, at least.”
I swallow my bite of cereal. “I’ve been looking around. At local psychiatrists.”
Hank blinks at me from over the rim of his coffee. He lowers the mug, swallows, and reaches for the creamer on the counter. “I looked a little too, last week.”
I acknowledge his comment with a hum and take a sip of orange juice. “I found someone I like. A psychiatrist, about twenty minutes away.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I think I’m gonna call him later today. Set something up. Get the process started.”
Hank steps up to the table and leans against it, watching me. “So you wanna do this?”
I nod. “Yes, I do. I don’t really know how it’s gonna go, but…I’ve thought about it enough. I want to do this.”
Hank nods slowly as I’m talking. “All right, then.”
“You’ll be with me, right?”
“Oh, of course.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Always.”
Charles
I set up a meeting with the psychiatrist at the soonest possible time, which happens to not be until a week and a half later.
I have a lot more anxiety about it than I expected to. Not panic attacks, necessarily, but I’m definitely more high-strung than normal– snapping at Hank, not being able to focus, and I’ve recently started to develop a bad habit of scratching at my hands when I’m anxious. Not enough that I’m breaking skin, but enough that I feel it for a good few minutes after a bad spell. Hank hasn’t noticed. I don’t know if I want him to. It’s just a bad habit, it’ll go away once this anxiety episode does.
The few days leading up to the appointment, the anxious feelings take a back seat and the depression slips behind the wheel. I try to push it away, to mask it, to contain it, but that doesn’t last long. Hank recognizes it quickly, especially given that I start isolating at night and going to bed crazy early, something that I typically only do when I’m depressed. Hank doesn’t make me talk about it, but I’m much more inclined to keep it hidden.
The day arrives. Luckily the psychiatrist works on the weekends so I was able to schedule a time outside of class hours. I check in at the desk and we’re led to a sunny office in the back of the building. Hank plunks himself into a chair beside me and I rub my hands together, taking a deep breath.
Hank faces me. “How you feelin’?”
“Um…nervous.”
Hank nods. “Yeah. Me too.”
“You too?”
“Yeah, I mean…for you, mostly. And…it’s a complicated process sometimes. From what I garnered from my research, it can take a long time to get a diagnosis depending on the countless factors that could be at play. But hopefully it’ll be a smooth process. Or, at the very least, we’ll get a good sense of what that process is going to be like. To give you some peace of mind.”
“Yeah. Hopefully.”
Hank inhales to respond but is cut off by a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I force out around the lump of emotions in my throat.
A middle-aged man with brown stubble and curly hair down to his ears pops his head in, holding a clipboard. “Hello, there!” He steps into the room and shuts it behind him. He wears a smile all the way and he shakes both of our hands. “I’m Doctor Ken Jones, nice to meet you both.”
Hank and I exchange greetings ourselves. Ken sets his clipboard on his desk and plops into his rolling chair. “Now, which one of you is Charles?”
I raise a tentative hand. “That’s me.”
“Ah, yes. It’s wonderful to officially meet you, you spoke over the phone with our office a few weeks ago.”
I nod stiffly.
Ken twirls a pen in his fingers. “All right, perfect. So, from my understanding,” he peeks at the paper on his clipboard, “you’re interested looking into getting a mental health diagnosis?”
“Yes, please.”
“Wonderful. So what I want to do during this initial meeting is just give you an overview of what this process is gonna look like for you. Sound good?”
I nod. Yes, yes, I need to set my expectations so I don’t go crazy over the unknowns of this whole thing.
“Okay, so…” Ken flips over to a second page in his documents. “The first step is actually not with me. I’m going to give you the contact info of a coworker who is a physician in a different office located maybe thirty minutes away, give or take. He’s going to conduct a physical exam, maybe some lab tests if needed, and this is because we want to check to see if there are any physical ailments that could be the underlying cause of a mental health struggle, and if so, that would affect our process and the overall diagnosis. Following so far?”
Hank and I both affirm his statement.
“Great. So, assuming that nothing comes up in the physical exam, you would continue with me, and we would do an evaluation. Just a small one to start, a little conversation, nothing big, and we would discuss what problems you’ve had in the past and what your assumptions or concerns are. Based on what symptoms you’ve shown or have experienced at the present or in the past, that will guide the following step, which would be having you take a PHQ-9, or multiple if it calls for it, to give a general overview of common symptoms and assess their severity.
“After that, we would do a screening, which would be in the form of another conversation. This would be more personalized, probably digging deeper into your PHQ-9 scores, as well as discussing your family history, lifestyle, and anything that could be contributing to your conditions that might affect the possible diagnosis. Then, after all that’s done, I will assess the results we’ve garnered over the whole process and give you an official diagnosis, and then we would create a treatment plan going forward.” Ken leans back in his chair. “How does all that sound?”
Hank glances over at me, and I respond with a bit more confidence than earlier: “Good. That sounds…good. It’s nice to have a plan. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Do you either of you have any questions? I’m happy to answer anything.”
“Yes,” I start. “How long do you think this whole thing will take?”
“That’s a good question. It’s hard to say right now. For some people, it can take as little as a few weeks, for others, a few months. There are many factors at play, and especially since the physical exam hasn’t been conducted yet, there’s not a good sense of timeframe. But I will say that once we get into the screenings, each one will probably only take one session or meeting given the nature of the tests. And I understand that talking about these struggles and facing them isn’t always easy, so if you ever need to step away, or want time to process, or to have gaps in-between meetings, we can do that too. You’re in the driver’s seat. I’m just there to help you steer.”
His words warm the icy border around my heart and I moisten my lips, sighing out a breath. “Okay. Thank you.”
Charles
Doctor Ken refers us to his coworker, and we get the physical exam scheduled for the next available time. We put that appointment on the calendar for a week away, and I spend that time throwing myself into my teachings.
The physical exam comes and goes, and nothing unusual or of note is concluded, at least nothing that would greatly affect any mental health conditions, so we’re able to go right back to Doctor Ken’s office and schedule the evaluation.
Evaluation.
I don’t know why that word scares me so much.
I talk about my mental health with Hank a lot. Sometimes he cranks the words out of me. Sometimes I seek him out. Regardless, it’s not always easy to talk about it, even with Hank.
The evaluation is…mostly painless. We mostly just talk about what I want out of this and what I think a diagnosis might be based on my past issues. I express that I think I might have depression and anxiety, and that I want labels. Not everybody does. But something about them would be…validating.
The next day, I’m sent PHQ-9s for depression, anxiety, and a panic disorder.
Charles
The PHQ-9s are sent to me through email. I’m encouraged to print them out, and based on my conversations with Doctor Ken and given that I’ve had trouble in the past as well, I’m to do two sheets for each disorder, one about the last week, and one about the last full episode I had.
Despite the fact that Hank suggests I split them all up into days to not overwhelm myself, I fight against that and squish them all into one day.
Friday evening, 5PM. Hank enters my room with a few sheets of paper in his hand. My fist is curled around a pen.
He gives them over to me, face down, and sits on the couch beside me. “Are you nervous?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s okay to be. We’re doing them one at a time. I’ll be right here.”
I nod, but don’t answer. I stare at the first piece of paper, steel myself, then flip it over.
“Severity Measure for Depression–Adult”
Name: _________ Age: ____ Date: _________
I fill in the appropriate information and follow the words on the page.
Instructions: Over the last 7 days, how often have you been bothered by the following problems?
I swallow hard. “This one’s going to be about the last episode, which was…a few months ago.”
“Okay, that’s fine,” Hank assures me. “Whatever you want.”
1. Little interest or pleasure in doing things.
0 - Not at all
1 - Several days
2 - More than half the days
3 - Nearly every day
The last episode? Shit, my episodes are usually…pretty bad. Um…
Question one. Nearly every day.
2. Feeling down, depressed or hopeless.
Oh, shit. That’s easy. I could barely get through three hours without crying most days.
Nearly every day.
3. Trouble falling or staying asleep, or sleeping too much.
I could barely get out of bed, and I slept through the first class a few times.
Nearly every day.
4. Feeling tired or having little energy.
Nearly every day.
5. Poor appetite or overeating.
Well, there were days where I’d get dizzy because I wasn’t eating enough, so…
Nearly every day.
6. Feeling bad about yourself– or that you are a failure or have let yourself or your family down.
I remember breaking down one night, confessing to Hank that I felt like I was failing as a teacher, and even going so far as to say that we should shut the school down because I didn’t want the kids being taught by someone with such a broken mind.
Luckily, Hank is good at talking me down.
Nearly every day.
7. Trouble concentrating on things, such as reading the newspaper or watching television.
Oh. Yep. I could barely grade any essays during that episode.
Nearly every day.
8. Moving or speaking so slowly that other people could have noticed? Or the opposite– being so fidgety or restless that you have been moving around a lot more than usual.
Uh… A little, I guess. My days were dragging by in slow motion, and so was I.
Several days.
9. Thoughts that you would be better off–
Oh, goddamn it. I should’ve known this was coming.
9. Thoughts that you would be better off dead or of hurting yourself in some way.
The ideation was scarily rampant throughout that episode, to a point that even I was worried.
Nearly every day.
Total Score:
I add up the numbers and scribble down a shaky 25.
The documents lay heavy in my lap.
Wait, that was only the first one. And I’m already shaking.
I flip to the next one, same thing, same questions, but applying them to the last week. Shit.
With a trembling hand, I start on the first few questions.
Questions one through five are all a two, more than half the days. Questions six and seven are a one, question eight, the one about moving and talking slowly is a zero, thank God, but then the–
The suicidal thoughts one. The ideation one.
My eyes flick between the two and the three.
More than half the days.
Or…
Nearly every day.
I don’t wanna tell the truth.
But I have to, this is for Doctor Ken.
I’m scared of the truth.
I’m scared of going back there.
Those thoughts scare me.
They terrify me.
Both of those numbers, the two and the three, they taunt me, they point to something concerning, and if I circle either of those, I’m admitting it, and if I’m admitting it, then that means…
I’m not in danger. I’m not in danger. I chant it in my head. I’m not in danger, I’m not. Those thoughts just happen, that’s a symptom of depression, it’s not just me, I’m not in danger–
“What?”
I jolt out of my fearful thoughts. I don’t meet Hank’s gaze, but my whole body is shaking now.
“What’s wrong?”
“I-I…” My voice breaks, I hate how badly it wobbles. I feel like a scared kid greeted with a monster that I haven’t truly faced in forever, and the monster is written in black ink, two numbers, two, three, two, three, two, three.
I try again. “I-I can’t…” The paper blurs, fucking hell, I’m being brought to tears over this. “I don’t like this question…”
Hank leans closer to me and squints at the paper. He processes it for a few seconds, then addresses with a careful but hesitant voice. “Do you know which number it is?”
I nod. A tear falls from my eyes and lands on my thumb.
“Can you go ahead and circle it? Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
“You sure?” I whisper.
“I’m sure.”
I hesitate, the tip of my pen hovering over the paper. Then I scratch the ink in a circle around the three.
Nearly every day.
Hank inhales slowly and I can feel his mind working.
“I’m sorry,” I quaver, my voice thin and teary.
“What? No, don’t be sorry. I’m not mad. It’s just…” He watches my face. “Is that something we need to address? Do I need to be worried?”
I shake my head, and this releases a few more tears. I scurry to wipe them away before they ruin the paper. “No, I don’t think so. When I’m depressed, they just…come. They don’t always hold any weight, but…they’re still there. I hate it, but…it’s true.”
Hank nods. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”
I rub the tears out of my eyes and write a 14 on the score for this one.
The next four are less stressful, but maybe it’s just because I’m already wasted from the last one. The score for ranking the last anxious episode blossoms anxiously into a 34, mostly due to the fact that, in this particular PHQ-9, there’s a spot for a 4 to be an individual score.
The most recent anxiety episode is a 26. Not surprising.
The panic disorder one is surprising though. I always considered my panic attacks as just an extension of my anxiety problems, but to see them as a completely separate diagnosis is…complicated, to say the least. The score for the last extended episode is a 31.
The ranking for the present is a 16.
That night, I have a pretty intense panic attack over dinner, and the irony is immense.
Charles
Doctor Ken’s schedule is filled up for the next month, so the official screening isn’t until about a month and a half out from doing the PHQ-9s. More than fine. It takes me a couple days to shake off the tensions from doing them. I didn’t realize how much I despised questionnaires until the moment I started the first one.
Life returns to somewhat of a normal rhythm, but the appointment looms over me. I keep telling myself that I was the one that set this up, that this was my decision, and the prospect of getting a diagnosis is something that I still view as beneficial, but after the terror that was the PHQ-9s, now I’m scared to go back.
Regardless, on a tentative Tuesday afternoon, Hank and I are back in Doctor Ken’s office.
He comes in like normal, greets us like normal, sits in his chair like normal, pulls out his clipboard like normal. He whips out a pen. “All right, we’re gonna start off with some nicer questions. What is your profession and what do you like to do in your spare time?”
A bit of the tension drains out of my muscles. “I’m a professor of genetics, among other things. I teach children to young adults. And when I’m not in classes, I’m typically grading papers, writing essays, or spending time with the students. Or him.” I nod at Hank, who smiles.
Ken grins and writes down a note. “My brother is a science teacher to younger kids and he speaks at length about how fulfilling it is. I would hope it’s the same for you?”
I nod. “Oh, yes. There’s a reason why I’ve been doing this for as long as I have.”
“Well, I’m happy to hear it,” Ken acknowledges. “What is your living situation?”
“It’s a boarding school, and the school is my childhood home, so I live there with the students and with Hank.”
Ken nods. “Anything else fun you like to do?”
“I mean, I spend a lot of time with my students on any given day. They like to rope me into games pretty often, and they see a lot of me. I’m not just a teacher that they see in class and then never elsewhere, I’m deep into their lives in the best way.”
“He calls them his children,” Hank laughs.
I scoff. “Yes, well. That too.”
Ken adds to Hank’s laughter. “That sounds great! I’m glad you have that fulfillment from your career, it seems like a wonderful job.”
There’s a bit of silence as he writes a few sentences in the corner of his paper.
“All right, so to go on, are there are mental health conditions that run in your family?”
“Uh…” I mull over this answer for a moment. “I’m…not sure. My mom, maybe. But I never saw her much. I don’t know.”
“Are you taking any meds regularly?”
“Not at this time, no.”
“Have you ever?”
I work my jaw and peek over at Hank. I don’t need to read his mind to know what we’re both thinking. Those ten years of darkness dangle brutally over our heads. “Um…yes. It’s been a while, but yes.”
“When were you last on a regular medication schedule? And why did you stop?”
“It was years ago. I went on antidepressants, and those made my panic attacks worse, so I stopped those and moved on to another kind of medication. Those didn’t work either, and I kind of…” I clear my throat without even thinking about it, an unconscious anxious tic, and Hank stirs beside me. He knows. “I stopped the meds after that. They just didn’t work.”
Ken nods and writes as I’m talking. “So you’ve seen a psychiatrist before?”
“A couple times. Nothing regular. My history with meds is a bit…”
Hank gives me a sidelong glance.
“…complicated.”
“Okay,” Ken says. “Why are you seeking out mental health care? You have before, why again?”
“It’s been a while, and…I want to put names to whatever’s in my head. And I want to learn how to handle myself, I…” My hands cramp up and I flex my fingers back and forth. “I want to learn how to live with myself. After all these years.”
Ken’s lips tilt upward into an understanding smile. “All right, that’s good. I’m glad you’re seeking treatment, that’s important. What are your care goals? What do you want to accomplish?”
I lean back in my wheelchair and think about that one for a bit. “I want to get better, I guess. Not that I’m in the same place that I was, but…I still struggle and I still don’t feel like I have a good handle on myself. I think I avoided talking about my issues for a long time. I pushed it down, and I told myself that those days were over. But I don’t think mental health works that way. It’s never over, it just…fluctuates. I’ve been having fluctuations all my life, I just want…an explanation.”
Ken adjusts his position on his chair. “That’s a very healthy mindset to have. Seeing mental health as something that can’t be cured but can be managed is a conclusion that not everybody comes to treatment having made. That’s a big step.”
I resist the urge to scoff. Hmm. Yeah. Big step.
Then why do I feel like I’m still coming apart?
“Now, we’ve discussed your episodes in the past, specifically depression. It seems like you struggle with the vast majority of depressive symptoms. How long do those episodes last, would you say? Give or take?”
“A week or two, at least.”
“And how often do you have an episode?”
I look over at Hank on instinct. “Every few months, I’d say. And they’re pretty bad when they come.” Oh, shit. Shouldn’t have said that. “As…I’m sure you saw on the question…thing.” STOP TALKING.
Ken doesn’t seem to be affected by it, and he continues with the assessment like normal. “When it comes to one’s mental health, it’s common for life events or stressors to exacerbate or worsen symptoms or prompt a full episode entirely. Has there been anything in your past that you think has caused your mental health to change drastically aside from just normal fluctuations?”
“Being paralyzed. Probably.”
What the fuck do you mean PROBABLY?
“A break up.”
Break up. Yeah. An understatement. More like ABANDONMENT. Being left to die on a beach. The only thing that broke was your spine.
I run through my past in my head, after Cuba, starting the school, the Vietnam…
The Vietnam War. Alex. Watching him die in Cerebro. The weeks of brokenness that followed.
“There was a student of mine that…” Shit, my voice wasn’t shaking this bad a second ago. Distantly, I can feel myself pressing my nails into my skin, and it’s so automatic that I barely even think about it. That didn’t used to happen. “He-he was drafted. In the Vietnam War. He was… I don’t know if I’m supposed to pick favorites as a professor, but he was my favorite. He died. In the war. And I saw it in Ce– .” Oh, can’t say that. That wouldn’t be appropriate right now. “I saw it in a report. I-I didn’t leave my room for a week.”
Ken nods slowly. “I’m sorry that happened.”
I nod, sniffing, then realize that there are tears in my eyes and duck my head to wipe them away before they can fall.
“Do you have any history of drug or alcohol abuse?”
I’m feeling less and less like I’m here and more like I’m…there. 1963, 64, 65, 66, all those years of hating myself and poisoning myself and thinking every day about killing myself, and due to the nature of this conversation, and of this whole process, I should’ve known these kinds of questions were coming, but it still hurts. I don’t want to go back there.
But I drank poison for so long that I can still taste it on my tongue if I think hard enough.
This question is making me think hard enough.
This question is also making me nauseous. Maybe because I can taste the alcohol now, burning on my taste buds, I can remember shooting up every day, and the inside of my elbow prickles with the pain of memories long since past.
Hank is watching me, Ken is watching me.
Damn it, speak, SPEAK.
I’m ordering myself around like a dog. All of a sudden I don’t have any compassion for myself anymore. I threw away how much of my life to drinking? To drugs? How can I call myself strong after everything I’ve done?
Maybe Erik was right to leave me.
“Yes,” is all I say.
Ken examines my face for a moment before continuing. “Has there been any of that recently, or– ?”
“No,” I snap, much angrier than I’d meant it to sound.
He absorbs my reaction and nods. He continues with a gentler voice. “Do you have any history of suicide attempts?”
My entire body flashes with a dizzying heat. My pulse speeds up, pounds in my wrists and my throat, the rush of blood roars in my ears.
I’m so fucking stupid, WHY IS THIS CATCHING ME OFF GUARD–
I knew we were gonna get here, I knew it, I fucking knew it. I FUCKING knew it. Deep down, I knew it.
Suicide attempts. Suicide.
I hate that word, I hate that word, that fucking word. The ends of my hair tremble with me. My nails slice deep into my hands.
It’s just a word, it’s JUST a word. It’s a just a word, just a string of letters, it’s doesn’t mean anything–
But it does. IT DOES.
It means trauma, it means nightmares, it means horrifyingly specific memories coming out of no where, it means thinking, daydreaming, fantasizing, plotting, planning, finalizing– it means getting up to bar the door, dumping so many pills out into my hand that they spill out of my palm and scatter on the floor, it means choking down dry pill capsules, washing them down with alcohol, sobbing into my hands and begging to the nonexistent gods to let me die, it means drowning my system with more alcohol than anyone should have the capacity for, it means wanting, deciding, trying so goddamn hard to leave this world, it means death, it means dying, it means killing myself–
“Hey,” Hank whispers, and then his hand is on my arm, his fingers lightly gripping the skin underneath. “Breathe. It’s okay.”
I’m holding my breath, my lung aches. I let it out. It comes out sounding more like a sob, and I’m mortified. The burning pain behind my eyes makes me realize that I have to get out of here soon if I don’t want to cry in front of Ken.
Hank glances down at something I can’t see and moves his hand down. His fingertips brush along the backs of my hands, and little stabs of pain flare up along my skin. “Do you want me to answer?”
I nod frantically. I can’t speak. I’ll start crying. I can’t start crying. This is mortifying enough already.
Hank faces Doctor Ken. “The answer to that one is yes. One attempt. A few years ago.”
Ken nods once, turns his attention back to his paper, writes something down, then flips through his notes for a few long seconds before turning back to us. “I think that’s about it for everything, I’ll let you guys go a bit early. This should be enough to make a diagnosis, so I’ll review everything we’ve worked on and then I’ll get back to you about it soon. Does that sound good?”
Hank nods. I force myself to look at Ken and do the same.
Ken gives us a thumbs-up. “Perfect. I’ll leave you to gather your things here, and if you have any questions, feel free to come find me, I’ll be up at the front desk.” He stands, grabs his clipboard, and leaves the room, closing the door with a quiet click behind him.
With Ken gone, the burning behind my eyes leaks into my eyes and now the tears are falling faster than I can count.
Hank opens his mouth to say something, but my composure is rapidly falling apart, leaving me breathless and trembling. Instead, Hank mumbles, “Come here,” and eases me into his arms. I drop my head into his shoulder and break down, sobbing dry and raw, clinging to his sweater with fists so tight that my hands ache. This has happened so many times before, me crying in his arms, but this time feels different. Despite everything that we’ve been through together, that I put Hank through, that I put myself through, I’ve never faced it, not really. With these tears, I’m grieving all the years that I lost over my own issues, over the darkness I lived in. Erik may have sparked that fire, but I kept it going. That fire of self-destruction was tended to and made larger every day by me and the decisions I made. I cowered behind drugs and drinking and labels and called myself a slave to the memories that had brought me there, but I made every link of those chains myself, alone in the deep, smithing away among heaps of blame thrown every direction except the one that mattered most.
I dug my own grave so deep that I plunged into hell, and I was content to stay there: In an attempt to set my fate in toxic stone, I brought a tragedy upon myself that I never quite faced with both eyes, and now I’m staring down the barrel of a gun into a mirror.
Hank rubs my opposite shoulder and drapes his other arm around me as best as he can. He whispers to me, “That was a long time ago, it’s okay. You’re okay, it’s over now.”
At one point, I recover enough to talk, and through my sobs, I say, “I hate this…”
“What?”
“I’m so messed up and broken and I-I can’t even think about it without breaking down!” I gasp out another sob. “And I-I hurt you so bad, when I tried to do it,” I can’t even say it, “I didn’t even think about how it would affect you– I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” I dissolve into wet, messy tears again and shudder against him, tightening my grip on his sweater.
“Charles, it’s okay, I promise, I’m…I’m okay. This is about you. I promise, I’m fine. I’m dealing with it my own way, this whole thing is for you, we’re doing this for you. Don’t take on my trauma, you already have enough of your own.” He puts a hand on the back of my head and starts weaving his fingers through my hair. “I know that those memories still hurt and they’re still there and they’ll always be there. But that was so long ago, Charles. You’ve moved past that, you’re so much more than that.”
“I wish I never did that,” I whimper. “I wish I could forget everything.”
“Well, you can’t,” Hank ventures. “And I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but you can’t live life trying to wish your trauma away. You can’t spend your energy that way. It happened. You…” he hesitates for a moment. “A few years ago, you tried to kill yourself. Yes, you did. But Charles, a good amount of people have. No one talks about it. Sadly, it’s very common. Lots of people have been there. The fact that you tried to do that doesn’t demote you, it doesn’t make you any less of a person. You got through that, you lived through that. You are here, you are alive, and that’s an amazing thing.”
He speaks words of comfort and encouragement and power until my tears slow, and when I finally pull away, my face stuck in a shell of dried tears, Hank keeps a hand on my shoulder.
He smiles sadly. “You okay?”
I nod and lift a hand up to wipe my tears–
There are bloody scratch marks on the backs of my hands, layers of skin torn up where my nails had cut deep.
Tears fill up my eyes again as I watch the scratches sluggishly ooze blood.
Hank watches me. “Did…did you know you were doing that?”
I shake my head, still choking back tears. “I’m…” I trail off and don’t continue.
Hank puts a hand on my back, speaking softly. “You’re…what?”
My next sentences comes out soft and scared, “I’m so fucking broken…”
“No, Charles, no…” Hank guides me into his arms again. “You’re just… You just have a hard time with these things, and that’s okay. You’re on the other side of some really messed up shit. And you’re still here. And we’re doing all this so we can name the things that you’ve struggled with your whole life. Right?”
I nod in his arms.
“We’re doing this together. It’s a process, it’s all a process, and it doesn’t stop with getting a diagnosis, we’re going to have to keep learning how to manage this. But I am with you. Always.”
Charles
A week later, one email comes in from the address of Doctor Ken’s office with a medical document attached. The email subject reads, “Charles Xavier - Principal Diagnoses.”
I reach out with my powers to find Hank tinkering in his office. “Hank.”
He pauses as he hovers over a piece of paper. “Yeah?”
“I just got an email from the office. It has a document attached.”
“Oh, okay. Do you want me to join you?”
“Please.”
I leave his mind and wait in the heavy silence for him to arrive.
Hank pops his head into my study a minute later. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
He wanders over to my side and pulls a chair up to my desk.
I stare at the email and hover the cursor over the attached document.
“Charles, I… Whatever it is…everything you’ve been through in your life and everything you struggle with is valid. I know you want labels, but…you don’t need them in order for your mental health to be justified. Your struggles are valid with or without them. Just…remember that.”
I nod. I grind my teeth together for a moment, then click on the document and open it.
Hank and I are silent as we both read it at the same time:
“Client Charles Francis Xavier meets criteria for the following DSM-5 diagnoses:
F32.2 - Major Depressive Disorder, moderate severity, early onset
F41.1 - Generalized Anxiety Disorder
F41.0 - Panic Disorder”
The first thing I feel is a warm rush of relief, which then collapses into a mess of insecurities:
Three diagnoses. Three disorders.
It makes sense. I shouldn’t be surprised.
Well, I’m not…surprised, exactly, I’m just…
I lean back slowly in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, exhaling deeply. Hank’s eyes pierce through the side of my head. My mind is full of comments, and at the same time completely empty.
“…Charles?” Hank pries gently. “Are you okay?”
“Mmhmm,” I mumble, not tearing my eyes away from the screen.
We’re both silent for a moment. After that moment passes, I settle on something to say:
“I’ve struggled with mental health forever and these,” I point at the screen, “they’re not really that surprising, to be honest. I mean, the panic disorder, a little bit, but, now, thinking about it, that makes sense too.”
Hank narrows his eyes at me. “…I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming.”
I glance over at him, sifting through my words in my head. “But…now I’m…” I trail off, unsure of what I’m saying. Those words on the screen, these new labels, explain and validate a lot of my trauma, and yet they also outline the cracks of my brokenness in a light so disgustingly vibrant that I can’t hide behind excuses and pretending anymore. “I’m just…” I laugh heartlessly and shrug. “That’s it. I’m officially mentally ill.”
Hank frowns, his brow crumpling. “…Okay. And?”
“And…and nothing. I guess.”
“They’re just labels. They don’t change anything. Right?”
I don’t have a response for that.
Hank’s eyebrows twitch. “Right?”
“Right. I guess so. I’m– .” I cut myself off with a wince and sigh, massaging my forehead. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I…don’t really know what to feel right now.”
Hank doesn’t answer.
My mind whirls with all kinds of words, seething, unexplained hate towards myself, insecurities spoken out loud, Erik’s words from years past, dozens of things I’ve yelled at myself, internally, all over time, and the volcano of thoughts solidifies into a single, heavy question that I whisper into the dead air:
“What if I can’t handle it?”
Hank looks over at me. “Handle what?”
“Life.” I gnash my teeth together and nod at the screen, fuming with a deep, angry sadness. “Because of this. Because of what I am.”
Hank glances from my face to the computer, multiple times over. He mulls over what to say for a long time, but eventually he reaches forward, turns off the computer, and leans into my field of vision so he’s directly in front of me. “Charles. Listen.” His unwavering gaze pierces through his glasses and into my eyes. “You could take down the world if you wanted. This place, this school, these kids?” He gestures to our surroundings. “You’re the trailblazer for all of it. You’ve spearheaded this entire institution with an amount of strength and mental fortitude that I wish I had.” He shrugs, smiling sadly. “I’m a follower by nature, Charles. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. This isn’t something I would’ve been able to do. I can’t dream like this.” He takes my hands and squeezes firmly. “You built this world. You’ve been writing your own story this whole time, and nothing has to change. You have power. Charles.” He jabs his pointer finger at the computer and hits me with a fierce stare. “Don’t let this write your story for you.”
I absorb his words in the quiet that follows. The silence is long, but a bit cleaner than it had been a second ago.
Hank lets his gaze fall from my face. Eventually, he rubs the back of my hand and speaks again. “Charles, I…I was never close with anybody in my family. I went off to Harvard pretty early on, and…that was that. I barely kept up with any of them. But, I…had an older brother named Harold.”
I frown. “Had?”
“Yeah, he…took his own life soon after I left for Harvard.”
I jerk my head up to stare with wide eyes at him. “Oh, Hank…”
“I know, I know. I’m not looking for your pity. The reason why I’m telling you this is because… Well, you’re…you’re like a brother to me, Charles. I love you, you’re my family. You feel more like family than my real family ever did. And…” He blinks at me through the tears glistening in his eyes. “You mean a lot to me. I wasn’t there for Harold, but I can be there for you. I want you to see yourself the way I see you, the way everyone in this school sees you, the way ERIK sees and has always seen you.” He lifts a hand to catch one of his tears. “So I can promise you, the only person who thinks you’re incapable is you.”
I smile softly, unsure of what to say. “Really?”
“Yeah. And okay, you have depression, you have anxiety, you have a panic disorder, but so what? If anything, it’ll just help you get better treatment. But it has nothing to do with your self-worth. I know I can’t tell you how to feel, but I can tell you how I feel. You’re amazing, Charles, and I’m ready to do whatever it takes to help you believe that too.” He squeezes my shoulder. “We’re gonna be okay. You are gonna be okay.”
I nod, now sharing in his tears. “Thank you, Hank.”
Hank grins. He pats his thighs and stands up. “I’ll call Doctor Ken tomorrow and we can schedule a follow-up to talk about a treatment plan going forward. Sound good?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. I’m gonna go start dinner, do you want to join me?”
“Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute.”
Hank gives me a thumps up and heads for the door.
“Oh, and Hank?”
“Hmm?” He half-turns back around.
“I just… You feel like family too, you know. I’m glad you’re with me.”
Hank’s face relaxes into a glowing, content smile, one that warms me down to my toes.
“All right, get down there and start dinner. No more sad stuff. I’ll be right down.”
Hank laughs and leaves the room, propping the door open.
I stare at the computer, eyeing the darkness of the turned-off screen.
I have new labels, I have new explanations, but that doesn’t need to create new insecurities.
Hank is right. Nothing has to change.