Chapter Text
Sometimes Frank wondered if therapy was bullshit.
He was wondering this right now, tuning out some relatable life story his therapist was telling. He’d just got his Psychology textbook, and like any asshole intellectual he’d skimmed the pages for anything interesting, and there happened to be a whole section dedicated to the great therapy debate that apparently psychologists had been arguing about ever since Freud snorted some coke and declared himself king of psychology.
Frank would like to think therapy worked, the routine had been ingrained in him since he was thirteen years old. Those weekly, or bi-weekly, meetings had become a key part of his life that he had a hard time viewing as purely obsolete. He’d been with his old therapist in San Francisco for four years, and she’d been more than helpful, a shoulder to lean on through all his hard times. But at the same time he kind of liked the idea of his own inner strength being the sole driving force that pulled him through depression and anxiety and dysphoria. It comforted him somehow, giving him self control over his life and actions. Maybe, just maybe he’d overcome his demons himself and all this therapy was purely coincidental.
Either way Frank couldn’t really see himself quitting therapy any time soon, it had been the only constant thing in his life for years, a set time that he could count on where he could vent his feelings away for an hour. And whether or not it was bullshit, he liked that.
The move from San Francisco meant a few things for Frank. 1. It seemed significantly less gay and 2. He had to get a new therapist. Number 2 really put a dent in his routine, altering that one constant in his life that had essentially helped him grow up. Not a lot of people stuck around for four years, and his old therapist almost felt like an old friend that he had to leave behind by the move.
Sure, Martha, his new therapist, seemed fine. She talked with that nice soft voice that he was pretty sure therapists were taught to speak, and she had a bowl of candy in her room that Frank decided to help himself to. And the water pitcher was filled with nice cold water. There was nothing seemingly obvious that he should dislike her for. But he still felt alien in her room, the chair just not quite as comfy as the chair in San Francisco felt.
Right now she was talking about her teenage years, and how she struggled with her body image. And Frank was 200% disinterested, he knew he didn’t like his body, and he knew he had to work on it. But it was just so much easier to ignore everything under three layers of flannel than to assess his problems and how last night he kept getting out of bed to look at himself in the mirror just so he could take in his reflection and make a concise list of everything good and bad about his body.
The list more or less ended up being:
Pros:
Small mustache
Flat chest
Shoulders seemed broad
Masculine face, even if soft
Cons:
Chest was swollen
Hips too big
Too short, easily mistaken for a girl
No beard
Face too soft, even if masculine
So the question of how he felt about his body was more complex than a simple “good” or “bad” it was more of a work in progress, an unfinished painting that was just slightly too fucked up to show anyone quite yet. He was his own personal masterpiece and perfection took time, no artist ever felt content with their first draft. It was always try, and try again. What good was he really if he didn’t strive to be the best version of himself that he possibly could?
“Do you think you’ll ever feel fine with your body?”
Frank looked up, he’d been fumbling with his thumbs throughout Martha’s whole story and slightly prolonged pause before she had questioned him.
He made fleeting eye contact with her before quickly glancing away, at the sliver in the blinds through which he could see outside, “Like, I don’t know. That’s a bit of a loaded question.”
“Well you were just telling me about how before surgery, your chest bothered you. And now, after surgery, your chest bothers you.”
“Well yeah it’s been like two weeks it’s gonna look ugly as shit.”
“When do you think it won’t, as you say, look ugly as shit?”
God Frank hated that stupid soft therapist voice, “When it looks good.” He offered plainly.
She nodded tentatively in acceptance.
Frank glanced at the clock, five more minutes. And that should mean three because they had to go out to talk to his mom and figure out a date when they’d meet again sometime next week. Probably the same time, routine was good, easy to keep track of. Martha held a small smile, Frank thought that besides the voice, they also taught that in therapy school. Faces always holding a small, empty smile to try and appear welcoming and at ease. Something to break the uneasy tension when a patient wasn’t cooperating.
“Well Frank, I’m sorry that we don’t really offer anything specific here, for transgender people, like you had in San Francisco. If I’m being honest really, you’re the second trans patient I’ve ever treated.”
“It’s cool” Frank offered numbly. He’d prepared himself for the loss of resources. Weekly trans meetings and trained professionals were around, but noticeably fewer and harder to come by. He’d just figured that he’d find new ways to cope, new people, new centers, the community always seemed to thrive and exist no matter where you went, even if it was harder to come by.
Martha stood up, walking over to her desk. Frank watched as she went through some papers before taking out a pamphlet. “We do have a group for teens who struggle with body image though. Eating disorders, body dysmorphia, all that. It might not really be a fit but, if you ever feel like trying it out you could.”
Needless to say Frank was still disinterested, but he accepted the pamphlet when she handed it over to him. It had a picture of three smiling teens on it and in all caps declared “TEEN BODY IMAGE GROUP”. He hardly doubted these teens would be smiling if they were talking about how much they hated their body surrounded by other people who, coincidentally, also happened to hate their body. What a fun time that must be.
“I’ll think about it I guess.” He mumbled, getting out of the chair.
Martha did that soft therapist smile again, she picked up her planner and flipped through the pages, “Well I have an opening next week, same time. Do you think that’d work?”
“Yeah that sounds good” Frank looked at the small mirror that stood on the shelf across the room, staring at his reflection. He made a mental note that his hair was getting a bit long, he’d have to ask his mom to cut it when she had the time, he didn’t feel like getting called “Miss” in the store just because he made the mistake of growing his hair out too long. He’d be beating himself up for weeks if he let that happen.
“Okay, let’s go make sure that’s okay with your mom.” Martha said, leading Frank out the door after Frank had one last chance to check his appearance.
The hallways were quiet and Frank was happy to stay silent as they walked past the pristine white walls. The waiting room had a few younger kids playing around, Frank ignored them as he watched the TV in the corner show some rerun he didn’t remember of a Dora episode. Both he and his mom quickly said goodbye to his new therapist and made their way out to the car once next week's date was settled and Martha wrote down Frank’s name in neat little handwriting in her planner.
Their house still didn’t have a lot of stuff. Part of moving across the country is you can’t take all your junk with you. So for the first time in his life Frank had a relatively clean room, except for the hoodie that he’d tossed on the floor last night because putting it on a hanger just felt like too much effort. Really all he had right now was a bed, a set of drawers, and a desk that was really just a fold-up table in disguise. If he got a plant or two he might just be able to pull off a nice minimalist look.
Sometime later his mom walked into his room, she had always looked stressed, but the recent move really seemed to do a number on her. The bags under her eyes seemed more prominent than ever, and Frank who was a well known insomniac, now found his late night time shared by the sounds of netflix coming from across the hall when it was usually dead quiet.
They had a good relationship, as far as mother and son went. A mutual understanding of each other that often just contained silence. With his old therapist Frank once came to the conclusion that they were too scared to lose each other in a fight, so they avoided them at all costs. A somewhat force of events for them to get along even when they didn’t want to, because without each other they didn’t really have many options.
He knew that she worried about him. And he worried about her too. He respected her worries about his life as long as she didn’t pry. And she respected his worries about her life as long as he didn’t butt his head in where it didn’t belong.
“You need anything? I think I’m gonna head to bed soon” She asked. That was a lie. They’d both be up for hours and they both knew it.
“Naw I’m cool.”
She stood in his doorways for a bit, maybe searching for words to say, maybe adjusting herself still to her new surroundings. She’d become harder to read lately, a previously open book that had been shut close, Frank didn’t really know if he liked that change yet. Her eyes gazed blankly around the room, “I know this move isn’t easy for you… but it’ll be good, your new school has a great music program and Martha seems nice. And that group she told you about, you made friends in your last group, maybe it could be the same here.”
Her forced optimism fell flat in the silence of the air..
He nodded in silence, not wholly agreeing nor disagreeing with her. Apathy had pretty much consumed Frank since the move, not caring about anything either way was much easier than caring about anything entirely too much. Probably not the best way to deal with change, but it was a pseudo calmness that kept his head steady, a calmness which probably both he and his mom needed right now.
“Yeah, it’s cool mom.”
His phone buzzed beside him in his bed, and his mom slowly peeled herself from his room, sensing that the mixture of disinterest and forced socialization had run its short life. Sometimes Frank felt like she existed more as a shadow than a person, weaving in and out of existence when she pleased, only to return to the background as others passed her by.
Frank picked up his phone, already knowing who it was, he only really had one good friend who he knew he’d be keeping in touch with from California,
James [11:22pm] : yo man whats up
Frank [11:22pm] : mom was being emo abt the move again wbu
James [11:23pm] : im being emo about.. missing you bro
Frank rolled his head back into his pillow, it was hard to remain indifferent about life when he kept getting daunting reminders about how he was thousands of miles away from everything that was familiar to him. He still wasn’t really ready to process that James, who had been such a prominent figure in his life, was now reduced to just words on a screen.
James [11:24pm] : anyways how are your nips
…
…
James [11:24pm] : haha no nip frank
Frank [11:24pm] : i still have my nips asshole! they hurt tho .. pray for them
James [11:24pm] : thats what happens when you take your nips off and sew them back on loser
Frank [11:25pm] : fuck u im gonna make fun of u when its ur turn
James [11:25pm] : false im getting keyhole motherfucker!!! my nips are safe!
Frank [11:25pm] : fuck u
James [11:25pm] : love you too man