Shock. That's what he called it. That was the shrink's professional diagnosis.
Apparently, since he died, I needed to be evaluated, according to my parents. Well, regardless of whether or not he died, they thought something was wrong with me. I guess they just assumed that, since he's gone now, all the 'strange behaviour' I'd been exhibiting would just go with him. After all, he was the cause of it. All the 'mistakes' I'd made since meeting him were his fault in their eyes. And they're right. He was responsible for each and every one of them, but they weren't mistakes. They were me finding myself. The process of replacing the person my parents thought I was with the person who I really am. So, of course, that person isn't going to just die with him. That would be saying that he never meant anything to me, that I didn't want to remember him. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
"What would you like to talk about?" Dr. PhD asked me as I sat on the leather sofa, staring at the ground. I didn't want to be there.
"Please, don't beat around the bush. This is going to be hard enough. No reason to drag it out." I said simply.
"Okay." The psychiatrist seemed happy to comply. "Your parents said that lately you've been behaving out of character. Why don't you tell me what that's about?" I looked up from the floor to glare at him. How would he know what's 'out of character' for me? He didn't even know me! My own parents didn't even know me!
"They're mistaken. I wasn't acting out of character. I'd never been more in character in my entire life." I said, my voice surprisingly even for someone who, less than twenty four hours ago, had gone to a funeral, and was now being forced to talk about it.
"Your parents said that you've been talking back to them, that you refuse to go to Church, and that you've been breaking some of their rules."
"In my eyes, explaining how my thoughts don't reflect theirs is not talking back. I no longer believe in Catholicism, so why should I go to Church? Apparently all that, being someone other than who they want me to be, is breaking their rules." I explained, once again looking down, fidgeting with the hem of my skirt. The shrink looked at me for a few heartbeats, made a few notes on his clipboard, cleared his throat, and spoke again.
"So, let's move on. Let's talk about Da -" I didn't let him finish.
"Please, don't say his name." I asked, rather politely.
"Why not?" I wanted to scream at him: 'Because I don't want him to hear and come and see how miserable I am!' Instead, I shrugged. "Okay. I won't say his name. Do you miss him?" I considered his question for about half a second.
"Of course I miss him. I love him." I met the doctor's eyes for the briefest of moments.
"I didn't realize that you loved him." There are a lot of things I'll bet he never realized.
"You're wrong." I pointed out.
"But you said - " The shrink was confused. Imagine that.
"You said I loved him. Past tense. That's not right. I still love him." I pointed out the obvious. Why are PhDs so dumb?
"He died. He's gone. Don't you think it'll be easier to move on if you realize that and let go?" I frowned at the psychiatrist. Was it really his place to give me advice like that? Did he have even the faintest idea of what I was going through?
"He died a week ago. A week! Does that mean that I'm supposed to have moved on by now? Should I be happy and have completely forgotten about him by now? Is that what you're saying?" My words were more than laced with disgust. "And by the way, just because he died doesn't mean he's gone. It doesn't mean that he's not here. It doesn't mean that he's stopped loving me, or that I should stop loving him." At some point I'd stood up, and was now yelling at the doctor, who seemed to be shrinking into his chair.
"Could you please calm down? Why don't you sit?" He asked, clearly afraid of my instability. I sat. "Thank you." I watched him as his pen made scratching noises against the paper as he made more notes. "Here's my question." So all his other questions were what? For fun? "My question is how did he figure into all this behaviour that's got your parents concerned?" I rolled my eyes. When will people just accept that this 'behaviour' isn't just a stage, and that it's actually who I am?
"He helped me realize that I didn't have to be who everyone wants me to be. He got me to stop hiding myself. He got me over my fear of being who I am." I smiled at the memories. Things that happened before he was hospitalized. My first motorcycle ride, his first time seeing my paintings in person, when we met...