The Doctor will see you NOW [4] boyxboy

Forty One

I could barely breathe much less speak but finally I managed to eek out a few words. "You shouldn't." He was long gone though, maybe I was talking to myself. I didn't quite remember shutting the door but I must have because it was closed, I was staring at it as I continued to stand in front of the bench unsure of what to do next. The house being quiet and empty should have helped a little. The huge layer of stress that other people brought was gone but like it had earlier, the house itself seemed angry and foreboding. I walked around turning on every single light. Why was it so dark?

When I'd been younger I'd often been set off by what seemed like inconsequential events. Having spaghetti for dinner? Meltdown. Rain on Saturday? Meltdown. It took me and those around me years to realize that it almost never works that way. My 'plosions are glaciers, you only see the tip and you're lucky if you see even that before I run aground. Now I thought of it more like a bucket inside me where I stored all the things I couldn't filter; where stupidity and wrongness went to live. It filled slowly over days and weeks and sometimes months and I had ways of emptying some of it but eventually it would always fill and overflow. That was the closest I could come, even after years of therapy, to making sense of it.

Christopher's words weren't a bullet that pierced a hole which let my implosion escape but rather a brick dropped into my bucket. It created a giant splash and things sloshed over the edges as it took up every ounce of remaining space and settled to the bottom, disturbing each layer as it sank. I was out of room and the bucket was too heavy to carry any more.

It was coming and I could visualize it; the rubber band was pulled so tightly that the seemingly smooth elastic had gone pale and I could see the cracks. Soon it would start to split and I'd have only a microsecond before it snapped back on me.

I love you. I'd heard those words before. From my mother, even my father on several occasions although he was more tight-lipped and knew it was hard for me to hear so he only said it now and then. She said it often, so often that I was used to it and it felt no different than a hug or an impertinent question. I could deal with it and I knew the proper response. She knew what to expect from me in return and there was little stress associated with it.

I'd heard it from a sub once when I didn't renew his contract. It had been an attack, a blunt declaration in a tirade that seemed, at the time, never ending. The offending three words didn't stand on their own enough for it to barely register let alone bother me more than the rest of the hate and pain he was spewing. I took it in stride because it was laughable and he didn't mean them anyway.

But to hear those words followed by Sir? From him? The boy I'd made so many concessions for, the boy I was closer to than any other? Christopher had said it kindly and hadn't waited for a response. Perhaps he knew I wouldn't have one at the ready, that I would need time to process his words. Or maybe he was nervous about my response and scared; was he alright? I should text him, he'd had a long day and I didn't want him crashing or upset. I was running out of time though, I had to prioritize.

I went into my bathroom and got myself a cold cloth, then ripped my shower curtain down and brought the rod along with it. I tossed it into the tub, frustrated with it for bending to my whim. My hands were shaking and vision blurring already; I needed to be safe. This room was too hard so I fled to the relative safety of my bedroom.

Did I love him too? Maybe, in my own way. Not like he loved me though and I would never be able to show it in the ways he did or would understand. My mom had once asked me if I loved her. The only answer I'd been able to come up with was that I would gladly give her a kidney or save her from a burning house. I would DO things for her. Did I think to call her once a week without scheduling it into my plan? No? Would I cry at her funeral? Probably not. Are those things required for love? Maybe. Would what I could offer be enough for anyone else? Doubtful. I understood my limitations.

I needed to sit down but I didn't have my phone. I turned in a circle as if doing so would make it magically appear. The door was thrown open and the knob banged against the wall as I stormed into the kitchen and grabbed the offending object from the counter. Of course, of course it couldn't just BE WHERE I NEEDED IT. I dropped it in the hallway when my numb fingers lost their grip, then kicked at it and considered bringing my heel down on it before telling myself that I was a stupid fuck and managing to pick it up.

I was too tired for this, I was too exhausted to even pretend I had the stamina or control to explode just a little and temper the implosion. It was useless, I simply had to go through it. I wiped at the tears on my cheeks, holding my finger to the light looking for what? Answers? There were none.

What was to be done aboutChristopher? He loved me or was deluded enough to think he did. I wasn't sure if it really mattered though, a panic attack is a physiological response whether or not there is actually something to fear. It would be easy to tell myself that I would just end his contract but I knew it wouldn't happen. I wouldn't penalize him for how he felt or for being honest with me about it.

I glanced at the clock, annoyed that this damn meltdown was completely destroying my night routine. I get that neurotypical 'normal' people see my routines as at best, annoying and worst, downright debilitating but they WORK. Usually. I don't wake up wondering what I'll have for breakfast; I know. I don't get into bed and decide what time to set my alarm for; it's set. I had work tomorrow and I was still going to be a mess. The office was short staffed due to the holidays the week was sandwiched between and I couldn't be late. There was nothing to be done, I couldn't prevent what was going to happen. I would do the best I could do tomorrow. After.

There was a list of things I should be doing for myself right now. Things that would make my recovery quicker and easier but currently seemed impossible. I had my cloth, I had my corner and I had my phone and that would have to do. It was the bare minimum but I was grateful even for this. I yanked the blanket off my bed and wrapped it around my shoulders, padding was never a bad thing and it was cool down on the floor. My phone came tumbling down as well and I considered calling someone. Most implosions I dealt with on my own but there was so much to talk about and this was going to be rough. The list of people I could trust to see me this way was very, very short. The number of people who would help or at least not make it worse was fewer still.

I didn't really think, complex thought was too hard right now. I just pushed call. I hated to ask for help, hated it to the core of my being. It felt like a failure and was a huge burden to take on when I was already so close to tipping.

"I need to see you now" I stammered.

That done I stopped fighting and let myself spill.

*** The End ***

Guys/gals/patients/fellow humans -- thank you SO much for going on this crazy, frustrating, amazing, wild ride with me.

Did you ever imagine during book one understanding Greg at ALL? He seemed so cold and crude, didn't he? When we all meander over to the next book we'll have to remind ourselves that we probably know Greg's thoughts a lot better than Chris does. We'll likely do a lot of screaming things like 'That's not how he meant it Chris!' :)

So again, thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the time and energy you spent reading my little story. You're amazing!

Take care of yourselves :)