Maybe This Is Love, |✔️

Chapter 1

She unclenches her fingers and puts her board down on the little red table beside her.

"You know the kindest thing you can do for yourself is make friends because every new friend is a new adventure and the start to new memories." She says, reciting the quote from the silly cat poster on her wall.

She's saying all this as if I even asked for my brain to work like this. I'd give an arm and leg to be able to talk about my feelings like normal people do. I'd give an arm and a leg for a miracle to happen that would make me talk at all.

I think about what she said for a while as I try to string a few words together for a response. "Thank you... but the time is up...and I'm gonna be late." Even that was a struggle for me to say out loud.
But it is progress after all.
She waves her hand and sighs as if she's permitting me to leave.

"Don't forget what I said!" She calls out to me as I rush out of her office.

I step out into the wind and instantly realise it may have been the wrong day to wear this not warm enough sweatshirt.

I think about the day I got the diagnosis. It was exactly one month after Papa died and I felt like the bad times would never get going.
My world was filled with darkness that found its way inside of me.
I couldn't talk.
Nothing motivated me anymore to speak. My other dad barely spoke too since he was still dealing with the tragedy of losing his husband. My brother was all cooped up with A-levels and using that as a distraction rather than just addressing the fact that Papa left us. I was all alone. At least, it sure felt like I was.

I remember standing in the family's GP office with my older brother. He had been so stressed that day, he had his first mock exam in the afternoon but he had to take me before he went. He was sitting in the corner of the room in one of those uncomfortable skinny waiting chairs, anxiously running his hands through his buzz cut, shiny jet black hair. He was probably just as scared as I was.
We didn't speak much before we left. He just took my hand and dragged me there.

As soon as I heard the words 'Avoidant Personality Disorder' exit the doctors mouth, a lot of things began to make sense to me.

Hearing him describe all the symptoms was like putting pieces of a puzzle together. It was the main reason why I barely had any friends or why I felt so inferior to everyone else. I had even felt like this before Papa died. His death only amplified my emotions.

I couldn't eat, sleep or even talk to anyone.
I couldn't even talk to Pops and that's why I sometimes feel responsible for the way he is now.
The doctor said eventually my selective mutism would go away and I just needed to keep working at it. He suggested a bunch of therapists that could help.

I could see the look of relief on Silas' face. He was just glad I wasn't bipolar like our Papa. To him, AvPD was much 'safer' and less volatile in comparison to what our Papa had. To him, it was no big deal, something I could overcome. But to me, it was like a kick in the face.

Silas knew I could get treated, and hopefully, I'd be all better in a matter of months or years. To him, it meant I wouldn't be like dad and that's all he wanted to hear.

He treated me to an ice cream sundae in the old diner in town before he rushed back to school and even let me get extra maraschino cherries.

That was four years ago.

Now, I gaze onto the streets of central Beaumont. The small crowds of people either taking their kids to the nearby primary school or going for a tea in the coffee shop next door. It's weird thinking how just by looking at someone you could never tell what kind of person they are or what kind of life they're living. Anyone could be anyone. I could be anyone.