The Apache Boy

1

"As of 4:23 PM on November 27 I feel good. If you'd have asked me two or three months ago my answer definitely would have been different. My life was a mess, to be honest with you. But things have gotten better and I've gotten better. I just need to focus on that and keep it that way. And I can do it, I know I can."

It's plain to see that Dr. Abbott doesn't believe me. If I were in his shoes, I wouldn't either. I mean, just look at the things I did. How could any sane person believe I was suddenly "okay" again? I sure as hell wouldn't. Despite that, the look he gives me irritates me. "Avery, it is a perfectly acceptable thing to admit weakness. The whole reason you are sitting here is to work through your imperfections. You cannot expect to improve without any degree of closure. I need you to be honest with me."

I sigh. "Look, I understand it sounds crazy. But I'm fine. Things are different but things are good, and I see that now." Dr. Abbott studies me quizzically for a moment before adjusting his position in his overstuffed armchair. His whole office is overstuffed, if you ask me. Degrees and certificates cover the walls and books about psychoanalytical hocus pocus cover every flat surface. The whole thing has a pretentious ambiance that I don't much care for, but my parents absolutely insisted on this. Well, my parents and the hospital staff.

"Did you bring the journal?"

This was what I was dreading. Last week, on my first appointment with him, Dr. Abbott tried to "get to know me on a personal level"; this consisted of prying more or less my entire life story out of me, leading up to the bit he was really interested in. That's the whole point of the journal: the juicy part. He had told me to spend the week between that appointment and this one writing about where it all went wrong and what went through my head and why I reacted the way I did. He even gave me a fancy leather-bound notebook to do it all in. And so I spent hours in my room, hunched over the fancy schmancy book. I laughed and I cried and I punched a hole in my wall and I screamed at the air until my throat was raw and I smiled like a maniac reading and rereading the good parts for hours on end.

Most importantly, though, I realized that it was all okay. Maybe it didn't feel okay at one point. Maybe it would never be the okay I imagined it would be. But it was okay.

"Yeah, I have it right here," I say, reaching into the pocket of my coat. The man can furnish his office with everything but a coatrack, apparently, so I'm forced to set it next to me on the couch. When I try to hand him the thing, though, he shakes his head. "I want you to read it to me. As much as you can in the next half hour or so until the end of the appointment." I swallow. "Yeah, okay. Here goes." I fumble my way to the first page and take a deep breath.

"Welcome to my jumbled mess of a life."

When was the last time you felt alive? I understand that coming at you with a question like this right away is a little extreme, but I think it's important for you to get it. When did you last say "fuck it" and go a little crazy? When did you last feel that rush of adrenaline that comes only a few times in your entire life? When did you last want to laugh until your stomach hurt while simultaneously wanting to cry because everything is so damn beautiful and terrible all at once? Maybe you can't remember that time, or maybe that time hasn't come for you yet. For me, though, that time was all the time this past summer. Not many people can say they've felt like this for months at a time, and I can, so I feel sort of special about that. There's another question: when did you last feel special?

Wait, scratch that. I'm going to save that one for a little later. I'm sorry, I'm pretty new at this storytelling thing. I'm just trying to get you to see where I'm coming from. It was probably stupid to write in pen since I have no idea where I'm going with this yet, but I'm going to be extra careful from now on.