OCTOBER 11, 2020 / THERAPY
Being Ryanel's boyfriend came with only one condition.
Asher had to go to therapy.
Asher didn't think he needed therapy, not after having properly functioned and succeeded for years after his accident. He started a non-profit organisation and won a national motocross competition. What said 'thriving' more than that?
But Ryanel was adamant. Asher's dependency and mental health had been a recurring issue when they'd dated the first time, and Ryanel believed Asher had a lot about himself to untangle — not that he told Asher any of this. He put therapy out there as a take-it-or-leave-it agreement.
Best to let Asher discover this on his own.
In all his twenty-four years, Asher had never gone to therapy before. Sure, he had received multiple lifetimes' worth of counselling following his amputation, but — as he would learn — there was a difference between the two. Not that Asher knew specifically what it was yet.
If he had to wager, he'd say that counselling tried to help him problem-solve from the outside, in. Counselling said, this shitty event happened to you, and here's the ways it's made you feel shitty, and here's some things that might help you get through.
Therapy tried to help him problem-solve from the inside, out. Therapy said, you've actually been feeling shitty inside for a long time, and that's why external events easily send you into a downward spiral of shitty-ness.
This was all according to Asher's first three confronting therapy sessions, at least.
He nearly didn't return after the third session. Being told that his mind was somehow self-perpetuating his suffering felt like an insult to the very real, very tangible obstacles he had faced over his life. Was he to blame for being diagnosed with a bone condition, or for his mother's death, or for being hit by a drunk driver? Was it his fault for not getting over it quickly enough?
"No, of course not," Pallavi, his therapist, said. "I'm glad you returned, Asher. Let me elaborate on what I said during our last session."
Asher leaned back into the leather chair. One good thing about this very expensive, very time-consuming routine was the comfortable furniture boasted by the clinic. "Go ahead."
"To put the way you feel down to events that happen to you is a completely fair response, but in doing that, you're suggesting, in a way," Pallavi explained carefully, "that if those events didn't happen to you, you would be completely happy."
Asher remained silent. He wasn't blatantly yelling at Pallavi in protest, though — which he had done last time — so she took it as a positive sign to continue.
"I think being diagnosed with imperfecta and your mother's death were the two formative moments of your childhood that changed the way you think about the world. Correct me if I'm wrong."
Silence.
She pushed on, "Last time you were here, you told me that you've always felt like you were waiting for bad things to happen, that feeling low was the natural state of your emotions, sprinkled with good times — rather than the other way around. Again, correct me at any time."
Silence.
"So, here's my thinking, what if you had never been in the crash? I still don't think you would be happy and peaceful. I think you would still be braced, anxious or looking over your shoulder, waiting for the next tragedy to strike. "
"Well, yes," Asher said after a lengthy pause. No-one said therapy would be comfortable, but he didn't expect to feel so excruciatingly exposed, sitting in the plush, cushioned chair. "Isn't that the normal way to feel?"
Pallavi's eyebrows rose in surprise, nearly imperceptibly, before her professional mask slipped back onto her features. She scribbled some notes onto Asher's patient file, then said, "No. Not at all."
"Then . . ." Asher paused again. "I don't know what else to say. I've never known another way to live."
"You don't have to say anything. Take some time to think about this, and the way this has affected your adult life."
For Ryanel, for the health of their future relationship, Asher really tried to be constructive. He took on Pallavi's explanations and considered them for a moment.
"I guess, I don't know what it means to be happy and peaceful. Sustainably," Asher began.
He'd learnt how to talk about his mental health from previous counselling sessions, but he still needed the encouraging nod from Pallavi to feel confident enough to speak further.
"I always thought happiness was temporary — I still do, actually. So when good things come into my life, like my relationships, and my racing, I hold on really tight. Because they will eventually leave."
Pallavi nodded, deep in thought. "I think it would be helpful if you get tested for depression."
Asher's mouth dropped open in shock. "I don't have depression. Okay, I've been depressed before, but that was after my amputation. And I may have a bleak outlook on life, but I'm not depressed or suicidal or anything."
"Depression isn't necessarily feeling sad all the time, Asher. You can have a very fulfilling life and still be depressed."
"That may be the case, but I think you're wrong."
"I appreciate you telling me that, and we can move on from this if you want. I'll just add one more thing," Pallavi suggested calmly. "Do you know what some common symptoms of depression in men are? A constant sense of impending doom. Mood swings. Feeling disconnected or isolated from your immediate surroundings, activities and relationships. And using reckless or highly stimulating behaviour as a crutch."
Asher narrowed his eyes at his therapist, but dutifully thought on her words.
Impending doom. He thought to his childhood, when he had started talking about future pain as a surety. That certainty constantly bristled at the nape of his neck like an avenging ghoul.
Mood swings. Asher thought about his adolescent mood swings, supposedly just part-and-parcel of being a hormonal teen. He'd learnt to force himself out of bed when he felt immobilised by lethargy, to smile when he felt debilitated by isolation. He'd taught his body to push through it all. But they'd never really stopped.
Feeling disconnected. He thought back to when he had completely physically recovered from his amputation and was the CEO of a non-profit. To when things were inexplicably turning grey and monotonous and tasteless. To when he told Tallulah, then merely a stranger, that he felt impossibly empty inside.
Reckless behaviour. Asher thought back to the day he bought his first motorcycle — it had been to mental extend the escape afforded to him by bicycling. To the moment he decided not to tell his motorcycle club that he had osteogenesis imperfecta. To the way only racing could reignite the spark inside him.
Was it not supposed to be this way?
The very idea that there was another way to live sounded fantastical to Asher. Inside, he was still suspended in a shark cage, as he had been at nine years old, when his mother died.
As he had been at sixteen, the night he'd lied to his father about going out drinking.
As he had been at nineteen, sprawled out on the icy, smoky road.
As he had been at twenty-two, grasping onto romance and motocross as he would a lifeline.
As he was at twenty-four, right now, still inside the shark cage.
And Asher realised that if what he felt was depression, then he'd never known any other way to live.
His shock must have shown on his face.
"Depression is not a death sentence, Asher. Many people struggle with the same things you do."
"Doubt it."
"The same internal struggles," Pallavi corrected. She glanced again at his patient file. "Your interests in science, your desire to give back to the vulnerable and your care for your loved ones are wholly independent of everything bad that's happened to you."
His therapist was always clinically professional, but Pallavi gave him the first comforting smile he had seen on her face.
"Your first condition never defined you, so I don't believe for a second that another would, either."