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With each therapy session, my mother sat in the room—something abnormal on all accounts, but she insisted upon it. With each session, I opened up more. Expressed what I dealt with in school and how it made me feel. Mother wasn’t keen on my responses. Perhaps they didn’t suitherneeds. She told the therapist she’d done her own research and was convinced she knew what waswrongwith me.
Thanks to my mother, in one session, the therapist teetered on the idea of me having anhedonia—the inability to feel pleasure.
What a crock of shit—the doctor and the prognosis.
For years, all I felt was the good, the wonderment, and the delight in the world. There had never been a dark cloud in my sky. Sometimes, I experienced the pleasure a little too much.
And perhaps, that is the problem.
I feeltoomuch.
But isn’t feeling too much part of being a creative? A fault in the genetic makeup of an artist, any artist. We feeleverything. Which is why we create. Why we draw or paint, journal or write, sculpt or build, play instruments or sing. So we have a way to release the pent-up emotion, a way to express what consumes our mind and soul. So we don’t lose our minds. Mostly.
Shelly and I walk along the park trail. I stay just a hair back so I have my favorite view of her profile. The one I stare after too much, yet not enough. Sunlight filters through the trees and dances over her prominent cheekbones, her toffee-blonde ponytail, the column of her throat. The play of light heats my skin more than hers. I lick my lips, swallow, then avert my eyes forward.
Don’t go there, Templar.
“Hey.” I bump her arm with mine. Her gaze shifts from the path, but only for a second. “Everything okay?” A shiver shakes her frame, but she tries to disguise the action by tucking a nonexistent stray hair from her cheek. A cold front swept through yesterday. The air a touch crisper today, but not cold. The sun warms us as we walk through the park. A hoodie on me, as well as her. “We can head back if you’re cold.”
She stops walking and I follow suit. In the front pocket of her hoodie, her hands squirm. Too fidgety to be from the temperature.
Is she nervous? Why would she be nervous?
Before I open my mouth to suggest we turn back, she speaks up.
“I’m not cold. And…”
She lifts her eyes to the trees. Her twilight irises twinkle in the sunlight as she thinks of what to say next. Moments such as this, I wish for telepathy. The ability to hear her thoughts. Hear them unfiltered straight from the source. To know what confounds her so deeply.
Then, I nix the idea. Because with the thoughts I want to hear comes the sentiments she keeps to herself. The ones I want to hear, want to reciprocate, but refuse to accept or return.
“Sorry,” she says after a long pause.
“Why are you apologizing?”
She lowers her gaze and I come eye to eye with Andromeda. Immerse myself in her starry eyes. Swallow past the expanding lump in my throat. Berate myself for leaving my sunglasses in the car because, right now, I feel completely vulnerable. Exposed. Nude in a crowded room. I love and despise the feeling. I crave and evade the eddy beneath my diaphragm. Beg for more while wanting to bury myself deep in the earth.
“Sometimes, it’s hard being your friend.”
My brows tighten. What does she mean?
Yes, I have been wishy-washy. Been open and interested one minute, then cold and reserved the next. I know this. But the stony mask is my shield. How I protect myself. How I protect her.
“Not sure what you mean.” I truly haven’t the slightest idea. And guessing will only dig a deeper hole.
Her steps resume and lead along the path again. Without hesitation, I follow her. “You confuse me.”
“How?”
“I’ve had guy friends all my life. When you have an older brother, it just happens.” I nod and hum, although siblings are foreign territory. “And none of them have been like you.”
Is this a compliment or an issue? Her tone gives nothing away.
“Thanks,” I say on a wince.
She laughs and knocks my arm with hers. I take it as a good sign. “Don’t be a weirdo.”
Laughter bubbles in my throat. “It’s who I am.” I shrug as if my awkwardness is common knowledge.
