CHAPTER FIVE: BRIBERY

One thing I've learned is it's better to be addicted to things than people. You get hooked on a thing and if someone takes it from you, you can find another source. Only people can really hurt you. Only people can push you out into the cold permanently.
-A.M. Riley

As a therapist, I can say with confidence that almost every trauma survivor I've ever helped has- -at some point- -said, "But I didn't have it as bad as some people." and then talked about how other types of trauma or addiction are worse. Even my most-traumatized, most-abused, most psychologically-injured residents here at Grey Estate say this. 

I've said this.

The ones who were cheated on, abandoned and neglected say this. The one who started down this path because of dangerous accidents or traumatic disasters say this. The ones who come here that were sexually abused in horrifying ways say this. The ones who were brutally beaten as a child, or domestically abused say this. The ones who were tortured with their own mind, gas-lighted for their entire lives say this. 

I think it's horrifying to me that the simplest thing that this can tell you is that the typical side effects of trauma to humanity is to make us believe that we are unworthy of care.

And as a therapist, as someone who helps people, I have to tell them not to buy into it, prove to them it's bullshit through and through. I have to show them it doesn't matter if someone else had it 'worse' than them or not, every person who has experienced something that devastated them in any way needs help. They need the attention- -and I have to remind them that's not selfish- -and the care anyone in my place will give them. 

They need to heal, and that's okay.

It's the hardest thing to get through to them, in my opinion.

Right now, I'm going to start this process with Micah. After the first two weeks of getting him used to being here, it's time to start therapy. With me as the therapist, of course.

It could seem wrong, but I did make a strawberry shake before coming down here to help him get more comfortable talking about all this. 

A little bribery is okay -right?

This is going to seem very odd to Micah because the way I have my therapy sessions isn't crammed into a office and for an hour on the dot, I've never done things the 'conventional' way.

And I'm never going to.

When I was doing therapy with Kace, we'd go on runs for hours at a time, we'd climb trees, we'd go swimming, we'd plant things and do the hard work it took for both our minds and body. He still uses those methods to help him.

The way I see it, nobody can constantly have a therapist and a couch right at their disposal, but they will have their body. He can always go for a run, and if he's too tired sitting somewhere and pulling weeds will do just fine.

Something Kace will always be able to do, always have with him no matter where he's at is himself and now I've taught that that, himself, is enough.

Right now, we're going to be baking. Micah told me one thing about his apartment- -he's living separately from his high-demand parents- -is that his kitchen is huge. That they buy him too much food, too much flour.

He can always bake.

I'm going to teach him to use himself too, from the shape his body is in he's used to exerting himself -but not in a good way. Change is on the way for this boy, whether he likes it or not. For the record, I know for a fact that he won't like it, not at all.

Which is clear as soon as he walks into Grey Estate's kitchen with a wide scowl on his face, looking like he's rather be staked through the heart than do anything with me in this place.

"I thought this was a therapy-" Micah spits the word like poison, and I don't blame him. "-session."

"How much do you like strawberries?" I ask instead of responding, smiling up at him. "Because I know the recipe for the perfect strawberry turnover that I think could change your life."

One day, I'm sure that Micah will remember my words and probably scoff, and he might even get a little mad before smiling at the hidden meaning. One day, he's going to realize what he's done for himself while doing these seemingly meaningless tasks and this is going to be after he leaves here, after he realizes I'm never going to be his therapist again.

Kace is going to leave in a month, it's going to be difficult, I'm going to miss him.

But it's for the better.

Now he can live.

And maybe in a year or two, he'll find me again and it will be like no time has passed, but I can't be his friend because I won't be just his friend. He'll rely on me too much. When he leaves here, I'll have to leave his life...and he might hate me for it.

But it's necessary.

Change is hard but it needs to happen, to ensure survival.

"Do you believe I'm going to fall for this shit?" Micah asks, lips pulled up in a snarl. "Seriously?"

I shrug, still smiling. "Well you're going to fall for something one day, why not something like this?" Nudging him in the side I giggle. "Besides, turnovers don't bite. Now come on, this dough won't make itself. These will turn out amazing and- -oh!- -the strawberries will smell really good when we jam them."

I gets apparent by the time the strawberries are done being made in the saucepan that Micah has absolutely no experience baking things for himself. 

This, of course, amuses me.

Making the dough sounds easy enough, but when it came time for Micah to open the fresh bag of flour he rips it a little too hard and shoots the powder all over himself -and the black sweatshirt I warned he should take off, for exactly a reason like this.

Trying not to laugh fails miserably, and I end up giggling behind my hand as Micah glares harshly at me.

"This isn't funny." He grunts, lips raising in a scowl. "At all." Before I could stop him one large hand comes up and smears the flour into the back fabric instead of simply wiping it away.

Standing on my toes, I ruffle that dark brown hair of his and watch as the flour falls around us -which, given, makes him a little angrier. "At least it's not cocaine."

Micah shoots me a deadly look then, and flicks me harshly in the forehead making me squeal as dash away from him -only to have him scoop flour that landed on the counter up in one hand and grab me by the upper arm. I give a half-scream half-squeal and try to run away, but before I could get anywhere at all the flour is dumped on my head.

He ruffles it into my blonde hair much like I ruffled flour out of his hair.

"Never mind," The green eyed boy smirks, looking me up and down as the wildness in his dark eyes spreads into the corners of his lips. "It's funny now."

"You're just lucky there's enough flour left for your strawberry shit, but just so you know if there wasn't I wouldn't feel bad about it." Saying this, it's clear Micah doesn't believe me. I huff and shake my head a little, making flour fall on the floor. "Can you measure out the flour or do you plan on spilling more?"

"Spilling more."  Despite his words, he doesn't let any more fall, and we get the dough mixed quickly. Rolling it out is fun, though when Micah did pick up the roller he held it like a bat -making me scold him.

Thinking for a second while his body is busy, I begin the real therapy session.

"What's your goal for being here?" I ask, keeping my eyes on him -though he doesn't look up to me. "You need to have one, and to understand that you can meet it. Even if it's small."

He shrugs, and doesn't even look to be thinking about it very much at all, like he either knew what he's here to do from the minute he was walked through the doors or that he doesn't care at all for goals even if he thought he could complete every single goal he through out there. "I don't care about any goal."

"Great!" My chirpiness clearly annoys him. "Then I'll pick it. I want you to get sober."

To become human.

"Wow. It's not like I'm in a rehabilitation center and won't leave until that happens anyway." His sarcastic reply nearly makes me roll my eyes.

"Listen, there's a difference from being thrown into a situation where you can't get high anymore and being sober." Those dark eyes finally lift from the dough and lock on to me, a eyebrow raised in curiosity. "You have to learn everything all over again, you have to stop being an addict the same time you make sure you don't become a monster. Social skills, coping mechanisms, triggers, life, school. You need to learn how to handle it all, and I promise you it will absolutely suck learning it again. It's as frustrating as knowing how to walk but having to take your first steps again, and just like that first time you'll fall down once or twice but the nice thing about that is after a while, you'll know how to get back up again."

His jaw clenches and Micah shrugs again, trying to seem indifferent but I can tell by the way his entire body is tensing up and breathing gets shallow that he desperately wants to believe that he can meet this goal. That I'm telling the truth. 

He's starting to get hope again, and as a former addict I can say that hope is one of the most lethally beautiful things known to man.

Hope destroys more than drugs devastate.

I smile lightly, knowing that in this case, I won't let Hope kill him.

"When I was recovering..." I say quietly, making Micah whip his head over to me from where he was now cutting the dough -not expecting that. It's weird -I almost forgot we're strangers. "It felt like hell was being dragged through my body and the demons there were really angry at the move. It was like...I felt like my hope was so small, it could drown in a sweaty palm."

Recovering from an addiction is like having someone screaming in your ear nonstop. 

Sometimes they get louder or softer, but they never actually stop. And sometimes you're so used to it that you're confused when you tune back into that screaming, and have to realize once again that oh yeah...someone's screaming in my ear. And sometimes it's so consuming that you can't concentrate on the person or task in front of you because, you know, someone is screaming in your fucking ear.

"My problems are a lot like yours, I had shivers constantly. I would break everything around me, push any options away from me. I wanted drugs, to forget." Taking a breath, I don't let the emotions get a hold of me. "My parents actually own this place, they built it the -oh gosh, what time? The fourth time I tried to killed myself, and got my heart to stop. It was like a wake up call, not for them to change, but for me to. That's why you see things carved into the walls around here, little penguins, dinosaurs, mangoes. I'd break mirrors, or cups and make scars on the walls when they wouldn't let me make scars on myself."

If my eyes aren't lying to me, I could have sworn I just saw his body shake in a shiver. And I know his hands clench against the counter.

"Why are you telling me this, it doesn't change anything."

"Au contraire, babe." I reply, now smiling. "It changes a lot. Now you know I understand a lot more than another washed up tired therapist that went from high school to college, then back again before landing the only job they could at a place like Grey Estate. I'm different, in a bad way. But that bad is really good for you." Winking makes Micah scowl. 

He gulps, black eyes scanning my features. "You're telling the truth?"

I nod, tilting my head at him. "Why would I lie about a thing like this?"

"To trick me." Micah answers simply, turning back to preparing the strawberry turnovers.

My smile only grows, "You have trust issues."

"Is this when the therapy starts."

Scoffing, I bop Micah on the nose, because of his work he can't slap my hand away to stop me. "The therapy already started about half an hour ago, but I'm glad you finally noticed."

He doesn't respond, after a minute I continue onto the therapy-talk that tends to make most people uncomfortable responding to.

"I hope you know I get why you're you. Having parents that were really angry and petty and abusive is weird, because it makes a part of us want to be kind, to make good things, to be peaceful and good for others. But another part of us wants to be quick, sharp and spiteful and that's always the part that shows itself first in a hard situation, so it's a struggle between our hateful gut reactions and our wish to not add more misery to the world. It's a hard balance, and I know that you know I can see the anger in your eyes before you quiet it, and how sometimes you can't quiet it...I want you to overcome years of conditioning, and with gentle but constant force I know you'll mellow that anger down. It just takes time. And patience. And waiting."

Micah shoves the turnovers in the oven, and slams it shut before facing me. 

I gulp, a little intimidated at the moment. Things were going mostly okay before this, and I have no clue what part of that made him oh-so mad. "I'm not trying to upset you, not yet anyway. Parents are a big deal, they're what shape your life the first eighteen years of your life. If they're perfect or abusive like yours, you need to learn to deal with everything they bring."

"I'm not abused." Micah snarls, dark eyes lowering into a menacing glare. "Don't fucking bring them up, you have no idea what you're talking about. Fucking freak."

I'm starting to think that when he calls me 'freak' he's actually referring to himself.

"You are abused." I protest, standing straight to look him in the eyes even after he steps closer to make me back down. "Neglect is abused, being ignored is abuse, leaving a child alone and them getting in danger is failure to protect -yet again, abuse. You're hurt, broken, damaged. But that doesn't make you unworthy of anything anyone else is. Abuse isn't your body's biggest problem, but it's your minds."

"My only problem is that I took to many drugs one day and got addicted."

"That's not how your addiction started, Micah, and you know that." It's clear that me never failing to meet his dark eyes isn't something that he likes, he only gets angrier. "You've been hurt, and not just by your parents. By yourself too. You're grieving, Micah, and that's okay but it's not okay to keep ruining yourself this way. You have to get better -for yourself."

"I don't have to do anything." Micah's voice becomes sharp and cruel, sounding like he should be saying something unprintable instead of a single word, or that maybe he should be hitting something from the way his muscles bulge and fists clench.

He storms off, accidentally knocking the dirty dishes off of the corner of the counter as his body slams into it in his rush to get away -probably bruising him where the corner digs into his skin.

I won't be surprised if he destroys his room.

Looking around I realize one thing with a smile, he took his shake with him.

After cleaning up the kitchen, giving Micah just enough time alone rather than me following him immediately, I walk into his room without knocking. There's a reason we don't have locks on the doors here, and in instances like this where a person is at high risk of hurting themselves it's mandatory.

The first thing I notice is his perfectly clean, untouched bed. The next is his strawberry milkshake spilled at the bottom of a pile of rubbish that I know was once his nightstand.

But, perhaps, the most important thing that I see is how the green eyed boy is sitting on the floor. He's crying, it's his first break down here, and I'm not quite sure what caused it. Unlike the broken wood and parts of drywall he punched through -there's no blood on the carpet.

"What do I do?" Micah croaks, lifting his head just enough to let me meet those dark eyes of his. "AJ?"

I can't quite remember if this is the first time he's saying my name, instead of calling me one, but what I do know is that he's asking me for one of the few things I can actually give him.

Advice.

"Sometimes," I begin. Bending down I crouch in front of him, and don't touch him -he seems like the kind of person that when he's genuinely upset he doesn't like to be upset. "You have to go through something to get through it."

Those dark eyes of his changes, and fills with tears once again.

I get the meaning, he still doesn't know what's happening. He's confused, in pain, and he wants it to stop but doesn't know how to make that pain go away -that's why he's destroying himself, because he can't make that pain go away but he can cause himself pain, and this pain he can control, he can pick when he starts feeling it and when he stops.

"That means, you can't get healthy until you get all this poison out. That's why your nose runs and you throw up when you're sick, because your body needs to get all the bad stuff out. You have to go through this pain and depression to get through it, to get happy again. Nobody can just flip that switch, it's impossible." I know that better than anyone. "Be honest to yourself through this process, and be honest to me every step of the way. It will be painful and horrible, it will make you shout at the top of your lungs and break down and push me away and I need you to know that's okay. You can do that. You can scream, punch everything, cuss me out and cry every day, you can throw my smoothies back at me and you can intimidate me in any way you want. It will be okay. You can show your sadness, your pain, your hurt, it's okay. But the thing I won't let you here, is flinch. Flinching means that you're trying to hide away when you're hurting at the same time, and I don't let people hide when they're in pain. Which, given, might seem like it's hurting more, that it's like rubbing salt in an open wound but I promise you."

My grey eyes meet his dark ones, and I smile the biggest genuine smile that I can.

"I'm not giving up on you. I'm not flinching in this way, I'm not going to hide from you. I'm going to help you, and it's okay to want help. It's not selfish at all. So stand up, wash the glass out of your knuckles. We're going on a run and you're going to sweat this out, okay Babe?"

"Don't call me babe."

"Still afraid of that word?"

"Not afraid." Micah says, but the way those green eyes of his look when he does it lets me know there's something else there.

But that something, it's not fear.