CHAPTER SEVEN: IGNORANCE

The biggest potential for helping us overcome shame is this: We are "those people." The truth is...we are the others. Most of us are one paycheck, one divorce, one drug-addicted kid, one mental health illness, one sexual assault, one drinking binge, one night of unprotected sex, or one affair away from being "those people"–the ones we don't trust, the ones we pity, the ones we don't let our kids play with, the ones bad things happen to, the ones we don't want living next door.
-Brené Brown

"It's too soon!" I whisper-shout at Lorenzo- -the case worker who's in charge of setting up meetings for patients. Usually they have to get approval from a therapists, and even requests from us ourselves, but Micah's parents paid Lorenzo to make sure he'd put them through.

Micah being himself, didn't protest.

If his parents wanted to they'd drag him out of here in a second, and I think some part of this broken boy knows that this place is helping him. That he's actually getting better.

After the first two months, it will be easier to see that.

His parents, Ruth Valencia-Rex and Quincy Rex, are in the next room over waiting in the entrance of the front office.

Lorenzo didn't tell me, instead told Micah they're coming when I was at school. I came home early, not wanting to deal with my third period, and found Micah sitting in his room with cracked knuckles and red eyes.

He'd been crying.

And this asshole is only looking for a payout. If he wasn't friends with my father, I'd fire him this instant.

"This isn't too soon! He can see them like he has every day since he was born, Rex will be okay, you're supposed to trigger him, aren't you?" The case worker sneers, picking up all his file papers and moving around me but I follow him. "There, now you have your first little experiment all set up."

"They aren't experiments, and this isn't how you're supposed to trigger people. This is how you get people hurt, depressed and killed." I hiss at him, grinding my molars together. "He's too fragile to deal with this, and to digress from the progress he's making so far just for a few hundred bucks is bullshit Lorenzo. You can't do this. Tell them they have to go home, that you tried. Keep the money and move on."

"Can't." He smirks, light blue eyes filling with cruelness that nearly makes me flinch. "I'm getting paid most of it after, and it's a lot more than just a few hundred."

I'm nearly seething at this point, flushing with anger. "You're risking someone's entire mental health for 'a lot more than just a few hundred' even though they're already high risk. If he hurts himself over this, or regresses, how will you live with yourself?"

"It won't be my fault, you're the therapist."

"It is your fault!" I shout, but quickly quiet down. "I have officially advised you not to do this, that he's not ready to see anyone in his family yet. Only his three best friends, that he asked for, are allowed to see him with my ruling. He's not ready yet, and no amount of money can buy him the capacity to deal with the anxiety his parents bring."

"Listen, girl." Lorenzo says the word like poison. "You think you know how the world works, and you think you're 'all that' because you have all these degrees and can call yourself a therapist but you don't know anything."

My instincts want me to punch him.

And boy do I want to listen.

"I know enough, I know a lot more about how big and bad this world is than you, and it's not because I got my degrees. It's a fact that Rex isn't ready to see his parents, and you're a man of bad morals for letting any amount of money change the facts. You're a bad person for risking someone else's, someone who's not even a real adult yet, someone who's been through so much...you're a bad person for risking their life when you already have a good one for yourself." I finally snap, stepping closer to get close enough to Lorenzo that he gulps. "And you're going to regret letting me know this."

"I won't-" Catching how shaking his tone in Lorenzo pushes me away, his anger getting the best of him. "I won't regret shit! Now go bring that boy down, or I will make your life here a living hell if I don't get that money."

"I've been through hell already, and you can't bring it."

This clearly catches him off guard, but the case worker merely sends me one last glare before pushing his way out the doors and into the small back building that contains the nurse's station and a few tiny offices for the security and people with jobs like him.

Calm down AJ, I tell myself, but even my thoughts sound bitter. He's not worth it.

"You didn't have to do that."

I jump out of my skin, turning so fast I'm surprised my neck isn't strained.

Micah stands infront of me, clad in his seemingly mandatory black sweatshirt with his impressively built arms crossed over his chest. He looks mad but also really...tired. His eyes are still red.

"Do what?" I ask, tilting my head at him as I let myself smile. "I just don't like that guy, he's a nut."

"No, you're a complete nut. That guy is a asshole." He corrects me, dark eyes scanning me. "You got mad, I didn't know you were capable of that."

Giggling, I shake my head at him. "Of course I'm capable, I'm human."

"Could have fooled me." Micah pauses, getting serious. "I have to go in there, don't I?"

"No." I don't make a joke out of this, and speak factually. "You don't. Your...your heart rate will increase, your temper will get bad, your anxiety will peak and you'll have that, that incurable itch to do things you shouldn't. There's no telling how this will affect you when you can't cope like you normally do, the best thing I can give you is a cigarette and something to squeeze or my hand if you'd like it. But you don't have to go in there. I'll tell them something, make up a story. Lorenzo will get over it."

"What do you think I should do?" Dark eyes stare down at me, observing every single react that my body has to him being around me, talking about this.

"I don't want you in there." I admit. "But I can't tell you what to do, I did make you a mango smoothie though, and I can tell you to drink that, but when it comes to a thing like this I can't tell you want to do. I can advise you, give you my opinion. It's your choice to make."

He gulps, "I don't like this being my choice."

"Yea," I nod. "I know you don't. Can I please just...listen to me, and take me seriously when I say this, okay?"

"Okay." Micah's lips quirk up at the sides in a amusement, probably due to the way I involuntarily stomp my slippers- -this time they're grey booty ones with tiny bells at the top- -every time I try to be serious. It's a habit, one that makes people do the opposite of what I'm trying to accomplish.

"Your addiction is valid, you are valid, all your thoughts and feelings. They're valid. Even if other people have experienced 'worse.' Even if someone else who went through the same experience doesn't feel as degraded by it. Even if it 'could have been avoided.' Even if it happened a long time ago. Even if no one knows or cares..."

Trailing off, I know both our minds go to his parents but I continue anyway.

"Your addiction is real and valid and you deserve a space to talk about it. It isn't desperate or pathetic or attention-seeking. It's self care. It's inconceivably brave. And regardless of what your parents or anyone else thinks, the magnitude of your struggle, you're allowed to take care of yourself. You do that by processing and unloading some of the pain you carry, in here, with me. Your pain matters. Your experience matters. And your healing matters. Nothing and no one can take that away, and I'll be damned if you try and take that away from yourself by giving in to all the bullshit you're about to hear."

"They don't think it's bullshit." Micah says dully, and I know my point is sinking in. "That's the worst part."

"I know they don't. Every time you get mad, or when they say something completely untrue, grab me and squeeze." I reply, looking right into his dark eyes.

Green.

They're so green.

"I'll defend you."

"Defending me against bullshit will be hard. My parents hate me, for everything I've done. For what I'm addicted to, because I drink. Because I know the things they do is wrong and I won't follow in their steps. I'm a disappointment. They hate me as a person, their own kid. And I don't blame them." Right then, as he says this, I begin to realize that even though we're strangers, we're a lot more alike than I care to admit.

"I'd blame them, what they did is put a bunch of related small facts together and got one big lie. And they're judging you for that lie, without knowing anything you're going through. They don't hate you as a person, because they don't know you." I conclude, jaw clenching. This story is a little too familiar. "They need to know what happened to you, what your own brain put you through, why you tried to take your own life, why it wasn't a selfish decision before they can actually judge you at all. It's about time they see that."

Something small that you realize when you're an addict and you laugh at, is how you've become the person your mother used to warn you not to become. We become the kids parents warn you about and fathers don't want you to date.

Not only does his parent think he's this person, Micah thinks he's this person.

Something that will change.

Sending Micah into the conference room is easy, it was double checking that he actually was willing to see his parents that was hard. He went non-verbal and glared at me the second I asked that question, acting like he didn't have a choice and was mad at me for convincing him otherwise.

His parents decide to talk to me before actually going in the room with Micah, which I would be glad for if they didn't instantly start to intimidate me with their stature and money.

Micah's father, Quincy Rex who is a sturdy man merely an inch shorter than his son who has his dark brown hair and pale skin, stares down at me -looking less than pleased with the fact that I'm his son's therapist.

"And you're actually certified?" Quincy questions me.

He must think I'm too young, or look unprofessional, or speak in a way the fancy therapists he's used to don't.

They already did the usual check in,  vague questions, fake smiles, blank eyes thing that most annoyed parents who hate having to send their kid somewhere have. They're not here for him, they're here to keep up an image. 

It's easy to tell the difference.

I almost grimace before catching myself, and smile at him though I'm sure this particular smile is obviously fake. "You had Lorenzo-" Stopping myself from saying his name in anger is harder than I thought. "-email you my entire credentials with proof when I took his case, and every nurse certificate that works with your son. I can assure you he's in the proper hands. It's very good that he's here, within two weeks he was showing major growth. And now after a month of him being here, he's one step closer to being rehabilitated with his addiction. Now depression is another thing, and with a case like his it's very important you don't disturb the way he's being treated -which is one of the reasons why I emailed both of you and asked you not to come until the third month when I've had more time to further understand and work through all his triggers with him."

"You think he's going to be here for three months?" Ruth asks, frowning with her red-stained lips pressed into a thin line. She has green eyes, but they don't look like Micah's despite the color being exactly the same.

Before I could answer Quincy holds up a hand to silence his wife, making me wince. "Are you saying we," Motioning to himself and Ruth, the business man leans over me -attempting to intimidate and sway my answer. "Are my son's triggers?"

"Of course you are." My voice is shaky, but I tell the truth. "You're not his only triggers, but you are one of the biggest ones. That can change, but you need to give it time. He's in here for a reason and to-"

"He's in here because he can't get sober or stop slitting his wrists." These words are hissed by no other than Micah's caring father, but that hiss is loud and sharp enough to be considered a shout. 

"He can't get sober and wants to slit his wrists because he doesn't know a better way how to go through life and all the triggers in it, and judging him for doing the only thing he can do is egotistical bullshit that comes with the superiority complex you have that makes you such a big trigger." I say, voice still soft but these words are worse than if I had just slapped him in the face and the way Quincy's ears go red prove this. He opens his mouth but I continue, not letting him interrupt me. "Like I said, you can and should change this."

Next I look to Ruth and smile more genuinely, which she seems a little relieved about.

Right like I don't want to rip her a new one.

"To answer your question Mrs. Valencia-Rex, he does have to be here for three months. In my professional opinion he should be here for six months of inpatient treatment and continue to come pack for therapy sessions, anger management and addiction control for another two years afterwards. He's an adult, so this is up to him to do, so I will be referring to what Micah wants to do every single time something needs to be addressed -unless of course he becomes delusional or in need of extreme medical treatment that he can't understand himself." My smile is real this time, and solely because I see the complete and utter annoyance on his parent's face as I say this. "So I won't make you a delegate leadership or authority here, but you can be assured I will keep you in the loop and weigh in every one of your opinions into the decisions I'm making."

This man does not like being told he has no say here.

Proving just those thoughts, Quincy takes a step towards me, making me step back only to find I was already in front of a wall. "If you don't answer to me when it comes to my son's care and personal needs, seeing as I'm the one paying here, I will stop paying for his stay, take him away and ruin any future career you have."

"Listen," I snap, standing straight as I realize Micah can see everything that's happening through the one way window, he probably just can't hear us. He knows I'm pressed against the room wall, so I can be intimidated all Quincy likes but I won't let it stop me. Micah deserves that much. "If you do that, I will reveal every dirty little detail that I know about you and your company. And if that's not enough for you, out of pure spite, I'll pay for your son's stay here and watch as the tabloids eat that up. You'll be ruined, Mr. Rex, but your son won't be and I don't think you have the mental capacity to deal with that."

At this point his flush is beet red, and I don't doubt he's the type of person to act pyshically against me. "That's a threat." Quincy seethes, practically hovering over me at this point as his fists clench at his sides. "It breeches client patient confidentiality."

Meeting his eye my smile never waivers, "You're not my patient, Mr. Rex."

"Honey, let's just go see Micah, okay?" Ruth pulls on Quincy's arm, he shakes her off. "We're here for him, aren't we?"

"Back on point, lovely!" I chirp, walking back to the middle of the hallway. "Any last questions before we go in, you only have a hour of time left." 

They can stay here until his dinner time, but I won't let them know that.

"He seems...fine now. Or looks fine anyway." The lovely mother says. "But you say he won't actually be okay to leave for six months."

"You assume there's nothing wrong with him anymore because he looks 'fine to you' but you don't know how much effort and pain it takes for him to even try and seem normal. He's not faking having an addiction, he's faking being okay when he's around the people in his life. Ignorance isn't bliss for him. He's battling to complete some of the most simplistic tasks that you, and the ones that judge him, completely take for granted." I answer, taking a breath before continuing. "Six months is the minimum that he should be here for, but that's not because he won't be okay for six months until the day he leave he is. Being okay isn't good enough, he needs to learn everything in his life again and that takes time. He'll be okay long before he leaves here, but learning how to deal with not being okay and having a good life is a different story. Micah is more than capable of being okay, he's just not capable of living a fulfilling life yet."

Ruth looks confused, so I continue.

"The way he's used to living right now is abnormal, it's preventing mental and physical health from flourishing. It's stopping him from progressing and goals and milestones in his life, and stopping him from reaching and normal daily habits that make a person's life fulfilled."

This, Ruth understands. "Okay. Can we go in and see him now."

I wish you wouldn't.

"Of course," I say, motioning them through the door. "Be my guest."

They greet him formally, and instead of asking him anything they start to talk about their own lives -their business, and even start turning towards me to talk about it until they don't include Micah at all.

His hand never leaves mine, he's not squeezing me but the way that he's holding it tells me if he could do that without hurting me, he would be. 

Micah doesn't like this, I don't either.

The way he's holding himself, it's like he's preparing for a blow. His dark eyes never lift up from the table and he doesn't make a move to speak or explain himself. Micah's broken, and they've broken him. This isn't how he should be triggered for the first time, they shouldn't be here.

But they know this.

"Oh," Ruth, who looks up to her stone-faced husband, coos at us. "We just loved going viral."

"So do infectious diseases." I mutter, but quickly clear my throat as I catch the way his father is looking at me -curious and a little mad. He doesn't know what I said, but he knows it probably wasn't good. "Is there anything you actually want to talk about? Health plans, the improvement he's made, Micah's goal for being here maybe -it would be better if you talked about him, focused on what's important. We all know you're successful with your business, so talking about it in this instance isn't helpful to anyone, certainly not your son."

They're not interesting in helping their son, but they can't deny that right to my face.

Ruth and Quincy stare at me, thinking. 

Do they honestly not know how to ask how someone is doing?

These two might need more help than their son. "He's doing better." I tell them, sounding a little too bitter to convince them my smile is real. "That's all you should know."

"He smells like smoke." Quincy says, looking disgusted over his son -Micah's jaw clenches. "Can you explain that?"

That's all he focuses on? "At Grey Estate we let people smoke here, given they respect other patients, take care of the ashes and don't hurt themselves with the cigarettes or lighters. It's a way to cope with the loss of his other addictive substances, without making him go cold turkey so his body doesn't go into a kind of shock."

"Cold turkey is better." I nearly snort when Quincy says this, but meet his challenging eyes with curiosity.

"How?"

"It teaches the body what it doesn't need. It's harsh, yes but it's effective."

Tsking, my lips twitch up. "It's not effective at all. It makes people more than likely to relapse, it's painful, it's torture. Cold turkey teaches people what to avoid. It makes them sick, physically sick. Imagine if you were drowning, Mr. Rex." Micah looks up to me when I say this, leaning forward to father. "And every time your head got above the water, an ice cold hand pushes you back down. You're still drowning, but this time it's different because someone is making you drown. And your body would spasm, your lungs would burn and your mind would go fuzzy and numb. It would be torture, Mr. Rex, because then the hand would move and you'd cough up all the water and breath again."

"I don't think this is an appropriate way to-"

"Excuse me, Mr. Rex, but I'm not done yet." I interrupt him for interrupting me. It's not as satisfying as I thought it would be to see the way he reacts to this, the clenching of the fists and glaring eyes. "You're drowning remember. But nobody else around you is drowning, so they can't understand and they judge you for getting water everywhere and every time you open your mouth to explain you don't know how to keep things dry that same water fills up your mouth and chokes you."

Quincy is glaring at me, Ruth is gaping but Micah is grinning right at me, green eyes looking to mine like I just solved a mystery that he's been working on for five years.

Tilting my head, I look back to the business man's eyes. "Now, you would have a choice here, to let that giant ice cold hand continue to drown you or you could always go and get a floaty. With both options, there's a chance you could die, of course, but the first once makes it so much more likely. And with the floaty you could stay warm. Tell me which option seems more appealing to you, Mr. Rex?"

He doesn't answer me, instead Quincy stands up and storms away, snapping his wife's name harshly while half way down the hallway. 

Ruth stands, looking over to me and Micah. "Thank you for letting us in, we'll come once a month to check on his progress."

"Once every other month will be perfectly fine for routine visits, and you can quote me on that. But for other therapy sessions or questions I'd need you for, I'll contact you myself and set it up. If Lorenzo contacts you again, asking you to come you won't be welcomed through the doors." I pause. "For any amount of money."

"Thank you." Ruth says stiffly. "You'll keep me in the loop?"

"I will."

She leaves, I stand to make sure they walk through security -so I can tell them not to let them back in without checking with me or Jamie first.

Once that's done I head to Micah's room, knowing that's where he would go. What I didn't expect, or rather, didn't know it would happen this soon, is for him to be sitting on his bed, clutching his head and weeping softly. He's probably having an anxiety attack.

"I have an anxiety disorder too, you know." My whisper doesn't make him lift his head, or stop the way he's clutching at his wrists. "It started with my parents, not because they would yell at me or if my dad threw something, but because I could tell nothing I did was good enough for them."

It's silent for several moments before I speak again.

"You know when you're in the car and your seat-belt locks up for no reason like it thinks you're about to crash...but the weird thing is that you're not. And then you're just stuck against the seat for a while? The seat is this feeling and the seat-belt is your anxiety, but remember, this is a car." I kneel in front of the broken boy, not touching him but close enough that it's undeniable that I'm there. 

"There's always a button, and right now you need to press it."

Taking a shuddering breath Micah releases his hold on his wrists and clutches onto me instead, pulling me into a hug as he continues to cry against my neck. Surprised, I try not to squeal, and focus on hugging him back instead.

Virginia Star once said that we need four hugs a day for survival, eight for maintenance and twelve for growth. I'm not sure about the exact science for this one, but I know she has the right idea. Hugs help, a lot.

Now, they're not mangoes, but they'll do.

I just didn't know Micah likes being hugged in this way, for this reason -that they're his relaxer.

But I definitely plan on using this to my advantage.