April 10, 2013

I went to Dr. Carrion’s office today for my bi-weekly check-up session. We have all agreed that we will conduct our meetings every Wednesday and Thursday, so that means I will return here tomorrow.

Her office is quite an interminable distance from our suburban neighborhood, but it’s not far enough for me to need someone to go with me or anything like that. My uncle and my cousin Ivan wanted to accompany me there, but I insisted on going alone, so I could be more independent and take care of myself with no one’s help. They both reluctantly agreed.

My session with Dr. Carrion went well. She started asking the usual stuff about my day while I’m laying on a very soft and very comfortable couch in her office. She asked me about my week, my recent job, and my unfamiliar environment with my uncle. I didn’t really find the reason to lie on these questions, so I answered truthfully: life sucks, the job has some oddball customers, and living with my uncle is excellent, but I can’t say the same thing about his wife. I also confided that I am quite fond of my cousin. Dr. Carrion took these pieces of information seriously, giving no patronizing replies that I often hear from my other relatives ever since mom died. I liked that about her. I guess that just shows how superb she is at her job.

She then asked me about how I was feeling after what happened when I went to that Megachurch gathering called Plural Heights.

This question took me aback.

To be honest, I don’t know why encountering this question shocked me so much. Obviously, that incident with the religious gathering and what happened outside of the coliseum still haunts me terribly, so I became silent for quite a while before answering. Based on how Dr. Carrion stayed quiet during the entire thing, I can somewhat guess that she really wants to push me to open up about this topic. Usually, she would say that I didn’t have to tell her anything if I’m not ready for it. Well, to be fair, I don’t even know why I’m hindering myself from remembering what happened even when it’s affecting me a lot.

I told Dr. Carrion the truth—the whole truth. I told her I would get frequent dreams about that incident. I also admitted that it affected me on my job a lot. I confessed that I saw the real Lucas Buckley on my first day in my job and how that honestly messed up my mind so damn much that I seriously am afraid of going to my job in fear that I will see that man named Lucas Buckley again. I also recounted that time I met Lucas Buckley at the supermarket and how I almost nauseated myself just by looking at his grin alone. The man does not have any ill intentions in all of our meetings, but what had happened to me during the Plural Heights gathering really affected me.

Dr. Carrion showed me her usual poker face while listening to me talk as she started scribbling whatever she has to write about on a piece of paper. Perhaps she’s listing the many things wrong with me, and the hundreds of complaints she may have before throwing me into a mental hospital. I started remembering Lucas Buckley again at that point. Every time I recall his face, it would always be an image of him with a hole in his forehead. I would remember why such a vision existed within me. How I shot him dead. But I would always forget about the fact that the entire thing was just an illusion. It just feels so real. I can even remember the smell of the smoke that came out of the gun.

There’s really, really something wrong with me.

As I wallowed in my own self-deprecation, Dr. Carrion spoke again and asked me if I wrote any of these worries in my journal. I told her I didn’t. I wrote everything that happened to my day, but none of them included most of the negative things that I have felt. This is the first time Dr. Carrion’s poker face shattered and turned into a slight frown. She asked me why I didn’t do so, and I just replied by saying that I cannot find the strength in me to write about such awful, awful things and remember them again so that I could write them on paper.

Dr. Carrion seemed to have understood what I felt. She told me I shouldn’t force myself to do anything that would give me more stress since I’m already dealing with so much, but she further clarifies that the point of having a journal is to let out everything that I’m feeling as a way of talking to myself. She told me that this is a way for me to have a conversation with soul, to release all the emotions that might have been building up deep within the crevices of my heart, and to allow myself to have a sense of ‘catharsis.’ Dr. Carrion explained that catharsis means washing up all the dirt in my body and draining it all away while the journal is a container that I can use to store all the things ailing my psyche.

I think that’s a beautiful way of seeing this rather mundane and ordinary activity.

And yes. Fuck me for even having these bullshit thoughts about Lucas Buckley. I fucking hate myself for having these murderous thoughts about him. I’m fucking sick! I’m absolutely fucking SICK! He had a conversation with me during my shift with good intentions, and the only thing I saw while looking at him is a pale corpse with blood dripping out of a hole in his forehead. Fuck. These. Thoughts! I fucking the fact that I troubled a man who’s only doing his job well as an actor and let it affect me in such a personal and emotional sense that I can’t even look at him in the eye when we bumped to each other in the supermarket yesterday. I fucking hate myself!

I fucking hate the ‘me’ who was not good enough for my mother.

The ‘me’ who has been living in a hole for years just because some horrible motherfucker called me a fag and a loser and a bitch.

The ‘me’ who wasn’t even there for my mother when she died.

The ‘me’ who can’t help my older cousin when he’s clearly suffering after what his bitch of a mother did to him.

I FUCKING HATE MYSELF!

I fucking hate myself for allowing my uncle’s wife to say those things about me and enable her to belittle me every single step I take. I fucking hate myself for leaving my cousin while he’s not in the right headspace and letting him believe that it’s okay to suffer alone and contain all of his emotions deep inside of him. I fucking hate myself for troubling my co-worker, George, because I got so bothered by having Lucas on my sight. I am so, so fucking tired of telling myself that these feelings are not real. I’m so tired of thinking I can just hide and bury it away from me! Enough is enough, I say! I am tired of trampling on myself every single day and letting my thoughts conquer me.

Enough!

ENOUGH!

When I left Dr. Carrion’s office, I immediately talked to my cousin Ivan and told him he’s special, that he’s loved, and what he’s feeling inside is valid. I wish to express that I am here for him and that he doesn’t have to suffer alone. I’m not sure if I said those words well, but when Ivan heard me, he immediately cried out loud as he wrapped me in his embrace. He said nothing. He just cried for hours until he fell asleep. I’m currently writing this journal in my cousin’s room. I want him to see that I’m still here when he wakes up.