I Wish You All the Best(18)

“Informed consent?”

Dr. Taylor walks over to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room, sifting through the rainbow of folders situated there. “It’s an important procedure, where I lay out everything I’ll be going over with you, the limits of what we’ll be discussing, as well as the benefits of treatment, and, more importantly”—she walks back across the room and hands me the stack of paper—“confidentiality.”

I take a deep breath through my nose, trying to read through everything the documents entail. Sure, there’s the Hippocratic oath and everything, but I don’t even know if that’s supposed to apply to therapists, or if that’s just the surgery sort of doctor. This woman hasn’t given me anything to base a level of trust on.

But the papers lay it all out, or at least they seem to. “We can go over each part step by step if you like.” Dr. Taylor leans in closer. “But I swear to you that unless I think you are an immediate threat to your own life or someone else’s, I’m not going to tell a soul what goes on in here.”

“I … I’m sorry.” This weird sense of shame creeps up my face.

“You don’t have to be sorry, Ben. I realize it’s scary, I can only imagine what you’ve been going through these last few days, even months.” Dr. Taylor speaks quietly. “But that’s what I’m here to do. I want to help you, help understand what you’re going through.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s what I’m here for. Do you want to go through the forms?”

“If we’ve got time?”

“Sure. We can review them while we talk.”

It’s a lot. There are some things that are simple or self-explanatory, but there’s even more that I don’t understand. Then Dr. Taylor says, “So are you out to your sister?”

“Oh, um …” I flip through the next page and read briefly over what it says, sign my initials where Dr. Taylor tells me it’s needed.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

I try to breathe. “I mean, I’m out. To her. And to Thomas. I sort of had to be, didn’t I?” I try to laugh, but even to my own ears it sounds forced.

“Are you comfortable with that?”

“I have to be, don’t I?”

“No. Of course, circumstances were out of your hands. I know in this scenario, telling them why you’d been forced out of your home was the easiest option, and maybe the only one. But that doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

“They’re trying. Hannah and Thomas correct themselves when they use the wrong pronouns.”

“That’s good. And what about at school? Are you adjusting easily?”

“I mean, it’s school. I’m not out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Uh-huh.” Dr. Taylor clicks her pen and adds that to her notes. “Do you want to talk about that?”

“Nothing to really talk about.”

“You think so?”

“Doesn’t exactly feel safe.”

“That’s a fair point.” There’s this shine in her eyes, and I expect her to fight me on that, but she doesn’t.

“But?” I say.

“No ‘but.’ Have you met anyone at your new school? Any new friends?”

“No.”

“Really? That’s a shame. No one at all?”

“No,” I repeat. “No one.” We’ve reached the last of the forms. I read over it quickly before I sign my name. Dr. Taylor flips through all of them one more time before she gathers them all up.

“Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

“Like?”

She shrugs. “Anything you feel that may help me know you better. Or anything specific you’ve been dealing with?”

“I don’t think so.” There’s Mariam, but that feels like a private thing, something I don’t need to share here. Not right now, at least.

“Okay.” Dr. Taylor stands up, tossing her notepad on her desk.

“Okay?” My eyes follow her all the way to her desk. “Is that all?”

“For today.” She slides open a drawer and grabs a small pamphlet. “I’d like to keep seeing you, Ben, if you want to, that is. But I also have something here.” She holds the paper out for me to take.

“What is it?” I flip it over in my hands, reading the header, which is in bright multicolored letters.

“It’s a support group for kids on the LGBTQIAP+ spectrum.”

I open my mouth to speak, but she sticks up a finger to silence me. “I know, but not all the members use ‘queer’ to identify with. I’d like you to think about attending. It’s mostly young adults and teens. I really think it could help.

“They usually meet every other Friday around six thirty. Just think about it.” I eye the pamphlet, reading the contact information and address for the meeting on the back. “Would you be open to seeing me again?”

I consider it for a second. I mean, I don’t really feel any better, but am I supposed to after just one meeting? I really just sort of want to go home, crawl into bed, and wait for tomorrow. “I guess.”

“You don’t have to,” she adds.