Here the Whole Time(17)

Next to Cake Saturdays, Tuesdays are my favorite day of the week, because that’s when I get to meet with Olivia. A few weeks after I came out to my mom, she suggested I start going to therapy. At the time, I was a little scared because I wasn’t sure if she was trying to “cure” me, or if she thought I was crazy. She patiently explained to me that going to therapy doesn’t mean I’m crazy.

“By the way, a lot of people develop issues precisely because they’re not in therapy,” she said, laughing.

Talking to Olivia always makes me feel so good that I wait anxiously for Tuesdays. Therapy isn’t like cold medicine, where you take one pill and then feel better the next day. I remember the first time I met Olivia, thinking she was going to give me all the secrets to a happy life and I’d walk out of our session magically thin and hot. That’s not how it works; it’s a long journey. But trust me, this story would be twice as dramatic and three times more self-deprecating if it weren’t for my therapist.

I leave right after lunch, and when I get to her office, Olivia is waiting for me with the same smile she always wears. She’s Black and the tallest woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Her thick curls are always wrapped in a different way with a scarf, and her clothes are always very elegant.

I’ve never asked about her age because I don’t think there’s ever a right time to ask, “So, how old are you?” But I suspect she’s about fortysomething. She doesn’t look like she’s in her forties, but more like someone who tells you she’s forty and then you’re surprised because you would’ve guessed thirty.

Olivia’s office is small but very cozy. There’s no chaise longue like in the movies (to my disappointment), but there’s a big, comfortable armchair. I don’t feel as large sitting on it.

On the wall next to the window, there’s a shelf with a bunch of knickknacks. Most of them are little dolls sitting on a couch near a little sign that says PSYCHOLOGY. Of all of them, only one is Black. I guess that says a lot about the knickknacks industry.

“So, Felipe, how has your week been?” Olivia asks after welcoming me and offering water, coffee, and yogurt hard candy.

I pop a candy in my mouth as I think of where to start.

This week has been a whirlwind because nothing ever happens in my life, and then suddenly everything happened. In our sessions, I usually talk about my problems in school, or about how I managed not to cry for four days straight. But today I have a lot to say. So I spill it all out.

I tell her about Caio staying with us and how his presence makes me feel completely desperate. I tell her about how awful I felt when he saw me wrapped in the towel. I think about mentioning Caio in his pajamas, how it’s the most gorgeous sight in the world, but I leave that part out because it’s the kind of stuff that sounds ridiculous in your head but even more ridiculous when you say it out loud. I decide to keep Caio-in-pajamas all to myself. Instead, I tell her about the red shirt he picked out for me, and how I’d like nothing more than to talk to him about any and all things, but I can’t because I always end up deciding that I don’t have anything interesting to say.

“Whoa,” Olivia says as she looks at her notes. “A lot’s happened in the last few days, hasn’t it? But let’s take it one step at a time. First of all, I’m so proud of your evolution, Felipe. You were able to talk to your neighbor, and that’s wonderful!”

The difficulty I have socializing with others my own age is something we’ve worked on together since our first session.

“But our conversations are short, and he probably thinks I’m weird,” I answer, refusing to accept her compliments.

“One step at a time, Felipe,” she repeats. “This first interaction between the two of you is important, because if you’re open to dialogue, that means something. Do you feel comfortable around Caio?” she asks, her hand on her chin as if she were Sherlock Holmes interrogating a suspect.

“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t,” I respond.

“When do you, and when don’t you?”

“We talk at night. Before bed. But in the morning, I can’t say anything. I freeze and just end the conversation with an ‘aye, aye’, ” I say, frustrated.

“And do you know why that is?” Olivia asks, and I already know where she’s going.

“I think I do. In fact, I’m almost positive I do. At night, in the dark, I feel safer. Because he can’t see me.”

“That’s an interesting conclusion,” she says. “And do you intend to spend the next few days talking to Caio only at night and ignoring him during the day?”

“No, no!” I say, a little loud, maybe trying to convince myself more than her. “I want to talk to him the whole day. In a healthy way, of course. You get what I mean.”

She laughs a little, and I keep talking.

“I don’t know what’s up with me. When I look at him, the words don’t come out right. But in the dark, I can talk without thinking about it.”

“Felipe, I have an exercise for you this week,” she says, and I roll my eyes, because I fail most of the exercises she gives me.

Olivia has given me a number of them. They’re like challenges that I have to accomplish every week, usually silly things, such as saying good morning to a classmate who has never spoken to me, or taking a different route to class. Others are harder, like not staring at the floor when the guys at school call me names.