Beyond A Colour - 1. Chapter 1

“OK, here we are, sweety. It’s number 31.”

I know that tone. She uses it when she wants me to do something. Or rather, when she wants me to do something that she believes is good for me and thinks I need to be convinced. Not like when she just wants me to clean up the dishes or something. My mum pulled her unnecessary SUV over to a stop as she spoke. We live on the edge of a small coastal city, and there is literally nothing that warrants such a big vehicle. But she, like apparently at least half the driving population here, feels it is necessary nonetheless. I feigned interest in the passing clouds, but it was a dull, flat grey sky with very little even to pretend to be looking at. You know it’s not going to work. Your mum doesn’t think it will either; she knows you’re a useless fuck-up.

“Do I have to? Maybe we can reschedule for next week or something?” I tried.

I gave her my best pleading look from the passenger seat, which she duly ignored, as I knew she probably would. Maybe I hoped she would, too. Yeah, it’s conflicting, isn’t it? You’re welcome. Not that it wasn’t worth a shot. I think I have at least a 50% success rate overall, but much less so at times like this. Yeah, in hindsight, my chances of success were about zero.

“No. You said you would do this. Please, Blue, give it a try.”

You’re wasting your time. She cut the engine, leaving us in an atmosphere that I hope she at least experienced as silence. She was stressed by this; I could see the way she gripped the wheel tight before making herself relax. She’s angry with you. And her voice had that sharp edge to it when she was trying really hard not to sound as frustrated as she felt. She hates you, what you’ve done, who you are, and you deserve it.

“Stop it!” I know I kind of shouted as I hit the side of my head with my fist, just once, before Mum was holding my hands again. I hate how she looked in those moments, the way she looked at me.

“Sorry… just… difficult day today… And if I don’t like her, I don’t have to come again. That’s the deal, right?” I asked, even though we had been through this several times over the last two weeks.

“Absolutely. I promise. But you have to give it a fair chance, not just walking in and out again in five minutes. Can you look at me, Blue? Please?”

I turned my head to face her and felt my breathing slow down again, not that I had realised it wasn’t normal.

“Fine… Thank you. I will try.” I scowled in her direction. How does she do that? How does she know what I’m thinking so often?

“And not ten minutes either. A real chance.”

“I said fine!”

I slumped back in the seat. It probably couldn’t be any worse, right? Even that moment, right then, was an excellent enough example of why I had nothing to lose. I didn’t even know why I felt so apprehensive other than the apparent desire to avoid everything altogether. Yes, that was probably it—just my default instinct to do nothing, say nothing, interact with nothing and disappear. It’s because you’re fucking useless. Ugh! My mum checked the time with needless exaggeration, which I, of course, ignored. And I could see the clock just as well as she could anyway. I had three minutes.

“Go on then. I’ll wait right here.” She prompted.

I sighed heavily and gave her what I hoped was a glowering look as I climbed out of the car. She didn't fall for it, smiling as I walked across the road towards number 31. By UK suburbia standards, it was big but entirely bland. It looked like what would happen if someone had read a book about houses, described it to someone else in a different language, and got a six-year-old to draw the design with crayons. Actually, I probably couldn’t do it that well, so… Of course you couldn’t, you can’t do anything that well can you. But such a dull house was probably a bad sign because boring people live in boring places, right? You know she can’t help you. She doesn’t want to anyway, and she can’t. Why else would anyone choose to live there? And why doesn’t she have a regular office anyway? Is she even an actual therapist? You should just run while you still can. As instructed, I opened the wooden gate to the right-hand side of the house and rang the bell next to the first door I came to. Looking around as I waited in the narrow alleyway, I could see another entry further along and, further still, what looked like a large garden, in which I imagined there was probably a pond and one of those trees that looked like they got too tired standing upright all the time and just slumped wearily over, down towards the ground. I could empathise with the tired tree. How appealing it is, the idea of just… stopping trying. If I was really a tree, I might be cut down because people would realise that I wasn’t actually serving any real purpose. What would I be then? Something interesting, like a chair or a table? No, probably just a useless stick. Or worse, paper. And not even the nice paper, but that rough, horrible paper that people still use for no apparent reason. Don’t be stupid; you’ll be lucky to even be toilet paper.

The door in front of me opened, pulling me back to reality just as I was about to say something out loud, so I’m sure I looked ridiculous.

“Hello, you must be Blue. Come in, come in.”

I found myself feeling surprised, and that minor surge of adrenaline helped me focus. How to describe her? Frumpy was the first word that came to mind, but even as she stepped aside for me to enter, I knew that was a little unfair. She wasn’t pretty, but she was also old. Kind of old anyway, older than Mum, maybe fifty. But there was something about her smile that was kind of OK. I assumed she was a lesbian, but that’s only really based on her short hairstyle and what looked like mountaineering boots. The room behind her was also old but kind of cool. It is a cross between a tiny library and a friendly coffee shop with big, comfy sofas.

“It’s good to meet you, have a seat.” She said, gesturing around the room in a way that was not specific.

I’m not good in situations like this, where there are too many choices, so I stood in the middle of the room as she closed the door behind me. I was holding the end of the sleeves of my jacket and twisting my wrists, which tightened the whole sleeve along my arm. I find it reassuring, although most of the time, I don’t realise I’m doing it. I looked around, and it was definitely not obvious where I should sit. She seemed to sense my hesitation.

“Wherever you like….” She said, which helped in no way at all.

I was frozen for a few seconds but then opted for one end of a big brown sofa, which was as soft and squishy as it looked. I wish I hadn’t almost fallen over myself trying to figure out how to sit on it. I pulled off my jacket and realised that this would have been a much easier task if I’d taken it off before I sat down. I could feel the shame ripple through my body and my face flush. Fucking hell, I’m seventeen, and I can’t even sit down without looking like an idiot. It took me another minute to check that my phone and earbuds were safely tucked away in the inside pocket of my jacket. When I looked up again, she had taken a seat on the other sofa, directly opposite me.

“Sorry…” I said.

“Hello, I’m Lorraine.” She replied, smiling.

It felt weird. She looked at me in this odd way, like she was interested in meeting me or something. I knew immediately that she was going to be challenging to avoid—not like the others, the ones who hide behind desks or, worse, notepads. They are always the easiest ones to avoid.

“I’m not having a good day. Sorry… Hi,” I said, still trying to take in the room. It was pleasantly warm and full of stuff everywhere I looked, which helped distract me from how my voice had just squeaked uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry to hear that. As you know, I met with your mum last week. And your doctor—well, psychiatrist… who was it, Dr. Cooper? He’s also written to me, so I know a little bit about why we’re here already.”

“I bet.” There was a pause. Maybe I’m not supposed to be quite so honest.

“Oh? You look annoyed by that?” I think it was a question, but lots of people say things that seem to be questions, but they don’t want you to answer them.

“I don’t like people talking about me behind my back and making assumptions. Everyone thinks they know about me, and they don’t.”

“I can understand that. Would you like to see the letter? You can read it….”

Lorraine leaned over and picked up a small pile of papers from the low coffee table between the two sofas. The only other thing on the table was a box of tissues. Does she usually have a whole table just for tissues? A tissue table. Probably.

“No, I know what it will say anyway.” I’ve read those letters before, and, well, honestly, I don’t really understand most of what they are saying. It’s like they are talking about someone who I met once and only vaguely remember.

“You do?” Lorraine asks, although I can see her smiling, almost, kind of.

“Dr Cooper thinks I’m a fucking psycho. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

“A fucking psycho? I don’t remember reading those exact words….”

Lorraine overplayed looking through the paperwork, and I stifled an involuntary laugh. Something about hearing this middle-class old lady say the word ‘fucking’ was brilliantly inappropriate and funny.

“OK, why don’t we ignore the letter, for now anyway.” She put the papers back down, focussing entirely on me as she continued. “I know that you’ve been in therapy before. But for today, I wanted to start by talking with you about what we will do today. Is that OK?”

“Sure,” I replied. I mean, how different can it be? I talk crazy shit, and you tell me, sometimes very nicely and sometimes very harshly, that I’m crazy fucked up. This is not my first time.

“Good. So today, the only place I would like us to get to is for you to be able to decide whether or not you want to come back. I imagine that we’ll talk about some things, and along the way, hopefully, you will get a bit of an idea about what it will be like to work with me. And I will begin to understand what it is like for you. I already know what everyone else thinks, but I’d rather know what you think and how you feel, not what everyone else says about it. Does that sound OK?”

“I guess.” How could it not sound OK? She was totally up front with me.

“But I don’t really know where to start, and I don’t want to start thinking about things, and then you decide that you don’t want to see me anymore because you can’t help me or don’t like me, or whatever.”

Lorraine took a moment to respond. It was only a few seconds, but I could tell she was properly thinking about it.

“I can understand that…” she started. “And I think it’s very sensible of you. You have to keep yourself safe. What I can tell you is that I’ve already decided that I want to work with you, Blue, so I’m not going to be going anywhere. But you have to decide too if you want to work with me. It has to feel like a good fit for you. Otherwise, we’ll just sit here and talk, and I’ll get paid, but you won’t get much help. I don’t want to do that because I know I’ll be bored and I’m selfish like that. And I don’t think you want to waste time in therapy that isn’t helping you.”

There was a pause, seconds of silence. It felt good to know that I had a choice.

“I still don’t know where to start,” I said.

“That’s OK. Maybe you can tell me what you already know about being in therapy. What has been useful in the past, if anything, and what has not?”

Something about her tone, her whole presence, was entirely disarming. Usually, that would freak me out immensely, but for whatever reason, it was kind of easy to be with her.

“I don’t like being judged. Or being told how I feel. Like, if I say I feel… I don’t know. Just don’t assume you know better than me about how I feel and stuff.”

“Sure. Anything else?” She said, and I could believe that she meant it.

“Yes.”

“OK?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, about him, OK? I don’t ever want to talk about my Dad. I know that everyone tells me I have to talk about it, but I don’t want to, alright? Never.”

“OK then.”

“Really?” I hadn’t been looking at her, but this made me look up to see if she meant it.

“Blue, you don’t have to talk about anything, not here. It’s totally up to you. I might ask you some questions sometimes, but you can always choose not to talk about things.”

“But everyone is always saying….” Lorraine interrupted me with unexpected firmness.

“Then everyone is wrong. I might even stop you talking about things sometimes, just to make sure that it really is OK.”

“Really?” I asked, as no one had ever said anything like this before.

“Really. Anything else?”

“I’ll let you know.”

She smiled as if I wasn’t being at least mildly obstructive.

“OK. So, is there anything you would like to talk about with me today? Or anything you want to ask me?” She asked.

Where do I start? As if there’s an easy or obvious answer to that question. At the beginning - hell no. I don’t even know if I want to see you again, so we’re not going anywhere near that. And even if I did, one of the only things I’m thankful for is my brain’s ability to block out significant chunks of time altogether. With him? No. With school? Maybe. With life? With living? Or with not living? No, those were all places that were too dark to venture into. Fuck, is everything like that? There must be something… I don’t know, safe? Mustn’t there? I should have thought about this before today. Stupid.

“Blue?”

I looked up when I heard my name, focussing back on reality, on now.

“Sorry. I… I don't know.” For some reason, meeting her eyes pushed tears towards mine.

“I can see that. When there's so much, it can feel difficult to know where to begin.”

“There are so many gaps, like, I don't know. I genuinely don't remember what was happening for months or years sometimes, and when I can remember, it’s mostly shit. It's so confusing because I don't always know when things happened. Or even what order they happened in sometimes.”

“Then part of our work might be to start to find the order of things.” Her voice was so calm and even.

“But how? You don't know, and I don’t know….”

“No, I don’t; maybe neither of us knows right now. But as we talk about things, we’ll be able to start making sense of them. Slowly.”

“Can you, though? Can you do it? Can you fix me?”

There was a desperation, my desperation, that caught me off guard, having escaped my body in those words.

“No, I can’t fix you, Blue, because fundamentally, I don’t think you’re broken….”

Lorraine was still talking, but I couldn’t hear her words. The memories and the voices were taking over.

“Blue? What’s happening, Blue?” Lorraine was asking me.

I concentrated hard, trying to refocus on her. On now. I think she didn’t sound like she was panicking; she was just concerned. I’m more used to people panicking. How do I begin to explain to her? Those stupid words coming back to taunt me, haunt me, following me around like some caretaker in a sheet, waiting to be unmasked.

“Sorry. Ummm… someone else said that to me once, and… it’s complicated.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

We were outside, enjoying our short time together on another cool LA evening after a typically hazy sunny day. I have no idea what day it was, as they all seemed very similar. Although it was a vanilla pudding day so I think maybe a Thursday. The limited menu was predictable, if nothing else. I passed my phone to Jo, showing him the image ‘he’ had sent me. Two cute little penguins and a slightly sappy message with one penguin saying to the more anxious-looking one something like, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll always be here to put you back together.’

“See, it’s cute, right? Jo?” I asked, wanting his approval just as much as his agreement.

“What? No, Blue, it’s… creepy.” Jo sounded properly pissed.

“It’s not creepy, he’s just being nice….”

“Who the fuck does he think he is to talk to you like that?” Jo’s tone was increasingly angry.

“No, honestly, it’s not like that. He’s being nice… he cares about me.”

I grabbed my phone back, slightly worried Jo might unintentionally smash it in his now obvious anger. I had only just been allowed it back after trying to smash the screen, so I didn’t want to take any risks.

“There’s nothing fucking wrong with you, Blue. Like literally nothing! I know things are difficult sometimes. But you are not broken in any tiny way. You’re actually pretty perfect. He doesn’t need to put you back together.”

There was silence then, a minute or two. It felt long.

“You know that just by sitting here, there is plenty of evidence that I’m crazy, right?” I asked him, gesturing towards the barely opening windows and noticeably present fencing surrounding the outside space.

“Hey…” he took hold of my hand. “I thought we weren’t using that word Blue?”

“It’s different when I say it….” I started.

“No, it’s not. You’re not crazy.”

“Right, and it’s just a coincidence that most of the people here also think the same thing? It’s like the literal catchphrase of the crazy kids to say ‘I’m not crazy,’”

“Shut up. You’re not crazy, and you’re definitely not broken.”

That was a complicated feeling. It was the first time anyone, including me, had properly challenged ‘his’ opinion. And Jo, he really, really meant it. The way he looked at me, the way his voice just ever so slightly cracked. Fuck, there’s just no way to avoid this being a terrible conversation, is there.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I see. Good complicated, or not-so-good complicated?” Lorraine asked as she shifted slightly on her sofa, although her eyes didn’t ever release me.

“Jo is definitely the good kind of complicated, I think. But it was in a bad complicated kind of time. So it’s all… it’s all mixed up.”

“Oh, I see. So, who is Jo?”

“Oh, right, yeah… Jo. Jonah. Yeah, he's… we were… kind of… he’s just a friend… now.”

“Oh, OK. Now?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Another evening, but the same bench, the same place, the same problems.

“So I think, when they let me out of here I mean, I have to go home,” I said, knowing that we had to have this conversation even if I didn’t want to.

“Yeah, of course, Blue. Going back to Ry’s with your Mum will be so much better for you, and we’ll be able to hang out more…”

“No, Jo. I mean, my real home, now. Back to England.”

Jo shifted closer to me on the hard wooden bench. It was a little chilly by LA standards, but sitting outside was also the closest I got to privacy. Two of the staff were standing and watching us, watching me, only a few feet away. The nurse, Grace, was actually quite friendly. Ambrose was less so. I think his main qualification for working there was his ability to bench press 500 pounds, a quality that was sadly necessary on occasion in such a place and one that I had experienced too many times. Not that I weigh 500 pounds, that’s nearly five of me.

“But… I thought you liked it here. I mean, not here, obviously, but being back over here. You like living with Ry, and when you’re back in Santa Barbara, we can go out more, and I’ll take you back to The Crab Shack. What did you call it, ‘the best seafood place in the world’? And you can even come and work at the coffee shop with Ry and me….”

“Jonah!”

“What? I don’t understand. You’re getting better and everything, and… why do you want to leave?”

He was holding my hand, which wasn’t actually helping. I mean, it helped make me feel better, which in turn made it more difficult to have this conversation.

“I don’t belong here, Jo, not anymore. And… I kind of want to get away from everything that’s been happening these last few months.”

“Everything? Everyone? Right.” I didn’t want Jo to sound like he did. Sad.

“Yes. No, I don’t mean… Fuck, Jo. What am I supposed to say? You know I don’t mean from you. You have been… you are… you’re the most amazing… I just can’t stay here, Jo.”

There was silence between us as we both fought back tears, neither being very successful.

“So that’s it? You’re breaking up with me?” Why does he have to ask me that with those eyes?

“I’m going home. And you won’t be there, and I won’t be here. So… we can be friends, though, right? Please?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Yeah, we used to be… I mean, back in California, we were sort of… Almost… Sorry. It was all a bit….”

“Complicated?” Lorraine suggested.

“Ha. I was going to say fucked up, but yeah.”

“And now?”

“Now? Still fucked up, I guess? Now I'm here, and there’s a whole different load of ‘complicated’ stuff going on….”

“Then maybe we can talk about that sometime soon.”

“But it’s all too crazy. Like, literally nothing is simple right now.”

There was a pause, or a gap, some kind of time when neither of us was talking, but I could feel Lorraine was still there.

“I can see that… And we will get to all of those things. But first, can you tell me what you meant when you said that you’re not having a good day? What does that mean for you?”

“Oh… you know, I umm… I get stressed. Anxious, I suppose… and angry. And sometimes I find myself shouting at people. At Mum. At myself. But it’s not because I’m crazy…”

“No, I know that. I don’t think you’re crazy.” She did sound as though she meant it.

“But… you know… it’s the voices.”

“I see. And… today is a day when they are there, is that what you mean?”

“No. I mean… yes, but they are always there. Always. Just, sometimes I can kind of avoid them or block them out and sometimes I can’t. I try to… I try everything… But they won’t leave me alone…”

Suddenly, it was all too much. Tears were beginning to replace whatever version of carefully crafted disinterest I usually try to exude, and the temporarily quiet space in my head had been invaded in all too familiar ways. And yet, somehow, fifty minutes passed, and I didn’t leave. She seemed to get it, to understand at least some tiny part of what was happening to me. Maybe she even cared. I don’t remember the moment I decided, but I knew I would see her again. There was an awkward moment at the end when I wanted to hug her, which was so entirely unlike me. Like, hilariously and confusingly not at all like me ever. And even then, Lorraine seemed to know and made it OK, returning my awkward hug.

Mum was waiting in the car just over the road, and I knew she wanted to ask me how it had been. I nodded my agreement as I pulled the door closed. I guess it was obvious that I had been crying.

“It’s OK, she’s… nice? I think.” I said.

I know my mum worries about me and wants what is best, but it still bothers me when I see how relieved she is about this. Like, it just reinforces how much of a problem I am to her.

“That’s great, sweety,” Mum says. She even sounds relieved.

“Yeah, so, twice a week, yeah? But you don’t have to drive me all the time, it’s not far. I can walk here.” I said.

“OK then. So… home, or….”

“Home, mum, please. I’m kinda tired.”