Bear, Otter, & the Kid 03 - The Art of Breathing (32 page)

“Isn’t it?”

Sort of. But I don’t know how close to the truth that actually is. There are probably all sorts of psychological diseases I could be diagnosed with, not to mention the fact that I seem to still have parental issues and the fact that it’s been three days since I ran out on Dominic and haven’t seen hide nor hair from him. Not that I actually expected to, even with the thinly veiled threat he’d ended our conversation with. It doesn’t help that I can still hear that low growl of his in my head and it makes my hands clammy and my dick hard. I’m probably oversharing, but I figure you’re used to that by now with this family. Might as well keep up with tradition.

You’d think that therapy is hard, that sitting in front of a person who essentially starts out as a stranger and spilling all your dirty little secrets is akin to pulling out your own fingernails one by one. And maybe it
does
start that way. But there’s something strangely cathartic about talking out loud about things you’re normally too reticent to say to the ones you love. A therapist keeps their mouth shut, doesn’t judge you out loud (though, you have to wonder what they
really
think after you leave), and gives you advice and/or drugs on how to control your crazy. The talking part I never had a problem with. The drug part was harder. It was easier to be a zombie to escape my problems than to focus on them sober. Benzodiazepines were the greatest thing I knew because they helped me float away. The highs, however, became shorter and shorter, and I had to take more and more. Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t suicidal, just stupid. I did stupid things, got caught, got called on it, and got sober. It’s that simple. Though they say that once you’re an addict, you’re always an addict, and damn if there aren’t days when the earthquakes hit and my breath gets caught in my chest and I wonder how easy it would be to get more pills, how much better I’d feel if I was able
not
to feel, even for a few hours. I probably should have kept up with the therapy right when we got back to Seafare, but I got distracted by… other things.

At least Bear, Otter, and I are more or less back on the same page. That’s a start. I only have everything else to fix, from Dominic to my academic career to whatever might be wrong with Kori-Corey. Shouldn’t be too hard, though. I am a certified genius, after all. I even have a certificate that says so. You know, for all the good that does me.

“I like how he should have either been a serial killer or a hooker,” Kori says. “It’s good to know Tyson has risen above the adversity that was his childhood and doesn’t walk the streets prowling for victims or johns.”

“You’re welcome,” Bear tells me.

“I don’t hook anymore,” I say.

“Good to know,” Otter says. “I was getting worried, what with all the men you were bringing home to have sex with for money. I at least should have seen an 80 percent cut of it. I was afraid Otter was going to have to choke a bitch.”

“And you two want to be parents,” I say, staring at them both. “Maybe you should shelve that whole idea for now.”

“You were the test run,” Bear reassures me. “We’ll do better next time.”

“You can adopt me,” Kori says. “I’m already an adult, and the only thing I would want is money and to be loved. In that order.”

“You’re already part of this family,” Otter tells him.

“Great! Can I have some money and love?”

“Go hook like your ex-boyfriend brother,” Otter says. “And remember that I get 80 percent. Don’t make Otter come after you. You won’t like what Otter does.”

“I think I would,” Kori says, fanning herself and batting her eyes.

“So gross,” I moan.

“Remember this moment when you think I’m the weird one,” Bear tells me.

“Super,” I say. “I think I’ll go to therapy now. Thanks to all of you for heaping upon the issues I already have.”

“You’re welcome,” they all intone.

F
OR
BETTER
or worse, Eddie Egan hasn’t changed a bit.

“Tell me, Tyson,” he says as I sit across from him in his office, “at any point were you ever attracted physically to your mother?”

“I’m pretty sure that was never an issue,” I say. “Plus, there’s the whole gay thing, you know.”

“Right.” He frowns as he scribbles something ludicrously long on the legal pad in front of him. Bear and I have a bet going that he’s not actually taking notes just to do so for the session. Bear thinks he’s writing a book about the crazier of his patients, and that I’m going to be included. I think that he thinks
he’s
the one in therapy and is writing down all the things he wants to work on for himself. “The whole gay thing. You know, I’ve been doing some research about that.”

Uh-oh. “Have you?”

“Yes.”

I wait, but he just stares at me. “And what was the conclusion of your research?” I finally ask, unsure if that’s the smart thing to do.

“That there’s absolutely nothing wrong with homosexuality,” he says. “It’s perfectly natural. Anyone who says otherwise is completely irresponsible.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Did you know that almost fifteen hundred species of animals have been observed engaging in homosexual behavior?”

“I think I heard that somewhere.
Jeopardy
, maybe.”

“Animals from penguins to baboons have been documented in homosexual relationships! Why, right now you could be infected with acanthocephalans who are at this very minute touching each other’s proboscis! Though, to have the gut worm, you would most likely have had to eaten scarabaeid beetle grubs. Have you eaten any beetle grubs lately?”

“None,” I say. “I’m a vegetarian, remember?”

“That’s right,” he says, sounding extraordinarily disappointed. He takes another half page of notes. “There seems to be a large quantity of same-sex pairings in birds. However, the zoo turned down my request to observe the penguins there, and I’m just absolutely terrified of pigeons. I was assaulted once when I was younger by two pigeons who wanted to eat my cotton candy when I was on the boardwalk, and I really haven’t been the same since.”

“There used to be a seagull that hated Bear,” I offer, only because I am at a loss for anything else to say.

“Was it a homophobic seagull?” Eddie asks. He pours me a glass of water and sets it on the small table between us.

“I really couldn’t say.”

“That’s too bad. It’s one thing to document homosexuality in animals, but could you imagine documenting animal hate crimes? That would be groundbreaking!”

“The Nobel Prize would surely be yours.”

“The laurels would never cease,” he agrees. “Since the zoo recklessly denied me entrance and since pigeons are the spawn of the devil with nothing but malice in their hearts and minds, I thought it best to proceed with ducks. I staked out a prime location at a duck pond in the park nearby and attempted to record any sightings of homosexual behavior.”

“You were in the bushes, weren’t you.”

His face lit up. “I was! I figure if there’s any chance of seeing homosexual sex, the best place would be in the park in the bushes. I read on the Internet that it’s a prime homosexual hunting ground.”

“You’ve really thought this through,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.

He sighs. “Sadly, it was not to be. The ducks soon became aware of my presence and unfortunately banded together to chase me from the pond. I should have known by their erratic behavior that something was wrong. It was abundantly clear when I thought back on it. It wasn’t gay behavior I was observing.”

“Oh?” I ask, picking up the glass of water. “And what was so obvious?”

“They were all high on drugs. I’d inadvertently stumbled upon a group of ducks addicted to quack!”

I spray water all over myself, the desk, and Eddie Egan.

He grimaces as I struggle to breathe. “There’s something to be said for comedic timing,” he says as he takes a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes his face. “I’ve worked for days on that punch line.”

“You told me,” I gasp, “that whole story so you could tell a
joke
?”

He shrugs as he dabs his notepad, some of the ink smeared from my projectile spraying. “I figured it was the best way to get you to open up. It’s been a while since we’ve talked face-to-face.”

“Did you really go sit in the park in the bushes to try to find gay ducks?”

“I did,” he says. “Though I admit to the last part being a joke. I thought it might make the segue easier.”

“Into what?” I ask, though I have a pretty good idea. I should have known this would be oncoming.

He looks at me levelly. “Did you find what you were looking for when you realized you were consuming increasingly dangerous doses of the benzos?”

I wish we were still talking about drug-addicted ducks. It’d be easier. “You know about that, huh?”

“Yes, Tyson, I know about that. Not only am I still considered your treating therapist, but Derrick, Oliver, and your therapist in New Hampshire have all expressed their concerns to me.”

Gosh. It’s good to know nothing is kept secret anymore. Anger rises in me, but it’s an addict’s anger, a thing that swells at the realization that everyone seems to know my business. It’s something I’ve had to work through ever since Bear and Otter sat me down and told me they knew I had a problem. I try to force it down, because it’s an unfounded thing. “Good to know,” I manage to say in a level voice.

Eddie’s eyes soften. There are more lines around his eyes than there used to be and his long hair is shot with gray, but he’s still the same guy I’ve known since I was nine years old. Hell, even the bead curtain to enter his office still hangs from the doorway, though a few strands are missing now. “I could spin you the whole song and dance,” he says. “Tell you it’s just because people love you and are concerned about you, but you know that already.”

I nod, because I do.

“And I could tell you that you’re smarter than that, that you should know better. But I don’t know the need to admonish you is necessary anymore, and I’m sure you’ve probably kicked your own ass enough about it. And, if not, I’d be willing to bet my therapy license that Derrick did it enough for you.”

“That might be the understatement of the century.”

Eddie nods. “He can be surprisingly scary when he wants to be.”

“So if you’re not mad and if you’re not going to tell me I’m better than it, then what did you want to accomplish by bringing it up?”

“The why of it, Tyson. Yes, we know you’re smarter than that, probably smarter than anyone else I’ve known, and yes, we know your brother is a horrifying man whose anger is like a great fury, but I want to know
why
.”

“That’s… huh.”

“What?” he asks, making another note.

“I just realized I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that question. Maybe told why, but never asked.”

“Everyone was concerned with the fixing of it, I’m sure,” he says. “How bad were the withdrawal symptoms?”

“Not as bad as you might think, I guess. The first few days were the hardest.”

“Hallucinations?”

I shake my head. “Not that I remember, anyway.”

“Nightmares?”

“No more than usual. I didn’t sleep for a few days, and I’m pretty sure I was drenched in sweat the whole time, but it passed.” Not to mention the nausea and the overwhelming sense that the whole world was about to collapse on top of me, and if I could just get one more pill, just even half of one to take the edge off, it’d be okay. I had begged, I had cajoled, I had yelled.

It could have been worse, I know.

Of course, it shouldn’t have happened at all.

“So, why?” he asks.

“Isn’t it the same with every addict?” I ask this of him not to be facetious, but out of curiosity.

“It might seem like that on the outside,” he says. “And I’m not an addiction specialist. I work with children mostly, as you know. But I have a feeling that regardless of the similarities between people and their addictions, the closer you get, the more differences appear.”

“It was easier,” I say. “I didn’t think as much.”

“Took the edge off?”

“You could say that, I guess. More like I didn’t care what edges there were. And even if they were there, they were blurred, so I couldn’t find reason to care.”

“What drugs were you given, specifically?”

He knows this already, I think, but he’s trying to gauge my sincerity. Unfortunately, addicts are known liars. Not because they want to be, but because it’s just the way it is. It’s hard to trust someone when they’re high or trying to cover the fact that they are. “Started with Xanax. It wasn’t working, so I was given Klonopin instead.” The difference is like starting with a match and then being given a piece of dynamite.

“Why wasn’t Xanax working?”

Another trap of sorts. He’s wanting to know if the high wasn’t high enough. It was. The Xanax was never about that. I shrug. “I still couldn’t breathe.”

“Did you do the exercises I taught you?”

“I tried. Sometimes it worked. Most of the time it didn’t. It probably didn’t help that I was hiding the panic attacks as much as possible from Bear and Otter.”

“Why?”

I pick at the armrest of the chair. “I didn’t want them to worry.”

“The panic attacks continued.”

“Yes. Maybe not with the same severity, but yes.”

“Meditation? Yoga?”

I shook my head. “I was never very good at either of those, Eddie. You know that. My mind works too fast to focus like that.”

“And the Klonopin helped with that?”

I hesitate here, because “help” is more of a euphemism than anything else. If by “helped” he means I was stoned most of the time and could rarely find a single fuck to give, then yes, it helped. I was Robot Tyson and Zombie Tyson, and though I tried my damnedest not to show it, I know my eyes had dulled and I spoke more slowly. Robot Tyson moved through life as if underwater. Zombie Tyson couldn’t be bothered with paying attention in class.

“I don’t know about ‘helped’,” I say slowly. “It was more of a means to an end.”

“How so?”

“I was hurting. The drugs helped me to not hurt. It was very self-serving.”