Noel

Counselling is difficult. There are so many questions and too few answers. I'm always second-guessing myself, questioning the events that play out in my head, wondering what I can do to fix everything I've ruined. 

It's chaos, and these past three weeks have been worse than difficult. Dr. Munson wants me to talk as much as I can, whether the topics be related to my experiences or the weather, aspirations or fears. Anything. He continues to tell me that talking is good for the soul and that he doesn't approve of silence or resistance. We've gotten into several arguments about the tactics that are being applied to these counselling sessions. I've stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind me like a child. Sat on the couch and cried with words caught in my throat. 

Every time I sit on this fucking couch, I fear it'll never get easier. Because, despite all the resistance my body is riddled with, I know shoving everything down and hiding it from the world won't work anymore. Additionally, Dr. Munson is a trained professional. He knows what he's doing and how to pick apart his patients. Whenever there's a significant pause in his train of thought, I think I've fooled him into thinking I'm a lost cause. But then he'll find a new question. A new statement. Every time, he manages to upend me and bring my inner turmoil forth. 

Plus, I promised Cole I would try.

Even if I don't think I can do it. Even if I don't believe Gramps can get sober while he's in British Columbia at a treatment centre. What's keeping me afloat are the weekly conversations with Cole. He believes he'll be able to coparent with Daisy because of the counselling they're participating in. If Cole thinks it'll help... then I guess I have to try. 

And then there's the issue with Kinsley. Speaking to her again will be a result of self-improvement. If I want self-improvement, I have to commit to counselling.

But it's hard. When Dr. Munson isn't pissing me off... Okay, that's lie. He brings up facts and questions that make me feel pissed at myself. Almost ashamed. Prior to these counselling sessions, I was too ignorant to realize my toxic behaviour. Which doesn't make me any better than my father. I should've known better, but I also have to cut myself some slack. I was part of a situation I never asked for. 

Running a hand through my hair, I glance around the office. It feels small, but it's far from reminding me of a walk-in clinic area even though I sometimes get that vibe. The far wall is lined with a pine-green bookshelf. The books range from mental health to dystopian to even some romance novels. It makes me feel more at ease because it shows some of his character. Even if I'm not his biggest fan. 

The flooring is weathered oak and the walls are a light grey. Adjacent to the bookshelf is a large window that has a stellar view of the forest. Every so often, the sun will shine through, warming my face and easing some of the effects of the lingering trauma. The couch I'm sitting on is leather, worn and smelling vaguely of cedar and vanilla. Between me and Dr. Munson is a coffee table. There are two glasses of water sitting on top, along with a bowl of hard candies, each wrapped individually. 

When I look at Dr. Munson, his gaze is focused on the clipboard before him. I chew on the inside of my cheek and wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. A strange feeling is seeping through my chest. Something like appreciation with a hint of relief and anger. Contradictory, but it makes sense to me. It feels like some of the weight has been lifted from my shoulders even though I'm drowning. Actually, not drowning. More like treading just below the surface. I can see the surface, it's almost within reach, but everything is constricting inside me, preventing me from reaching the surface. 

As much as I dislike some of his methods, I have to admit he's helping me. Without him, I would still be drowning in the depths somewhere. 

Dr. Munson clears his throat. Taps his pen against the clipboard. "How would you feel about discussing the night of the accident?" 

Shivers radiate down my spine as images from that night assault my memory. Declination sits on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back and nod. It's all I can do. There are too many emotions sitting on my chest. 

He nods and dives into the story: "You grew up in an abusive relationship with your father. Your mother left you. I imagine these factors would greatly affect your time at college. This is not something to be ashamed of. When you're a survivor, you do whatever you can to cope and survive." He pauses, jotting something down on his papers. "During the holidays, you go to pick up your father from a bar because he is drunk. Does that sound like an ethical option?"

"Yes," I say, my voice rough. "I wanted to keep other people safe."

And then I ruined the lives of other people because I was weak as fuck. 

"Exactly." He drags the word out. "You had good intentions, but things didn't go the way you planned."

I cross my arms, feeling nothing but doom and gloom. "I'm the one who gave him the keys. Kinsley's family is dead because of me. Things should've gone the way I planned, but they didn't. Because I was weak."

Dr. Munson shakes his head. "You need to get your head out of your ass, Noel. You are not the enemy in this story. You're a post-trauma victim. Because of that, you prefer to avoid trauma-related events or anything that is potentially triggering for you. You would rather talk than turn to violence, you would rather avoid making someone mad and giving them the opportunity to inflict pain upon you." He quirks an eyebrow. "Aside from not wanting to experience any more violence, you did not want to expose yourself to the reminder of how your life had been since you were fifteen. And that is a result of post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD can be a very debilitating condition. That is why you did not cause the accident—you did not make the mistake. After enduring physical, mental, and emotional abuse for many years, your mind chose what it thought to be the safest option. It was a natural response to the trauma."

Every cell in my body wants to deny his words. But I can't lie because he has a goddam point. Again. Growing up, I was never able to defend myself. Not because I wasn't physically strong enough but because I feared the consequences that would follow. Avoiding him or succumbing to his abuse were my only options. 

My eyebrows furrow in confusion. "So... it was a defense mechanism in a way?" 

His smile is full of pride, and it makes something warm spread through my chest. I hate it, but I can't deny it feels good to make progress. "Exactly. What else were you supposed to do? Giving him the keys was the only way you saw fit to defend yourself because you knew it would water-down the conflict. There's no shame in being afraid, of wanting to protect yourself." He eyes me carefully behind his thick-framed glasses. "And I think you know that, deep down, you know this isn't your fault. You were not the one driving that night, Noel. You did not break any laws. You were just another human being trying to get through another day."

Tears prick the corners of my eyes and I feel the frustration begin to build. I'm frustrated because I know he's right. It's not like I'm the one who was behind the wheel, drunk and senseless. Still, I wish I could've been stronger. 

"I know you might not see the full picture right now," he continues. "There's still plenty we need to discuss, but it's a good sign that you're beginning to see the side of the story that's belonged to you from the beginning. There have been many situations where people have given in to fear, done what they feel is best to do at that given moment. There is a logic behind your decision. Do not forget that."

For the first time, I don't argue with him. It's difficult to look past my usual mindset and nullify why I think it's my fault, but I can see a glimpse of it. All those moments that I experienced with my father are the reasons why I couldn't stand up to him.

Dropping my face into my hands, I shake my head. "I still wish I would've prevented him from driving. I wish I would have saved Kinsley all the pain and suffering she's experienced." I pause. "Picking him up was a mistake."

"We all wish we could change our pasts to some degree even though we know it's highly impossible. I'm sure Kinsley wishes there were some things she could change with you, too. But have you ever thought that maybe, even if you hadn't picked your father up from the bar that night, the accident still would have happened?"

I freeze and look up at him. "What do you mean?"

He leans back in his comfy chair, balancing the clipboard on his knee. "Your father was not the one who called you—the bartender was."

"The bartender was an old friend of my father's...he..." I trail off, wondering what he's trying to hint at. "He should've taken the keys from my father..."

Already, I know the truth. The bartender was an enabler. I knew him well. Dad always drove home drunk after visiting that bar.

"I have a feeling that, no matter what, the accident was going to happen. I think your father was planning on coming home that night anyway. Even if it meant him driving alone."

I stare at Dr. Munson, trying to process what he's just said. I never thought about it that way. My father, though he was a drunk and highly abusive, never liked being told what to do. He was independent. I close my eyes and picture that night at the bar, before I gave the keys up. I tried to get him to come with me, to understand that he was drunk, but he resisted my offer to help him.

"He would have done that," I sigh. "He would have driven back to my aunt's place even if I hadn't shown up that night."

Dr. Munson nods. "And you still would have felt the same guilt you do now if you hadn't shown up; you would have felt guilty for doing nothing. This is what I'm trying to get at. You're entitled to your own feelings, but you shouldn't feel guilty or ashamed for what happened. Feel sad, be disappointed, but don't blame yourself. You tried to do something, it just didn't work out the way you wanted it to."

I can't stop these tears from falling, from stinging my face. I can't stop my heart from squeezing, caving in on itself. Beneath all the layers I used to hide my emotions, I do feel disappointed and sad. I'm disappointed in my father for making a decision that risked the lives of other, innocent people. I'm sad that Kinsley had to go through this. I'm sad I didn't have the childhood I deserved.

"So," I say with a shaky voice, "you're telling me if I ever get the chance to talk to Kinsley again, that I should apologize on behalf of my father and not myself?"

Dr. Munson nods his head.

I look down at my hands. There's still a part of me that feels the need to blame myself, but it's smaller, less prominent than it was before. And it feels like a little more of the weight on my shoulders has eased. My head feels clearer, too.

I'm scared of what else these discussions are going to bring up, what parts of me I'm going to see. This is major progress, but I know I still have a long way to go before things get better.

I look up at Dr. Munson. I'm tired of letting fear and guilt and shame control my life. For too long, other people have controlled my life, dictated who I am.

I think it is finally time to let go. To be free.

"What else do we need to discuss?" I ask.