My therapist, Shelbi, came by for our monthly home visit (of course, this was post-covid) She sat, legs crossed in the corner of my sofa. In tan linen pants and floral print shawl draped over a white button-down shirt, she looked cozy. My living room was dimly lit with just a hint of sunshine peeking through the blinds.
“We’re going to try something a little different today, James, “she said in her soft, therapist voice,” if you’re up for it”
“Sure,” I said, leaning back in my corner of the sofa
She nodded, “We’ve talked about the inner child that affects our adult lives. Sometimes we can access that child and his memories to help us make sense of our lives now. We might even speak to it. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?”
“I wouldn’t know what I’d say…”
“It might come to you, but even if it doesn’t, that’s okay.”
“All right,” I said, closing my eyes and- unprompted - began to breathe deeply just as she’d taught me. She matched me breath for breath, pausing only to whisper guidance. I became acutely aware of my body and its place in the world; my feet planted firmly on the floor, my upper thighs leaving an impression on the sofa; my hands on my lap.
It only took a minute.
“I see him,” I said.
He was all of ten and black and white like an old photograph. He wore a colorless striped shirt and the kind of jeans we used to call “high-waters” because they were a size or two too small so the feet stuck out a few inches. The popular kids wouldn’t be caught dead in them. I wore them every day.
“I see him,” I repeated. He was alone in a sea of black, watching me warily.
“Can you speak to him?” Shelbi asked, “What do you want to say?”
“Hey,” I spoke in barely a whisper. I reached out to touch him and he flinched.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I tried to sound as soothing as I could. I mimicked how I thought Shelbi would sound. “You’re Eugene, right?” he nodded cautiously. Shelbi was gone now, outside of the black. We were alone.
“I’m James,” I said, and I quickly added, “and I see you.”
His eyes opened like saucers, as I knew they would, but he said nothing.
“I see you and I know you.”
“You do?” He trembled just a little.
“I do,” I replied. “In fact, I know you spend most of your allowance in that musty used book store, You bought books about Doc Savage and Tarzan of the Apes and the Shadow, the Avenger, all of those heroes from the forties before they all got super.” He smiled, but it was a cautious smile. He said nothing so I continued
“I know you get lost in Bradbury, Sturgeon, Kipling good old Edgar Rice Burroughs, all the writers that take you away… from everything.” His smile faltered a little.
“It’s okay,” I said, “but I know the other stuff too; the bullying and beatings in school, the constant belittling at home, the racism in church. Every day, every day. Everything that made you want to hide and be invisible.”
There were tears forming in his eyes now but he made no move to leave,
“You hate your black skin and your nappy hair. worst of all, the absolute worst: your father, your Papi, will convince you that you’re a failure and that’s all you’ll ever be. A nothing; a nobody.”
His chest heaved faster with every word. The tears came freely. I felt terrible doing this to him…me, but I instinctually knew that I had to get through the hurtful truth before I could say what needed to be said. I put my hands on his shoulders and held him at arm’s length.
“But, y’know what?” I said, “It’s all bullshit.” He was still crying but he raised his head and met my eyes
“All of it. Bullshit. It all passes. You won’t even notice it but it does. You wanna know what happens?” He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt and nodded
“Well,” I said, “the beatings at school will make you stronger, smarter. You’ll learn how to handle problems with your mind, not your fists. The bullying and your love of those heroes will make you sympathetic and empathetic. You will always care about people.”
I had his rapt attention now. I continued, “The racism in church will start you on a journey that will lead you to greater truths. You’ll read a lot of books, not just the one.” He smiled then, a wry smile that told me he’d already started this journey He had. I remember being ten.
“Also, you have bipolar disorder, which is a sickness that makes you feel down and lose interest in stuff, you know what that means?” He shook his head.
“Well, it means you’re not a failure. You have a sickness. It’s not your fault.
“And Papi…” The smile immediately disappeared and he froze in my grasp but I held him firmly.
“Wait.” I said,” You wanna hear this. Papi is not your real father.” His jaw dropped.
“Not…my father?” he stammered
“Not your father. Your dad’s really a musician named Victor Nelson. He will love you. He’ll beam when you walk into the room. He’ll talk to his friends about you with pride,
“He’ll heal your soul.”
He was gobsmacked, much like I was when I’d learned the truth.
“Hey, Eugene,” I said. (He was still Eugene. James Daniel would come much later), “It’s gonna be okay. Let me tell you, you’re a nerd now, but soon nerds will become popular and you’ll be one up on everyone! You’re gonna win prizes and awards not for being athletic, but for being inspirational and talented. Your kids…” I gave him a moment to soak that in, “will be proud to call you their father because you’re gonna break the chain of abuse your not-father inflicted on you. If I do say so myself, you’re gonna be a pretty cool adult.” The smile was back, though one eyebrow was raised, a little dubious.
“Trust me, kid,” I said “you’re gonna be fine” I patted him on the back and stood up, surprised to notice he was no longer black and white. His shirt was striped brown and yellow, his skin chocolate brown and his nappy hair black.
“I gotta go, kid,” I said. “See you in a few years”.
“Bye James,” he said in a small voice and he gave me a little wave.
I turned around and opened my eyes, I was on the sofa with Shelbi.
“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t know I had all that in me.”
“You did,” Shelbi said. “You do. That was powerful, James. How do you feel?”
“A whole hell of a lot lighter,” I replied.
“Where do you feel it most, in your body?”
“Well,” I said, taking stock of myself, “My back is a little straighter. My chest and my shoulders don’t feel so tight. My hands are relaxed. I feel pretty good...”
“And how do you feel about the things you said? Do you believe them?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, “I was laying it on pretty thick for the kid’s sake,”
She gave me a side-long glance. I was deflecting.
“Okay,” She said, “Let me ask a different way; do you think he heard you? Would you have heard you?
I thought about it and gave her question serious consideration.
“No.” I finally said. “I was pretty wrapped up in the misery. It was constant, every day. It would have taken more than one conversation with a stranger to shake that. “
“Now I’m asking the adult you; did you hear you?”
I paused, sitting back on the sofa, relaxed
“Yeah. I think I did. I don’t feel like such a shit person right now.”
“That’s a start,” she said.
It was time to end the session. We scheduled the next month’s visit and she packed up her laptop. As she rose, she said, “We did really good work today, James. Really good.”
I thanked her at the door and she went out into the Arizona air.
After the door closed, I went back to my place on the sofa. I was drained but it was good. My therapist was right. I felt better, Lighter.
I closed my eyes again, letting my imagination take me back to the boy. He wasn’t in the dark now. He sat cross-legged at the edge of a cliff watching the sunrise. He was still dressed in the brown and yellow striped shirt and high-waters but now he seemed serene in them, comfortable and familiar. He was as relaxed as Shelbi had been on my sofa,
I was behind him. He didn’t turn around but somehow, I felt there was a contented smile on his face,
I thought, “Thanks, kid” and opened my eyes.