Chapter Text
“Hello, Justin, come on in."
"Hi."
"I’m Rochelle Bernard. You may call me Rochelle or Ms. Bernard, whichever you feel most comfortable with. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You, too . . . I guess. I mean, I still don't really see why I need a psychiatrist. It's not like I'm crazy or something.”
“You're not 'crazy,' but you have gone through a very traumatic experience. I was assigned to be your therapist by your treating physician, Dr. Dubois."
"You mean 'green bean'?"
"Why do you call him 'green bean'?"
"All of us call him that - it's because of those Godawful green shirts he wears. He must have a whole closet full of them."
"He certainly does seem to like the color green, doesn't he?"
"He likes it too much. Maybe he's the one who needs a psychiatrist instead of me."
"I'm actually not a psychiatrist, which, among other things, means I can't prescribe medication, but you've been assigned a psychiatrist for that should you wish to consider it."
"So if you're not a shrink, what are you? And, more to the point, why do I need you?"
"I am a licensed clinical psychologist with training in various forms of behavioral health therapies . . ."
"'Behavioral therapies?' Is that, like, a professional term for helping people get their poop in a pile?"
"You could think of it that way. You wouldn't be far off the mark."
"I already have my poop in a pile . . . where should I sit?
"Anywhere you feel comfortable. You may sit on the sofa or either chair. You can even sit on the floor if you like. There are pillows over there in the corner next to the yoga ball."
“Is this chair okay?”
“Any chair you wish, although I’m curious as to why you chose that particular spot. Do you have a particular reason?”
“I don’t want to have my back to the door.”
“Would that bother you?”
“Yeah, I guess. I never really thought about it, but yeah. If someone's going to walk in the room, I want to see them.”
“Is your discomfort about having your back to the door something new?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I just don't like people sneaking up on me. Especially some psychopath with a baseball bat.”
“Why don’t we start with you telling me a little about yourself, so that we can get to know each other.”
“About myself? What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Just start anywhere. There’s no right or wrong way. Just go with the flow.”
“Well, for a starter, I’m a fucking invalid . . . sorry, I meant a ‘dang’ invalid.”
“I don’t mind if you swear. Sometimes strong words are the only words that can express the way you feel about something.”
“Okay, you asked for it then. Every other word out of my mouth is going to be ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck that.’ Oh, and ‘asshole.’ I’ll be using that one a lot too.”
“Let’s start there. Who are the ‘assholes’ in your life?”
“Obviously, the biggest, hugest Grand Poohbah of Assholeness is the asshole who did this to me.”
“Did what to you?”
“Did this. All of this. If it wasn't for Hobbs, I wouldn’t be in a fucking hospital getting my head shrunk and having to relearn how to hold a fucking crayon. No offense, or anything. I know shrinking heads is just your job and all.”
“No offense taken. So, this ‘asshole’ – do you want to talk about him and what he did to you?”
"No! God, no. I’ve already talked the whole thing to death. I told the detective about it at least three times and then there were those reporters. I’m sick of talking about Hobbs and getting hit in the fucking head. Sick of it!”
“Okay. What do you want to talk about?”
“Actually nothing. Again, no offense. I just really don’t feel like talking.”
“May I ask why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just don’t have anything to say.”
“But you’re angry – I can see it in your expression and hear it in your voice.”
“Yeah, I’m angry. Of course, I’m angry. Who wouldn’t be? I’ve been in the fucking hospital for almost two and a half months.”
“But you’re getting out soon.”
“Not soon enough.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re going to do when you get out?”
“I don’t know. Whatever, I guess. See my friend Daphne. Go to MacDonald’s. That kind of thing.”
“Tell me about Daphne.”
“She’s my best friend. We’ve been best friends since we were in grade school. Her family lived pretty close to mine, so we hung-out a lot as kids.”
“I assume she knows about what happened to you?”
“She was there. At least, for part of it. She was my prom date . . . well, maybe I should say my ‘beard.’ I couldn't go with a real date. You know I’m gay, right?”
“Yes, that’s in the report Dr. DuBois gave me.”
“He wrote a report? What else is in it? I have a right to know, don't I?”
“Of course. Here, you can read it for yourself. There will be no secrets between us. I want you to trust me.”
MEMORANDUM
To: Rochelle Bernard, MS, LPC, LCSW
From: Dr. Mark DuBois, MD
Re: Justin Taylor’s Biographical and Medical Report
Date: June 26, 2001
Justin is an 18 year-old white male who identifies as homosexual. He was raised in an upper middle-class household and attended Fox Chapel Presbyterian Church until he was 16. His parents are in the process of divorcing. Upon release from the hospital, Justin will be residing with his mother and ten year-old sister, Molly, at 24 Bell Acres Village, Fox Chapel, Pittsburgh. His mother is studying to become a licensed real estate agent, and his father is the owner and CEO of Taylor Electronics, Inc. His grandparents on his mother’s side are deceased, and his grandparents from his father’s side reside in Tucson, Arizona. Both Justin and his mother, Jennifer Taylor, report that Justin is estranged from his father, Craig Taylor. There are currently no financial, insurance or housing concerns.
Justin received his education from two elite private schools. From grades K-6, he attended Sewickley Academy, and for grades 7-12, he attended St. James’ Academy from which he graduated with high honors. During the summer between his junior and senior years, Justin worked as a valet at the Edgewood Country Club. Most recently, he worked busing tables at the Liberty Diner in downtown while residing for several months with a family friend. The reason Justin was not living at home at the time of the assault is that his father had become abusive after learning that Justin is gay.
Justin was accepted to the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts where he was to start his freshman year on 10/3/01. As of the drafting of this report, it is not clear whether he will be able to attend given the disability in his right hand and wrist caused by the traumatic brain injury he suffered on 5/11/01. Justin has been doing exceptionally well in physical therapy and shown great improvement, but he is still having difficulty with basic motor skills, which may impair his ability to fulfill his courses’ requirements. Other than the traumatic brain injury and accompanying psychiatric disorders (see below), Justin is in excellent health. However, he reports having occasionally smoked marijuana and taken Ecstasy. He also reports drinking alcohol on a weekly basis but denies he has a drinking problem. He reports never having used narcotics, addictive stimulants or hallucinogens in any form.
The brain injury Justin survived was severe and life-threatening. He was in a coma for several weeks. Upon waking, he presented with migraines, convulsions, slurred speech, memory loss and confusion. Other than the memory loss, the other symptoms disappeared within a few days. He reports that he no longer has migraines, but his headaches are frequent and occasionally debilitating. It is unclear how far back in time his memory loss extends, and the general opinion of his treating physicians is that we may never know.
Justin is bright, creative, polite and cooperative with staff, but he is also often agitated. He has violent outbursts that are difficult for him to control and manage and sometimes require staff-intervention and restraint. He also suffers from nightmares and acute anxiety that often results in panic attacks that require staff attention. After interviewing Justin for at least an hour on five separate occasions, the staff psychiatrist, Dr. Richard Balter, diagnosed him in compliance with the DSM IV with posttraumatic stress syndrome, panic disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, depersonalization/derealization disorder, and depressive disorder with mixed features.
Justin has been advised that medication could help him sleep and lessen his anxiety, agitation and depression, but he is adamant that he will not take any. It should be noted for the record, however, that Justin’s mother feels strongly that her son should be treated with medication. This is something you might want to explore with him.
Justin appears to have several strong, supportive relationships. Despite his strained relationship with his father, Justin is close with his mother and sister. He also has numerous friends who have visited him regularly, including a woman by the name of Debbie Novotny who he refers to as his “second mom.” He has not been contacted or harassed by Christopher Hobbs, the perpetrator of the assault that resulted in his injury, or any of Mr. Hobbs’ family or friends. Police interviewed Justin and another man who witnessed the attack; those interviews resulted in Mr. Hobbs’ arrest and charges of Assault in the First Degree and Reckless Endangerment. Mr. Hobbs has pled not guilty. A trial has not yet been scheduled.
Justin is expected to recover at least 75 percent of his strength and coordination in his hand and wrist. However, he will likely continue to suffer severe headaches and/or migraines for the foreseeable future. I have advised Justin against taking narcotic painkillers out of a concern over their addictive properties. Justin has expressed agreement with this advice.
If you should have any further questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact me. Justin is a fine young man, and I wish him a swift and complete recovery.
“What the hell is ‘depersonalization disorder’?”
“It’s when someone feels detached from themselves and the world around them. My patients usually describe it as living in a foggy dream or watching themselves like an observer. The world feels unreal and remote. Is that how you feel sometimes?”
“Sometimes. Other times the world’s too real, and I can’t escape it. It’s like being on fire. The rest of the time . . . yeah, ‘foggy dream’ is a good description – a damp, cold foggy dream.”
“So you’re either on fire or damp and cold? Is there ever an in-between?”
“No. Not really.”
“It sounds very uncomfortable.”
“You’re telling me.”
“So, we started to talk about what you’ll do when you get out of the hospital, and you said you were going to hang-out with Daphne and go to MacDonald’s.”
*snorts*
“Anything else?”
“Now that you mention it, I’m going to find my so-called ‘boyfriend’ and throttle him. And then I’m going to beg him to fuck me. Or maybe it’ll be the other way around. He’ll fuck me and then I’ll throttle him. I’ll be like a female praying mantis. Have you heard about them? After they mate with a male, they twist his head off and suck out his brains.”
“I have heard that . . .”
“Or I could be a male quoll. Have you ever heard of ‘quolls’? They kinda look like giant squirrels with lots of really sharp teeth. The males can only release a little bit of sperm per ejaculation, so they have to fuck the females for literally hours, but not in a good way. They’re mean-ass little fuckers. Sometimes they fuck the females so savagely and for so long, they end of killing them and then devour their dead bodies. That's what I'm going to do with Brian. I’m going to fuck him for hours until he dies and then eat him. As in literally eat him, as in Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs. What’s that great line? ‘I ate his liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti.’ Except I don’t like fava beans. I’ll just eat his liver raw and wash it down with a glass of his whiskey.”
“Goodness. You sound very angry at this man. What is his name?”
“Brian. Brian Kinney.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“Yeah, right. I guess I would say he was my ‘boyfriend,’ but he doesn’t do boyfriends, so I guess he’s just a fuck buddy . . . a former fuck buddy.”
“Is that why you’re angry at him – because he treated you like a sex object instead of a real person?”
"Whatever. I got over it.”
“Then why are you so angry at him?”
“Because . . . . Because I’ve been in this fucking place for weeks, and he hasn’t come to visit me even once! No visits, no phone calls. No nothing. Hell, it’s his friends who visit me, not him. He doesn’t give a shit! He never has and he never will. God, I wish I could hate him, but I can’t! I just fucking can’t!"
“Justin, you seem very agitated. Why don’t you sit back down, take a few deep breaths, and we’ll talk about something less upsetting. How does that sound?”
“It sounds fucking patronizing. Jesus! I hate this!”
“Will you sit down? You don’t have to stop being angry; I just would like you to sit down, okay?”
“There. I’m sitting.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you going to write this all down to show Dr. Green Bean and give him an excuse to keep me here for another month?”
“No. These notes are for me. Our conversation is completely confidential. The only reasons I might have to disclose something you say to me is if you tell me you’re going to hurt yourself or someone else.”
“I guess that means you’re going to have to report that I said I want to eat Brian’s liver like a rabid quoll.”
“I’m operating under the assumption that you were speaking figuratively.”
*smiles*
“We’ll have to end things here. Our hour’s up. I have your next appointment scheduled for the day after tomorrow. I checked the times of your physical therapy sessions and scheduled our appointment in between them. How does eleven sound?”
“Whatever. It’s all the same to me. Just don’t make me miss a meal – they’re so nutritious and delicious.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You’re very kind.”
“In the meantime, between now and our next meeting, I want you to start a diary . . .”
“Oh God, please no! No diaries. No making shit out of Popsicle sticks . . .”
“I promise I won’t ask you to make something out of Popsicle sticks, but I think that keeping a diary would be . . . .”
“Wait! Hold on! I just had a brilliant idea. How about I write a diary on Popsicle sticks? We could kill two birds with one stone. The arts and crafts lady will piss herself with excitement. I’ve been holding out on her fucking Popsicle sticks for weeks. I was fine with finger paints. I was even fine with the gluing-noodles-on-poster-board thing, but she crossed the line with the Popsicle sticks.”
“If you want to write your diary on Popsicle sticks, I would be fine with that.”
“I’m totally doing it.”
“I look forward to discussing what you wrote at our next meeting.”
“After I’m done with Popsicle sticks, I’m going to make a diary out of noodles.”
“I can see you weren’t accepted at PIFA for no reason.”
“Yeah, well, you may be psyched about noodles and finger paints and shit, but I doubt PIFA will be.
“I’ll see you on Thursday. Have a good rest of the day, Justin. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Yeah. Whatever. Bye"
* * * * * * * * * * *
There’s not much room on these things . . . .
. . . . so don’t expect deep thoughts.
As predicted, arts&crafts lady pissed herself with . . . .
. . . . excitement when I asked for P sticks.
I’m writing this with my gimp hand. It’s really . . .
. . . hard, which probably means it’s good for me.
I hate that my hand is fucked . . .
. . . it means my whole life is fucked.
I had everything & now I have nothing . . .
. . . sometimes I wish Hobbs had killed me.
. . . or that Brian had left me to die . . .
. . . yet another reason to hate his guts.
I had these dreams about being an artist . . .
. . . & they just seem stupid and childish now.
I can’t go home. My mom doesn’t get it . . .
. . . no one gets it. No one will ever get it.
. . . Brian might’ve gotten it but he doesn’t . . .
. . . give a shit.
Why can’t he fucking visit me? . . .
. . . why is that so fucking hard? WHY???
I feel like my life’s over & now I’m a walking dead . . .
. . . person while everyone else goes on with their lives.
I hate this diary shit. I thought it was going to be . . .
. . . funny if I wrote it on P sticks but it’s not. It’s still depressing.
What did you think I was going to write? “Omg! I’m like so cured . . .
. . . and shit!” This is just as big a load of crap as everything else.
I cried myself to sleep last night & then I had this . . .
. . . really weird dream. It was like I was looking through the window . . .
. . . at myself – like watching myself sleep. It was really vivid & . . .
. . . then I thought I heard Brian’s voice. It felt SO REAL!
I’d do ANYTHING if I could just see him again & talk . . .
. . . to him. I don’t care if it’s more than that. I just miss . . .
. . . him SO FUCKING MUCH!! I need him . . .
. . . he’s the only person who understands me.
Why is he doing this to me?? What did I do that was . . .
. . . so bad that I deserve him treating me like this?
Daph says he came to the prom & that we danced & . . .
. . . that he kissed me right there in front of everyone.
I would cut my arm off if I could just remember . . .
. . . she said we were amazing together.
All I can think is that something must’ve happened . . .
. . . afterward between dancing and Hobbs bashing me
I must’ve done something stupid that made him . . .
. . . hate me. I probably said something stupid like . . .
. . . “I love you.” He would’ve f-ing HATED that! . . .
. . . that must’ve been it because what else could it be?
Maybe I said he had a tiny dick. LOL!
Alright, I’m done with this diary/P stick BS . . .
. . . I’m going to make some more noodle art now coz . . .
. . . I am fucking PICASSO!