Through The Cemetery Backyards

I can only imagine what this place looks like. The walls are probably painted white with small cracks in them, and there is a small round glass table set between two leather armchairs. The leather is most likely red and is designed to look like crocodile skin. Crocodile skin makes everything look expensive and noble, it would fit well here.

That’s what I’ve always imagined a therapist office to look like, but from the poor acoustics I can tell there’s way more furniture here than I assumed. This guy probably has shelves with his golden awards sitting on them like any good, straight-forward doctor does. “Look at how good I am, I fixed so many poor lost souls!” he tells each of his patients, grinning and motioning his hand towards the packed shelves. “Aren’t I just great?”

Yes, my mom did, after all, drag me to a fucking hospital which I most definitely and utterly do not need. But my mom and I don’t share opinions.

Apparently I’m so worried about my physical disability that she chose to sign me up for a meeting with an experienced therapist. And by “a meeting” she most certainly meant “every thursday for the next ten weeks until she sees improvement in my state”.

Probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard since I lost my eyesight. I am perfectly normal, at least mentally. She has no idea what she’s talking about, but she sure thinks differently.

It’s been ten years since I went blind, and only now she suddenly decides that there’s perhaps something wrong with me. Yeah, sure, I’ve never gotten self-destructing panic attacks or major depression fits that could alarm her, but she really should have tried getting me help sooner. She should have done this when I actually gave a shit and had some hope for the future left. Now that it’s gone, I frankly could not care less about what happens to me. Why do I need to be in the right state of mind if I’m never going to be able to make anything of my life anyways? Really, mom could have locked me down in the basement for several months and no one would bat an eye. “Oh? You had a son? Gerald, his name was?” our neighbors would say after she asked them if they’d noticed anything.

I told my mom all of this, but all she said was “oh baby, mother knows her child better than the child knows itself, I can see how much you’re struggling”. After that I decided to just go with the flow. It’s pointless, arguing with my mom. She hardly ever listens, and when she does, she always finds some sad, hidden and totally unnecessary meaning behind my words. Apparently I don’t know myself well enough to know what’s best for me- staying at home or talking to some stuck-up therapist, laying my soul out for him. Mom says that I only think everything is okay with me because I’m blindfolded by my deep deep depression, while in reality I’m slowly drowning in my own sorrow for myself.

But I’ve already accepted that I’m blind! Why does she have to pour salt on the almost healed wound?

I understand that she just wants for me to get better, but I feel fine! I AM fine! Sometimes I feel like… I feel like she’s hiding something from me, and it’s irritating, confusing and kind of scary.

She is now sitting by me on the leather couch, and the therapist is gone off to the bathroom. Her sweaty, cold and bony hand is tightly gripping mine, and it looks like she’s even more nervous than I am. Her sharp nails are digging painfully into my skin, but I don’t pull away: she needs a relief.

Suddenly I hear the door crack open and heavy footsteps enter the room. Here it comes. They move slowly and lazily, as if the person could not care less about what happens in the next hour. Just like me.

“Ah, hello Mr Ackermann!” my mother chirps out two seconds later. That’s a German name. The heavy footsteps approach the opposite side of the table and I hear the leather armchair squeak under the weight of the therapist.

“Hallo, Mrs Way,” he greets back in a thick German accent, singing out the vowels. His voice is unnaturally high for a male and, if my guess is right and he is a heavy man, he looks quite funny when he speaks. Like a huge wild bear with a voice of a five year old. “Hallo, Gerard,” he addresses me.

I only nod in reply. I want him to see how much I look down to him, and that I don’t need his help at all. I’m going to be stubborn with him.

Suddenly mom grabs my elbow and stretches my arm out in his direction. Before I can struggle away I feel the man’s dry meaty hand come in contact with mine as he shakes it.

“It’s very nice to meet du,” Mr Ackermann adds, probably waiting for me to respond. Silence falls upon us, and I hear my mom’s nervous breathes. Honestly, I feel very sorry for her. raising a blind son who is 24 years old and is supposedly deeply depressed must be hard.

“Richtig Gerard, let’s start by taking your glasses off, ja?” he says, probably realising that I am not planning to reply.

Oh hell no, anything but glasses!

I over-fiercely shake my head in response. “Oh no, I can’t,” I mumble, tilting my head down.

“Yes you can, kinder! It’s important for you to be open mit mich in order for this to work,”

I hesitate, trying to fight over the urge of getting up and leaving the room. I never, not under any circumstances, take my glasses off. Mom softly nudges my side.

“Do as the doctor says, sweetie,” she half-whispers and I sigh shakily, not daring to move. I feel her cold hand touch my temple as she slides the glasses off for me. As soon as they are off me, I suddenly I feel extremely exposed and unprotected, as if I’m in the middle of a sea filled with sharks, ready to attack me.

“Gut. Now lets start,” the therapist says and his hands clap together. An image of jiggling flesh flashes in my mind.

“So what are you worried about, Mrs Way?”

Mom seems to hesitate for a moment before replying.

“I’d much rather discuss this without Gerard in the room,”

What?

“Ja, I understand. Gerard, do you need help to get to der corridor?”

“Oh no, he’ll be fine,” mom interrupts me before I have a chance to protest. She is literally going to be discussing me, and she wants me to leave? “Gerard, go,”

I wordlessly stand up from the couch, feeling really stupid for some reason.

“Can I have my glasses back?”

“Ja,” Mr Ackermann replies instead of my mom. I feel the smooth cold surface of the glasses on my fingertips and hurriedly pull them out of mother’s grip. After I put them on I painfully slowly make my way outside, hoping that I won’t knock anything over. Finally, I’m outside the room, in the corridor. It’s filled with quiet murmurs of other patients, and I can practically feel all eyes pierce into me. They think I don’t know they’re staring, but I always do.

Feeling around with my hands I find a chair and carefully sit down on it, trying to relax, but the peace just doesn’t come. I don’t know what to think or do- my mom just asked me to leave the room so that she can discuss my condition with that disgusting Mr Fucking Ackermann.

“Hey Casanova!” a loud, slightly high-pitched male voice rings next to my left ear, waking me up. I panickly flinch away, startled, my heart racing in my chest. I face the direction where the voice is coming from just to be met with a sly chuckle, the type of giggle you’d expect to come from a witch's mouth.

“Wearing glasses inside?” the voice asks playfully and I suddenly understand what the whole Casanova joke is about, and I honestly wish I didn’t. It makes me wonder if he realises that I’m blind or not, but I am not going to inquire. I wordlessly turn away, clenching my fist.

“Dude, you awake?” I feel air being blown into my face and realise that he’s waving his hand in front of me.

“Fuck off,” I mutter through gritted teeth.

“Hey, I’m just trying to make a friend!”

“I am not interested,”

“What’s up your ass? Why the fuck are you wearing glasses?”

And with those words, he does the forbidden: he rips my protectors and saviors right off my face.

I continue to stare at the same spot in front of me, not acknowledging him even though I feel like I’m going to pass out any second. I feel ill and my brain is fuzzy with panic; I frankly wish I was dead.

“Hey! How about you look at me when I speak?” the voice shouts over me and I sigh. Now he’s going to be the miserable one.

I turn my head to face him and tilt my face upwards slightly, half closing my eyes.

“I’m fucking blind, asshole,” I spit at him triumphantly.

Notes

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