Page 52 of Because of Dylan
He pauses after that.Each second taking a millennium. One thousand years.
Two thousand years.
Three thousand years.
Then he breaks the silence. “No, you're right, I don't know what secrets you keep. Each person’s pain is uniquely theirs. Even if their experiences are similar. We all process differently. But I’ve worked at this for a while now. I have delved deep into people’s darkness, and I can assure you that nothing you can say would shock me.”
“That’s sad and horrifying.” My chest constricts with the idea of other little girls and boys living through what I did.
“Yes, it can be. I've seen all matters of darkness, of pain and hurt, and hopelessness. But I also have seen people learning to love themselves. People learning to forgive the past, letting go, and figuring out how to be happy.”
I pull a blanked over me, cocoon under its cover. “That sounds kinda impossible right now.”
“No such thing as impossible.” There’s no hesitation in his reply.
I laugh at that. "I don't know, Doc, I have never had much faith in the goodness of people."
“You don't need to have faith in the goodness of other people. You need to have faith in your own goodness.”
God. His words hit me like a slap to the face. “I guess … I’m even more screwed, then, because I'm not good.” The words hurt when they leave my lips.
“I don't believe that. Those are the lies you tell yourself.”
“How could you possibly know if I’m a good person or not? You don’t know me.”
“I know you are a good person because you care. Because you want to do better and be better.”
I don’t respond. He has me there. I want to be better. I want to be someone I can be proud of. And I care.
“Tell me what happened today? What upset you?” he asks me.
I hesitate, spread my fingers on the bed. “I met my father for breakfast this morning.”
“How did meeting your father for breakfast upset you?”
“It’s not his fault I’m upset.” Why am I defending my father?
The faint sound of a creaking chair comes through my earbuds. “I never said it was.”
No, he didn’t.
“Go on,” he says.
“This is only the third time I met him. He wants to be a part of my life, he wants to get to know me.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Why are you always asking me that?” My voice is louder than I intended.
He chuckles. “Because, my friend, how we feel is the crux of the problem.”
“How should I feel? What is the right feeling?”
“There is no right or wrong. Emotions, feelings, just are. How we relate to them, and what we do about them, is what matters.”
“Ugh. That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I can give you for that question. You are evading my original question, though. How did meeting your father make you feel?”
