“Tell me about your relationship with your mother.”
“Aren’t I here to talk about my writing?”
A young man with unkempt medium-length brown hair sits in the too-soft too-green sofa, staring in consternation at his thumbs as if his twiddling was of utmost importance. He thought that if he wasn’t so anxious he would pass right out on this pillow pit of a couch. That and I’d never be caught dead on something so ugly.
The therapist sitting across from him squeaks in his leather armchair as he shifts from thumbing his stubble with his left hand to his right hand. His face-fidgeting distracted the young man from his twiddling, his eyes darting between his thumbs and the therapist. The stubble wouldn’t be noticeable if he didn’t draw attention to it.
He gestures, palm upward, “Listen, Judas, we’re here to talk about you, and I don’t know anything about you, let alone you-”
“My mother’s dead, Mr. Cooper.” Judas interrupts, halting his twiddling and staring at the man. Mr. Cooper startles, eyes slightly widening as he becomes hyper aware of his posture and fidgeting. He sits upright, squeak and locks his hands in his lap. Judas notes that he probably only has a year or two of experience at-most, especially since he doesn’t look too much older than himself, also noting his short, clean-cut, right-parted with gel, hipster-esque hairstyle — fade included. Mr. Cooper quickly composes himself and returns to the overly-performative thoughtful look that also indicates his lack of experience — a look Judas has seen in many a social worker and therapist. The new ones always practice public.
Judas feels a small tinge of guilt that he doesn’t really want to be here, something that can easily frustrate a therapist still cutting their teeth.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I do think, however, it is a good place to start, if you’re willing to reopen some wounds this early.”
Judas decides to not roll his eyes and instead lets out a sigh before giving one of his heavily rehearsed spiels — although it felt weird and oddly rusty after it being a couple years;
“My mother wasn’t a good one, to say the least, but she did try her best, given her circumstances. When she met my dad, everything seemed to be going fine. She got pregnant earlier than they expected but she trusted my dad to take care of her. According to her, their relationship was fine until he disappeared late into her pregnancy. Being somewhat religious — I was never quite sure how much, as she hated talking to me about it — she originally wanted to name me Ezekiel and then my father’s name as my middle. She never told me his name and I didn’t care to push for it.
After my father left, she had no one to direct her betrayal to except me. I’m not sure what happened to her family but I’ve always assumed they were quite religious and ostracized her for having a bastard son. She named me Judas because of my father. Judas; the apostle that sold out Jesus for thirty silver pieces. It doesn’t really make any sense outside of the base meaning of betrayal and I kind of wish she was a little more creative. She didn’t bother giving me a middle name. I don’t mind my name, though. I think it's cool, however morbid. Whatever postpartum rage she felt towards me disappeared by the time I was able to think and was replaced by guilt. She always felt constant guilt at not being a good mother, and probably from thinking she wasn't a good wife or a good christian. Whether that amends her mistakes or not, I don’t know, but I never really held it against her. She was on her own. I do not have a single memory of her ever calling me Judas, only Judy or Jude. She rarely called me Zeke, but I think that made her feel even more guilt.
She put on makeup every single day even though she’d just cry it off in her room. She’d sit on the floor of her room and cry and cry and cry over the bible, as if she thought that after hundreds of readings, she’d finally find the answers to her problems in it. As if every time she missed something. She never put whatever her beliefs were onto me but she did quote the bible a lot. One of her favorites; ‘So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen.’ Corinthians, I think. One that I would overhear her whisper to herself a lot; ‘Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’ I think she was trying to remind God to uphold her. I think she felt forgotten or forsaken in his eyes. The only time her makeup was fresh was when she went to work.”
Judas raised his hands with finger quotes when he said ‘work’. He looked up at the therapist before continuing. Mr. Cooper’s “I’m listening really hard” look didn’t falter, lips ever-so-slightly pursed, eyes squinted, brow furrowed, slowly nodding the whole time. Judas appreciated his disdain for eye contact at this moment, else he thought he’d get nauseous from watching the constant head-bobbing.
“She wasn’t a good cook, or she was too high or drunk most of the time to attempt. She made sure I was always fed, though. Boxed mac’n’cheese, PBJ’s, canned ravioli; all the easy stuff. She hardly ate with me. Always so skinny. I think she thought she didn’t deserve to. I think sometimes she only used drugs to make it easier to not eat. I think she wanted to leave more for me. She probably also justified her malnutrition as attractive. She never dated but she sold her body for extra cash, only ever while I was at school, though. I’d come home to her covered in bruises. Couldn’t find any job better than minimum wage. Maybe she didn’t try. I doubt she thought she could do any better than waiting tables or standing at a register. Her self-destructive attitude reached every aspect of her life.
The only reason I realize any of this now is because I’ve reflected a lot. I wasn’t a very inquisitive child, at least towards my mom, but I was observant. Looking back, my mom wasn’t so strange, just sad. When I was around twelve she overdosed. I was lucky there was a recent assembly at school, presenting the dangers of drugs, or I probably would’ve left her limp body alone. I checked her pulse, called 911, and that was the last I saw of her. I was sad but I couldn’t cry. Been in foster care and social work since, which was all horrible in different ways.”
He finished with a shrug because he wasn’t sure how to wrap it up. Judas was surprised that he got so vulnerable but, then again, he could probably recite this speech better than he could recite the preamble in third grade.
Mr. Cooper looked just above Judas’s head in thought and touched his fingertips together in front of him, leaning forward.
Squeak
Judas made a promise to himself that if he ever had a fancy office, he would not put a loud leather chair in it.
“I must say that’s a lot to deal with. From what it seems, I haven’t heard the least of it. When you walked in I knew there was a lot in that head of yours. I could see it in your eyes. How do you handle it all?”
Like the previous question, he’s been asked it so many times before. Unlike it, he never really knew how to answer it. He’s been told he is very apathetic towards his own life because it makes it easier. Things suck but I’m not dead. A happens to me, what am I supposed to do? I get over it and wait for the next day. He knew this wasn’t necessarily true but he didn’t know how to put it. Judas pulled his black hoodie sleeves over his hands. There’s at least a few weeks before sweater-weather would justify his outfit.
“I write. It helps me think about something else.”
“What do you like to write about?” Judas shrugs. It is worth mentioning that he curls his head down when he does so, making him look like a turtle indecisive about whether to hide in his shell or not.
“Dunno’. A lot of stuff. Random stuff. I like horror. Maybe not really horror. Tragedy? Gore is cool. I lean towards overly-descriptive than not kind of stuff. Whatever I feel like. I don’t think I have an overarching theme to anything I write. That’s not true. I write a lot of fucked-up shit, I guess.” He feels uncomfortable talking about his writing. He doesn’t like to share and doesn’t expect other people to like it.
“Interesting…” Mr. Cooper thinks for a second and flaps his mouth before putting forth any words, “You said you wrote to think about other things, I assumed that would be stuff not so fucked-up as your life.” Mister therapist awkwardly finger-quotes ‘fucked-up’.
“Yeah.” Judas shrugs. Mr. Cooper looks on, expecting more. “I dunno’.”
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