Chapter Five
F or my sixth birthday, my parents gave me a stuffed bear.
Now, I should preface this by saying that receiving gifts in our household was a rarity. There were no presents, wrapped up in colorful paper under a twinkling Christmas tree. No toys accompanied by balloons and sugary confections to celebrate another year on this planet.
The things I got from my parents weren’t fun. I’d come to expect nothing more than torment; scars, both physical and emotional.
So when I got the teddy bear, my first thought wasn’t that I was probably technically too old for a stuffed animal, nor was it the normal unenthused reaction of a child receiving a basic birthday gift.
My first actual thought was, What’s the catch?
Because I wouldn’t put it past my father to hand me a toy, only to smack me upside the head the moment I accepted it.
But when he didn’t do that, my next reaction was one much sadder. I hugged him.
I was grateful for receiving my first gift—at six bloody years old—in that cheap, poorly made hunk of polyester.
So blindingly ecstatic that I’d actually been given something other than bruises and pain.
In my undeveloped mind, I’m sure I interpreted the gift as a symbol of love. Which of course, it was not.
But I didn’t know that then.
At the time, I was happy. Before that, if I’d wanted to play, I had to pretend.
Make up games to entertain myself while sadly looking on at the kids in school who’d carry around their favorite toys, slumping in defeat when I’d see the commercials on television.
Action figure this and Barbie’s Dream that .
Shiny plastic with smiling faces to match those of the lucky children who received them.
Naturally, I was jealous, but even that felt like too strong of an emotion most of the time. Usually, I was just numb.
That is, until that faithful day, when finally , I got a toy.
Every blow after was softened because, at long last, I had a friend .
If my parents had known anything about me, or bothered to show even the slightest bit of interest in their only child—the way parents are supposed to—they would’ve known that six-year-olds rarely play with stuffed teddy bears, and I was actually quite big on the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
They were my favorites. But since my parents decided to gift me a raggedy bear, that honestly might have been stolen from some other poor kid, I had to, once again, use my imagination.
I found a scrap of blue material and cut out two eyeholes to make his mask, tied two plastic utensils to his back, and voila!
Leonardo was born.
I took that bear everywhere with me. It wasn’t long before he was even rattier; worn and torn, ripped and tattered from overuse. But I didn’t care. He was my best friend.
My only friend.
I wasn’t allowed much time with my mates from school. My parents isolated me, for reasons that are quite obvious now. But at the time, it was difficult. I was a lonely little weirdo, which didn’t get better when I began talking to a stuffed bear.
Still, none of it mattered. Nothing did. My life was a dark, devastating place. Leo was there for me, as much as he could be, anyway. And all I wanted, the one thing I would wish for late at night, cowering in my bedroom, was for him to come alive.
I wished he was real . I needed him to be.
And then one day… he was.
“This won’t end well…”
“You sound rather unsupportive for my alleged best friend of nearly twenty years,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
Leo falls into step beside me while we walk home from the market. “Don’t be snippy. I am your best friend, which is why I’m looking out for your best interests. As always.”
“Right. Or maybe you’re jealous.” I stop at a crosswalk, peering at him. “Because you feel like Alice is stealing me away from you.”
He scoffs. “That’s preposterous.”
“Is it?” I lift a brow at his jagged face, only partially hidden by the blue mask. “You know, I’m beginning to think you don’t really want what’s best for me…”
I take a step forward, but he grabs me by the shirt, stopping me from walking into oncoming traffic.
“You were saying?” He sneers.
I roll my eyes. “Bugger off.”
We keep walking, arguing back and forth, all the way back to my flat. I recognize that my sanity is wearing thin. You might think I’m oblivious to it, but on the contrary.
I’ve always been rather self-aware, and yes , I know how that sounds coming from someone who’s having a full-blown conversation with an imaginary bear. But the fact remains.
I’m not psychotic. I’m not schizophrenic. If I were, I’m sure Dr. Love would have picked up on it.
I’m fully aware that the creepy bear I’ve been talking to since I was a child isn’t real . I believe him to be more of a coping mechanism for extreme trauma and chronic loneliness. And yes, that’s a lot sadder than if I were clinically unwell. But the truth is, I enjoy having him around.
Leo is my imaginary friend. A version of my old teddy bear I had as a kid. Sadly, I lost the toy when I ran away from home at eleven. I was devastated, until one day, like magic, Leo showed up. Large and maybe a bit frightening to look at. But to me , he was perfect.
He was my friend, imaginary or not. A manifestation of exactly what I needed, who popped up exactly when I needed him.
He’s been around ever since, and I’m afraid I’m too attached to let him go at this point. He was always here , even when I was still taking my meds, which is all the proof I need that seeing and hearing him doesn’t mean I’m in some fit of untreated psychosis.
I suppose my past is only one part of what someone would need to accept if they were going to enter a real relationship with me…
“And what about the other day at work?” Leo goes on as we enter the apartment.
I sigh, tossing my keys onto the table. Just because he’s my lifelong imaginary friend doesn’t mean he’s not fully exhausting sometimes.
“If I didn’t care about your well-being, would I have warned you about that perverted client? ”
“Yea, some good it did me…” I toss the bag of cheap processed food—the only kind I can afford now—onto the counter, then stagger to the couch, plopping down with an exhausted sigh. “I lost the best job I’ve ever had. The only real job I’ve ever had… Now what am I going to do for money??”
He’s quiet for a moment before sitting down by my side. “You can’t expect me to do all your thinking for you, mate.”
Rolling my eyes, I lean back, staring up at the ceiling. “What do you think Dr. Love is doing right now?”
“Pfft. Who needs him.” Leo fiddles with his rusty ninjatos. “Big, fancy shrink with his fancy new job in New York… Good riddance. You’re better off.”
I’m not sure that I agree, but I nod anyway, suddenly so very tired.
I wish like hell I could just close my eyes and get some rest…
But it won’t happen. I end up sitting on the couch for hours, just staring.
Until eventually, I get up and pace around my apartment, pretending to clean, when really, I think I’m making more of a mess.
The next thing I know, it’s nine-thirty in the morning. I have no idea where the time went, but I have to get ready for my appointment with the replacement doctor.
The cheap Dr. Love knock-off.
Please. That guy is nothing like Dr. Love. He doesn’t even have dreadlocks!
Just another affable old fool acting like he gets it, when he hasn’t the slightest bloody clue. Charlatans.
Making my way to his office, I’m stewing all the while.
Things have really fallen apart for me since Dr. Love left, though I refuse to admit it.
I hate to give him that much credit, since dropping me as a client was as easy for him as tossing something into the garbage.
Either way, I think it’s evident that I’ve been better…
I lost my job. A job I truly enjoyed, by the way. I think they could tell something was up with me, but I convinced myself it was nothing. Still, I was showing up later and later, more and more disheveled. And then one day, this massage client came in who reminded me of someone from my past…
Let’s just say, it didn’t go over well. And now I’m unemployed and falling detrimentally behind on my bills.
I’m also off my prescribed medication and back to self-medicating.
Bonkers how easily it happened, too. I haven’t used drugs since before I was arrested, which was nearly eight years ago at this point.
And yet the moment things get rough, I slip right back into it, as easily as breathing.
Imagine, all that clean time down the drain…
I didn’t realize I was such a junkie.
“Dr. Callahan will see you now,” the cheerful girl at the desk says, barely thirty seconds after I arrive.
“What’s she have to be so chipper about?” Leo grunts, and I hold my hand up to him.
“Stay out here.”
I know he’s pouting, but I don’t care. Dealing with Callahan is annoying enough without Leo in the room commenting on everything and distracting me.
Striding into his office, I close the door behind me, placing him immediately. My new doctor .
Ugh. I suppose I should get used to him.
In my initial naivety, I thought Dr. Love might return after a few weeks.
I held out some hope that he’d be back when he finished his special job in New York—which was apparently so important that he left his whole life here in Atlanta behind.
Foolishly, I inferred—when he was breaking up with me—that it was a temporary position.
But it’s been two whole months. And I’m stuck with Dr. Callahan, the dopey prick who, despite coming highly recommended by Dr. Love, is entirely too much of a shrink .
He’s a dime-store therapist, when Dr. Love was the real deal, a true behavioral psychiatrist.
It’s like going from Debussy to the Titanic soundtrack.
“Trevel, good to see you.” Callahan smiles, gesturing for me to take a seat.
I look at the seat and frown, opting to pace around his office instead.