The Flower
Scars - I Prevail
The tension in the air is thick when I open the door from my office.
Axel and my boss are having a heated conversation and the last thing I want is for him to ask me to terminate Axel as my patient.
Parker has issues with people asserting dominance over him.
He thinks everyone should bow down to him like he is some ethereal being.
He definitely has some sort of god complex, and it's comical.
No one should be subjected to that kind of idiocy.
“Is everything okay?” I ask curiously, not entirely sure if I want to know the answer.
“Peachy,” Axel answers calmly. The look he gives me is devious, as if he is trying to get under Parker's skin.
The only thing that will cause is more headaches.
He follows me in with an eyebrow raised, already knowing the routine, and plopping onto the cushioned sofa.
I shut the door and sit across from him.
He eyes my coffee table with a look I can't quite put my finger on.
“Nice flowers.” He points at them, removing his black leather jacket, placing it on the arm of the couch, and shifting to get more comfortable. I glance down at them, instantly reminded of the sentiment behind them. I can feel warmth creeping its way up my neck and onto the peaks of my cheeks.
“Thank you.” I say, tottering in my seat, trying to make the rosiness of them less noticeable. I had been so focused on my clients this morning, I had forgotten they were even there. Still as beautifully bloomed as when I got them.
“Well, whoever got them for you has good taste, and I can see that you agree with the way your face is tomato red right now.” He smirks. Oh fuck. Is it that obvious? I clear my throat and take a sip of water from my bottle on the floor, trying to wash down my embarrassment.
“Yes. They are beautiful, aren't they? Why don’t we get started? I wanted to apologize, I ran a little over time,” I say, changing the subject.
I hope he isn’t put off by the schedule delay.
It isn't a common trend for me. I value the time my clients give me, so I always want to give that in return.
“No worries about it. Shall we pick up where we left off?” His tone is snide as he brushes it off. I retrace my thoughts from the last session. I did peek at my notes earlier, and we left off discussing his experiences with…
Oh gosh. I remember now.
He threatened someone's life in front of me. The audacity he had to wink at me while I sat there, jaw on the fucking floor in awe. I’m used to being hit on by clients.
The line between client and professional sometimes gets blurred.
Those who have never had someone care about their problems can easily trigger some sort of attachment.
I could never see my clients in that way.
It’s unethical, and I don’t have a problem letting them know that as well.
I could have easily terminated him with that stunt from the last session, but something within me is determined to help him. This bad-boy persona is a mask; I just know it. So today I want to dig deeper with him. I want to know what makes him tick.
“I thought maybe we could talk about your upbringing today.” I think speaking about this can help me get some clarity, and possibly help him too. I can see the hesitation in his expression. It seems like a touchy subject for him, and he is masking the vulnerability.
“Are you analyzing me, Ms. Rosen?” I'm caught off guard by the question. My eyes dart around in bewilderment. I, by any means, don’t want him thinking I’m judging him.
“Relax, it was just a joke. What would you like to know?” He asks, preventing my mind from spiraling. I chuckle in relief. I never know what he is going to say or do next. I’m unsure of my feelings surrounding it. Toying with me appears to be one of his favorite games. Of that, I have no doubt.
“Tell me about how you grew up and what your parents were like? You can start anywhere,” I say.
Letting my clients have control over what to share makes them more comfortable, and I never want to pressure them into saying more than they are comfortable with.
He doesn’t need to give me the nitty-gritty right off the bat, but if that's where he wants to start, I’m okay with that too.
I watch him shift on the sofa, looking for another comfortable position before responding.
“Half of my childhood is a blur. Sometimes I’ll get these…
glimpses? Glimpses of things that happened to me, but I’m unsure of the whole event, like I can't remember exactly the whole memory. What I can remember is that my parents were the worst fucking human beings on this planet,” Axel says through gritted teeth. I can see the pain flash in his eyes.
My heart already hurts for him, and I don’t even know the details yet.
Childhood trauma resulting from an unstable household can have a huge impact on how a child sees and reacts to the world.
I’ve seen many clients who have had dysfunctional families, and understanding that and processing those memories is the first step to healing that old part of yourself.
“Tell me more about these glimpses. Are they flashbacks to the past?
With what you can remember, can you tell me the feeling of the scenarios you're in?
Like if it's a good feeling or a bad feeling or even sad?” I ask, wanting to know more about this.
If it is some sort of flashback experience, he very well could have dissociated a lot as a child, and can experience some sort of PTSD from it.
He shifts once more, lying down on the long chaise. I sit in silence as I wait for him to respond, not wanting to rush. His head shifts to the right and to the left, scrunching his brows like he is trying to remember. There is a heavy weight in the room as he palms his face with both hands.
“It’s never a good memory. Flashbacks are exactly what they are, and they used to never creep up on me until lately. They are happening often, and I don’t know what to do about them. Fuck. I feel like a bitch talking about this. I don’t talk about my feelings. In fact, I prefer not to have them.”
“Axel, I know it's tough speaking about things that have made you feel bad or sad. Feeling emotions is what makes us human. I don’t believe for one second that you are incapable of emotions, You’re allowed to say, they hurt me,” I say to him, referencing what he shared in our first session.
The person lying in front of me right now is someone who wasn’t given the opportunity to be loved properly. I can see it in his eyes, as if a light was stripped away and was tossed out. We all deserve to be loved properly. He turns his head in my direction, still lying face up.
“I try to suppress them. It doesn't work a lot of the time. I was an only child. The memories I can’t seem to grasp were the events of my life until I reached the age of thirteen.
What I can remember is the feeling of always being hopeful.
That even though I was unhappy, and that even though I endured abuse after abuse, a piece inside still clung onto this need for love, but the thing is…
I knew my parents never loved me. They even told me themselves.
They wished I had never been born, but felt like they had some moral obligation to raise me, even though they resented me.
I wish they had given me up to the system. Maybe I would've had a chance.”
The feeling in my chest is heavy. Like a ton of bricks weighing it down, ready to cave in. No child deserves to be treated like they are unwanted. Axel is just misunderstood. Waiting for a sliver of acknowledgement from someone. Waiting for love.
The look on his face in remembrance is heartbreaking. Like he is grasping at a distant memory that he wishes so badly were different. To be better. The corner of his lip frowns in disapproval, and I wish I could help relieve that feeling. But he has to do it for himself.
“I’m sorry you had to hear and experience that, Axel. No child should be put in a situation of being unwanted. How did you cope when these situations occurred?” I struggle to finish my thoughts.
“They were cruel to me. I was treated as if I were a burden to them. I was the child they never wanted, but were forced to keep. I guess a part of me always knew when the abuse was coming. There was no way out for me. I just took it. I had to. How am I supposed to know who I am when I spent my whole life trying to be someone else? How was I supposed to wake up every day and pretend that everything was okay, that it was normal? As much as I thought it was, I was naive. I was just a kid who didn’t know any better. ”
His body perches as he gets up to stand.
My head tilts upward at his stature, watching as he rolls up the dark sleeves of his shirt until they meet his elbows, showcasing a beautiful inked canvas of tattoos.
He steps in my direction, coming closer, and my breath hitches. He holds his forearms out to me.
“If you look close enough, you can see the scars,” he says with no emotion in his voice.
As if he had experienced enough with just the few memories he gave me.
I lean in closer, looking behind the artwork to see raised scars that tell a horrifying past. Without thinking, my hand comes up, meeting his tanned skin.
I bush over the ridges, feeling instant empathy.
Minutes go by without him or me saying a word.
They're everywhere. If he hadn't covered them up, I’m not sure of the amount of unharmed flesh that would be peeking out.
I pause, peering up at him, thinking something about this moment feels all too familiar.