What Wasn't Said

I can’t trust my own thoughts, but they’re sometimes my safest places to run to… only sometimes.

* * *

“Hi bro. How are you today?”

“Eh… I’m tired. I woke up tired. I didn’t even do that much today,” Thomas replied.

Dumb lazyass… how could you lay around and complain about your day?

“What’d you say, Drew?”

“I said don’t sweat it. We all have days like that. It’s okay to have a chill day and still be draggin.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I know I am, Thomas. Chin up. Mom says she loves you and will see you later this week. I’ll try to pop by again this week too. Definitely by next.”

* * *

As Drew left his brother for the day, Thomas plastered his notable, slightly discomforting fake smile, hoping he’d appear as “together” as possible. Of course, his family knew better. His friends too. Everyone who knows Thomas for more than a week knows better. He’s not unlikeable, but he’s definitely got issues. Mostly, he hears a lot that isn’t said, and it has created mostly long, imaginary bridges between him and many people who could potentially be his friends.

As Thomas determined he’d at least take a walk around the center, he used way too much mental energy listening to whispers from other patients, trying to decipher truth and reality from his misconstrued mind translating what he heard (or imagined).

“Hi Thomas! Good to see your smiling face today. How was time with Drew today?”

Thomas is always whining when Drew comes in… He’s by far the most unhinged one here…

Thomas decided the safest choice was to continue fake smiling and nodding in the general direction of those speaking to him, and to not speak back, just in case they didn’t say what he thought he heard. The downfall, though, was their faces turned to the friendly confused look he was used to. Even people there for their own messed up reasons seemed to feel bad for him. He clearly still couldn’t filter things accurately. The staff are better at hiding their true feelings about everyone, even though they’re mostly nice. It’s the fake nice they have to be to maintain professionalism and not take things too personally.

* * *

(a few days later)

“Sweet Tommy, I so missed you!” 

“It’s only been a little over a week, mom…”

In truth, Thomas didn’t mind his mom still doting on him, even as he’s well into his twenties.

“I know, Tommy, but I’m your mom and I can miss you. I miss you every day.”

It was you who wanted me to come in here full-time… I could’ve stayed at home with you guys.

“I miss you all the time, mom.”

Look at Thomas, mama’s boy. It’s so gross how much he clings to his mom. He’s always in the way, and so are his guests…

“Shut up! All of you!”

“Tommy, calm yourself, honey. Nobody said anything. You’re okay,” she said, caressing his back.

She didn’t always have much else to say in these situations. It could’ve been better, but it could’ve been worse. 

* * *

(the next day)

“Time for outside recreation, everyone!” 

Of all the routine things that happened each day and week here, getting outside for some team games wasn’t the worst of things. The worst of things were medications that had to be taken that were meant to help everyone’s conditions. Maybe they did. Some days, Thomas felt no different. But was his state of pseudo-normalcy actual improvement, or was it just existing in a mediocre state of numbness to intense feelings? Sometimes he was calm, but he’s still not sharp enough to discern social nuances nor is he able to think clearly most of the time. Maybe he would, in fact, be worse off without the meds. 

“Yo, T, you wanna be on defense or offense?”

Thomas, get off the field, man. Everything about you is offensive. 

Thomas stood there, not speaking, wondering what was said. Almost everything he hears is distorted. Friendly voices, spiky words. But those words aren’t real, are they? 

“Huh?” Thomas asked. 

“Defense or offense?”

“Oh… defense is good.” Thomas could defend a ball like nothing else, but he could barely defend his mind. Good thing these guys usually still got along with him, invited him to play, and cared enough to be patient with him.

* * *

(a few days later)

Cynthia is the silent, girl-next-door type. She wears vibrant graphic tees, a variety of hats, and only arrived a few weeks ago. It was only about 3 days ago Thomas noticed her. He’s been in his own world. It was actually her seclusive nature that ironically drew his eye. 

* * *

(a few days ago)

Did you hear about Thomas…?

“What?! What did you hear about me, huh?! Tell me to my face!” By the time Thomas realized he was having an episode because of those familiar looks of confusion, he scanned the room and saw her… well, her cheek. She had a book in her hand, and didn’t even look at him flipping out. He wanted to hide away, but his room felt too close to the embarrassing scene. He decided on sitting on the bench outside near the south exit to the field. He figured everyone’s used to him by now and by dinner things will have blown over.

* * *

(later that day)

Over a plate of mashed potatoes, fried chicken, and warm carrots, Thomas sat in silence, seeing his food more than eating it. His carrots moved with the stroke of his fork as his lack of thoughts left him exhausted but relieved for the silence…until…

“H-h-hey, Thomas.” It was Cynthia. Her cheek was rosy, her shirt loud with color, and her hat covering her short wavy hair, golden in the sunlight peeking through the cracked window. It was the first time he heard her voice.

Thomas gaped at her, wordless, riveted on the inside, but likely looking catatonic on the outside.

“Can I sit?” she asked, apparently not put off.

As if he was snapped out of it, he said “of course!”

“So… how are you?”

Thomas, I love you so much. You are the most exquisite, strong, brave man I’ve ever met.

“I’m pretty good.” It was almost as if he knew immediately that her inquiring how he was doing meant more than just the basic question it was. I mean, he could see that she wasn’t showering him with committed love, per se, but that she was interested in him. He could see through the clouds of imagined remarks and still he wasn’t disappointed. She actually seemed to care about him, even a little bit. As he told her his response, he felt her hand touch the top of his for a long moment as she said, “Pretty good is nice. You think I could have some of those c-c-carrots?”

* * *

(two days later)

“Drew… don’t tell anyone, but I think I may like someone. She’s got the best smile, not forced, ya know? She listens a lot. She touches my hand when I feel agitated or nervous. All the time actually. Nothing she says - or I think she says - ever hurts or is harsh.”

“Dang, Thomas, you’ve got hit hard! My lips are sealed.”

“H-h-hey Thomas,” Cynthia said shyly, passing by them both.

“Is that her, bro? Mega cutie.”

* * *

(the next morning) 

“Thomas, you see Cynthia today?” someone said with genuine curiosity. 

Thomas is creeping on Cynthia, the new girl. 

“Shut up… Cynthia is a friend and likes my company!”

“Geez, I know. I’m sorry. I was just asking if you saw her… cool it, okay?”

“I’m sorry… I was mistaken.”

“It’s okay, Thomas. No worries.”

* * *

“T-T-Thomas, good to see you,” Cynthia said a couple hours later. Her presence was a welcome reprieve from the toil he put himself through after wondering if he was actually creeping on her lately. 

“Good to see you too, Cynthia. Wanna sit?”

“I definitely do. How was your visit with D-D-Drew?"

I love you, Thomas.

* * *

About me, the author: my own sister has schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and explosive anger. Having lived with her in the past for some difficult years when we lived at home with our parents, it influenced some of how I wrote this story. I’m not an expert in any of these mental disorders, and this is only loosely based on her. It’s not to be taken as anything other than the creative influence it was. The main character never specifies (or has specified) which disorder he battles. That’s purposeful, mostly because I don’t want to narrow the reach or dampen the potency too much, nor try to act like I understand any one disorder well enough to claim one. I appreciate you taking the time to read this! (P.S. for clarity, the bold italics are his thoughts or what he thinks is being said, “italics in quotes” are what he says, and everything else is what’s actually said/done. Hopefully it was understandable!)