Autumn Break

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Red and orangey fallen mess are eclectically scattered across the ground, making a picture of small wildfires in a crazy cold season. My eyes interpret the trees as flaring logs the moment I gaze at them from the distance. Neighbors’ houses are decorated with grinning pumpkins ranging from small to big ones which I personally do not prefer. Fortunately, only a few people are out. Girls who just passed by talked about what to wear to the upcoming Halloween party at nobody’s shack and no one has walked in front of my house since then. Sun is vaguely seen, but I can feel beads of sweat building up inside my army green parka jacket. The wind blows harshly in my way, urging me to continue walking or else it will ice me to death on my freaking doorway. It’s been 5 minutes and I still haven't taken another step ever since my first one. How can I? I can't bear to look at these vivid colors. I can't bear to roam the hollow streets while feeling my skin itch with every single red, orange, and yellow thing I’ll see. I can't help but feel like I’m being scalded in their presence.

I am in the middle of discussing my next move with myself when my phone abruptly rang. “Ms. Jannaia Porter?” The lady on the other side of the call has a pillow-soft caring voice as she speaks. I can visualize her smiling from one ear to the other even if I can't catch sight of her.

“Speaking,” Compared to her, my voice is annoyingly raspy. That’s the only time I realized that I’m breathing too heavily and that my heart’s been drilling my chest loud and fast when I haven't even moved at all. I need to calm the fuck down.

“Your appointment is in an hour. We just want to confirm if you’ll attend?”

“Ah, y-yes. Y-yes, I’ll..come.” I’m actually having second thoughts.

“Okay then, see you in an hour.” Her happy last words don't match up to how I currently conceive. Parts of me want to take back what I said and just go back inside. Half of me reminds me that I’m the one who set that appointment and that I also did promise to my best friend I’ll go no matter what it takes. It's such a shame if I break a promise to the only person who ever really cared about me.

With a heavy sigh and heart, I start walking towards the street. I pull my raven black beanie down so it will cover half of my rosy ears then cross my frail pale arms over my chest. I try to neglect the sight of the intense fall leaves as I stay wary for every single stranger I’ll ever encounter. I can't help but be defensive. It’s a dangerous world, who knows what awful things might happen unexpectedly. I found myself avoiding the small bright leaves as I stayed walking on the same side of the track. The smell of pumpkin and apple spices began to reach my nose right when I turned to 15th Avenue where a coffee shop is located. As a child, I used to love this same smell of soft milky drinks with cinnamon and no coffee every time my mom makes them. I remember waiting for this season back then to have another blissful taste of this heavenly surprise. But now, the scent just makes me want to peel my skin off out of irritation.

I arrived at the clinic at exactly 4:00 pm, just in time for the appointment. The moment I stepped inside, I let out a huge sigh of relief as I got here safely. The place is still the same as before: plain white tiles, plain white walls. The only difference I can notice is the newly decorated tall plants beside the worn-out green couch where an adult blonde woman in her 40’s, maybe 50’s, tall and anxious, formal and gray, is currently sitting. The lady at the front desk welcomes me with a fluffy radiant smile, complementing her pure white uniform and neat appearance, hair bun and all. I approach her with an awkward simper.

“Excuse me.” My voice came out more sluggish than I expected. “I’m Jannaia Porter. I have an appointment at 4.” The moment she checks the old white computer on the left side of the desk to confirm what I said, I assume she’s not the one who spoke to me on the phone earlier.

“Please proceed to Room 2.” Her smile doesn't waver as she looks back at me after scanning the log. Without making any noise, I walk towards the room, feeling a mix of anxiety and anticipation in my abdomen.

The doctor comes in moments after me. She’s hazy old yet still petite. Her hair flowed down her back like an ocean on a moonlit night while her tired black olive eyes hid behind her gold-plated specs. The clanking of her heels and the floor resonates across the deafening quiet room, bouncing to my nosy delicate ears. I have no idea who she is. I was told my doctor for years needs to attend a seminar out of town for a month and they recommended her instead as a substitute. Out of desperation, I agreed to compromise. But looking back, I'm starting to think that it’s not a good idea.

She sits on a steel chair just in front of the wood sofa that I’m sitting on. She checks her long cream-white folder and reads aloud some stuff that was written on the paper inside it.

“Ms. Porter?” I nodded as an answer. “18. Diagnosed with SAD and PTSD,” the way she read that was gentle and thinking. Yet to me, the words made me feel sensitive and uneasy. Part of my gut is saying she shouldn't have done that. Other parts tell me to shut up. I am about to roll my sleeves up when I catch a glimpse of my itching scars. I hide them all in a snap, thinking how I don't want her to see it right now, how I don't want to see it right now.

“So, how are you?”

“Not..fine,” I said almost whispering, not sure if she heard. I don't have the guts to know how I should talk or act towards her since I don't know her. I'm aware that I should just be true to myself but I can't bring myself to do just that, thinking that I might say something inappropriate.

“And why are you not fine? Is there something bothering you?” She said with a serious tone, still not letting go of the folder in her hand.

“I couldn't sleep.” She begins writing down the words I utter. “I couldn't go out of home for a couple of weeks. And for some reason, my scars feel like hurting again.” As the number of my words increases, the volume of my voice decreases. I can't help but lower it because honestly, I'm not comfortable with her.

“You’ve been diagnosed for five years, right? Isn't there anything you and your doctor have tried to get rid of this feeling or calm yourself down?” To me, she’s a doctor-Doctor. The normal type of doctor where they would just ask people what’s wrong, prescribe some fitting medicine, then, skedaddle. My personal doctor is nothing like this. She’s much more gentle, calmer, treats me like a friend, advising me I could tell her anything that bothers me with the assurance she’d do her very best to help in any way she can. This one here is more professional and out of reach. The more she speaks, the more restless I feel.

“I did follow some advice from Dr. Lopez, but sometimes they just don't work. She said that we will take our time to figure out the best way for me to cope.” I murmured, almost convincing myself that there is still a way for me to handle myself while inner me wants to throw the idea into the trash.

“Yet you rarely come to therapy so you still haven’t figured it out.” She’s not looking at me, her attention is still on the paper as she writes. Guilt strikes me hard as I hear her straight comment. I felt offended, but it’s not like it's not true so what’s the point?

“Have you tried antidepressants? Anti-anxiety?”

“Yes, but only on occasion ‘cause sometimes when I get used to them, they don't work anymore.”

“Why not try to keep on taking them, so then, they might keep on working? ” her smile is insincere and forced, then, she stands up and makes her way towards the door. I am confused and a bit frustrated as I try to stop her and ask “Wait, that’s not how therapy usually goes, does it?”

Thankfully, she halts and faces me. “Look, if you don't have plans to continue showing up to therapy frequently, then, going to one won't change anything. I’ve seen cases like you and most of the time, they’re hopeless. Unless you choose to heal, you won't. Stop fooling around and waste everyone’s time if you're not going to commit to it, ” she walks out of the room with the clanking sound of that shoes of hers. I’ve always felt bad about myself but this is the first time someone rubbed salt onto it. Her words resounded in my ears and stayed at the back of my mind like a passenger in a waiting shed. I left the room while bringing it with me. I can't remember anything I did after that. All I know is I am now at my favorite spot in my favorite park where no people can be found. I always come here whatever the season is aside from autumn. I am facing the steady stream of the clear mirror water reflecting the flaming trees on a cloudy Sunday afternoon. Only then, I suddenly realize that I'm being surrounded by these agonizing leafy beings, dispatching a huge wave of terrifying shiver from my toes to the strands of my hair. I found myself hankering for air. My ancient ugly scars are burning as I'm being roasted all over again by a flash of reminiscence, my chest tightens as I taste the non-existent firing gasoline inside my dried awful mouth. I clearly remember, it was exactly just like this 8 years ago.

The chilly air of fall blending with the scent of pumpkin pies and apple spiced latte dancing on my nose, my father took me to a bakery shop to satisfy my yearly cravings. My mom used to make these things for me but she hasn't come home for weeks, so my father did it in her stead. It’s within my awareness they were fighting, and my mom couldn't take it so she fled out of the house, but he always denied that and kept consoling himself that she'd come back. Weeks have passed and I was doubting every word he uttered out of sorrow. He smiled at me with the most vibrant smile I've ever seen since then. He spoiled me with everything I wanted, from foods, drinks, toys, and scarves, which he rarely does. I was at the passenger’s seat in the back of the car with my new lovely belongings, giggling with the utmost joy. He told me we’re going apple-picking. Excited as I was, I went along with him without any doubts. He drove in a forest where people were nowhere out of sight while I messily snacked on my lovely pumpkin pie. He stopped at the secluded part of the place and parked. I still recall the trees. They were all orange, red, yellow, and even brown, leaves flew everywhere like fairy dust. They surrounded the place where my dad decided to park and I was excited to climb those gorgeous tall trees. Yet, as I was about to get out of the car, he suddenly sprayed something on my face which made me feel sleepy.

I was awakened when I smelled an obnoxious scent of fire and gasoline. At first, I couldn't move well, but when I saw that the car was on fire, my senses were on full alert while my mind was still disturbed by what’s happening. My mouth and nose were filled with smoke. I could feel the overwhelming heat coming from the fire, almost but not directly burning my skin. My instinct called to my father who was in the driver’s seat, only to find myself appalled seeing his state. His broad body, from throat to legs were showered by his own blood. His right-hand holding a cutter, his eyes all closed and his chest showed no sign of breathing. Being ignorant, I tried to wake him up, desperate to get us out of the car. When he didn't, I tried to open the doors but couldn't. They were all locked, even the damn windows. I didn't know how but they were. I tried to push random buttons I wasn’t allowed to touch before but nothing happened. I tried screaming for help but who would’ve heard that? I kept on punching, kicking, anything I could do to break the windows of the vehicle, yet none of those were enough. Until I lost all my energy and my head went all hazy, I felt like sleeping again with the anticipation of not waking up. I couldn't help but lie down on the seat as I bore my eyes heavier and heavier. As I closed them once again, all I could hear was a burst of explosion I assumed came from the front part of the car, and the feeling of fire directly infesting my skin.

I can't help but sob all my frustrations out, from the doctor earlier to all the galling trips down the memory lane. Falling on my knees, writhing with pain. The itch of my burns surges and surges so I scratched them all 'til they fucking bleed. I can't understand why I still can't get over it. It’s been years, and every time autumn comes, I've always been in this state. Frightened to see the trees, frightened to see the leaves, frightened to feel the cold, and frightened of everything related to autumn. I know I’ve been skipping therapies for most of the time, but that's because I thought I was over it. As long as it's not fall, I could do things just fine, like everything’s normal, like nothing happened. I just don't know why I can't be like that in fall as well. I can't understand anything, not my mom, not my dad, not the freaking therapist, and not even my damn self. I can't do anything but succumb to the deep suffocating prick my father left me, experiencing it all over again for at least a few months in a year. Maybe the doctor was right, I am beyond help. It has been embedded in me for so long it has already become a part of my anatomy that’s hard to get rid of. Well, at least tumors can be rid of by doing surgeries. How can you operate to relieve a trauma that's invisible? When there are no apparent indications of what's wrong, how can you know the best medication?

I was taken aback when I sensed someone near me. As I turned, I saw him looking at me, wearing loose jet black slacks, his favorite coal-shaded red tape shoes and fitted white sleeves, implying he just got off from his part-time job in his uni. His eyes are brimming with empathy and lucid grief as it reflects on my own oculars. He then sits beside me, without a single uttered word. He’s always been like this. Ghost-quiet but sunny warm. Whenever I'm having an episode, he would just settle down beside me without any declaration. I bet he just knew where to find me when I didn’t call him back. That’s just how well he knows me. We just sat there for minutes without conversing, my wails slowly fading along the unnoticed time. And by his mere presence, I can feel myself calming little by little. This is the part where I realize that presence exceeds utterances, that words are powerful but realizing they won't solve every single thing is wise. 

Few moments, I felt tiny drops of cloud-water sliding down my face. Downpour. I pull him up as I stand to get us to a place where we could stay dry but he just pulls my hand back. “If your scars feel like burning, then, let the rain cool them down for you.” With those limited words, he made me install myself again in my previous place. We both shower under the gelid false autumn break, waiting for my skin to be soothed by the rain, still savoring the sweet silence between us. I close my eyes so I can absorb even more freezing coldness of the sudden fall of rain. By then, another memory echoes in mind. I was lying down on a moving steel-hard bed rather than the soft heated seat of my father's car. I remember the drizzle falling on my entire body as they put me inside what I think was the ambulance truck. Even before and up ‘til now, the autumn break saved me from feeling the devastating fire. Giving sanity and assuring me safety. Too early for winter yet just in time to liberate me. I opened my eyes and looked at him, smiling as a sign of gratitude. Along with the raindrops that've been comforting me, this one beside me, my very best friend, is the one who had faith I can still live life when even myself can't afford to imagine I can. He beamed back and noted, “As long as you're fighting, I’ll be with you.”