Chapter 19

Leg Lifts, Revisited

He was floating. He was free. He moved up toward heaven, then back toward Hell. Kind of like he was jumping. Yeah, jumping on a really really big trampoline. Or a mattress. He liked jumping on mattresses like he was a little kid again, but this wasn't a mattress. No, this wasn't jumping. He was soaring, flying, but he didn't know what he was flying through. Was it space? Was it water?

Nope. Air. Plain old air. And the air he was flying through was boring and was just the boring old atmosphere of his physical therapist's office. He was doing sit ups.

"Jason, I asked you to do fifty leg lifts, not 50 sit ups." Chelsea said as she reentered the room from the waiting area, holding his charts and papers.

"Oh. Yeah. Right." Jason let his legs straighten on the carpeted floor as he watched Chelsea make notes on his paperwork. He wondered what she was saying. Was she saying "was stupid enough to do 50 sit ups before realizing that wasn't what I asked him to do" or "completely losing his mind?" Because Jason thought both of those were extremely accurate. Every day, he could feel his mind slip a little further as he grew steadily worse and worse.

"So how you been, Jason?" she began again, putting down her pen and coming over to monitor his leg lifting. "How's school? Job?"

"School is, well…" Jason thought as he exercised. "It's as good as it's ever gonna get, I guess. This new dude, Josh, well, he got us the High Percussion award at a contest, and we went to state and all." Jason relayed the past couple of weeks to Chelsea, as his physical therapy had become less frequent due to his healing. "Job. I got a job at a music store in the Heights."

"Oh, cool. What store?"

Jason laughed. "I'm not exactly sure if it has an actual name; the sign just says 'music.' But I just do the normal stuff an owner would need help with- cashiering, unloading boxes, inventory, all that crap that no one wants to do. And I get paid for doing it. And I get employee discounts on these amazing drumsticks."

"Sounds good." Jason nodded. "So if everything's good, why don't you seem…happy?"

Jason thought about this. He was happy…wasn't he? He had a house, two parents, he went to a nice school, he had good friends, he had a job. Kelley made Jason feel amazing and she always seemed to make him smile. He had a great spot as kinda-sorta co-drum captain. He was a good-looking guy. He had a great shot at getting into a drum corps somewhere in the country. So why shouldn't he be happy? Was there something he didn't understand? Something vital to his existence that he wasn't getting enough of? Nothing obvious came to mind. He had everything. So why did he feel so…empty?

"I can tell by the way you stopped doing leg lifts that I made you think with that last one." Chelsea broke his train of thought.

He shook it off. "Right. Sorry." He went right back to doing leg lifts.

He did his leg lifts. Up. Down. Up. Down. Kind of like life, huh? Yeah. Yeah, that's pretty good. It hurts to do leg lifts going up. It's like biking up a really steep hill without enough tread on your tires. Sometimes you can slip and fall back down. But, of course, it's the going down part that's easy. It's the one you don't have to think about. You just kind of…relax and let things pan out. But then you fall all the way down the hill and you crash. And it hurts. Badly. Your legs are all tangled up in your bike and bloodied from the ground and beaten from hitting rock bottom. So then, you get back on your bike, trying to gain enough motivation to try once again to bike up the steep hill. Because you know that once you get to the top of that hill, you can just glide back down the other side. You don't have to think about it, and it's smooth sailing from there. Yeah. Leg lifts. Riding a bike. Life.

"So, Jason, I'm going to propose something to you." Chelsea said after Jason's thought.

"Okay." Jason replied cautiously.

"I think that you should see a therapist."

"I already see you once every two weeks." Chelsea laughed.

"No, not a physical therapist. Like a…psychologist." Silence. Jason stopped doing leg lifts and sat up to look at Chelsea.

"What? Like a shrink? Why?" He was completely sane, right? Why did he have to spend $200 an hour complaining to a stranger? It was pretty ridiculous if you asked him.

"Yes, like a shrink. I think you could greatly benefit from talking to someone about this."

"About what? I have friends. I'm not some loner. I do have friends and stuff." Jason defended.

"I'm not denying that you have friends, but sometimes, maybe it's better to talk to someone outside your circle of friends. You could talk about your leg injury and your tendonitis and how that affected you emotionally." Jason stood up, putting up his walls.

"It didn't do anything to me emotionally. I'm fine. I'm not crazy."

"And I'm not saying you are, it's just that being a teenager isn't the easiest thing in the world. It's probably one of the hardest. And you've been through a lot. I just think you could benefit from getting some fresh opinions."

"No. I don't like it." Jason shook his head and crossed his arms. Therapy? Therapy is for crazy people, right? I'm not crazy. I am NOT crazy. I'm not…

Jason stormed out of the therapy room and headed for the bathroom door. His feet pounded into the carpet, and the people in the waiting area stared as he made his sudden entrance and sudden exit into the bathroom.

Locking to door, Jason turned around to see his face in the mirror. He was reminded of that night a few weeks ago, when he woke up to the immense pain in his leg. This same false pain returned, creeping up inside him, making him want to scream.

I am NOT crazy. I am NOT crazy. I am NOT crazy.

He repeated it to himself over and over again as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his tiny orange pill bottle. He juggled with the top, sending the pills flying all over the counter when he finally opened it. He took five or six in his palm, pressing them against his lips, tasting the bitter surface. Swallowing all six, he instantly felt relief. Like he knew everything was going to be okay.

He looked at himself in the mirror; he was sweating way more than any normal person should, and he was shaking. His face was red and his eyes were bloodshot. It was pretty obvious he'd been either crying or trying to get something out of his eye. He decided to go with the 'got something in his eye' story to tell his mother when he emerged. He quickly took a deep breath, knowing that the Vicodin would help. He took a towel and ran it under the cold water from the sink, putting it to his face to cool down.

He heard a knock on the door.

"Jason, sweetie, are you okay?" It was his mother. He put on his best 'hello' smile and opened the door.

"Never better," he replied. "Ready to go?" His mom stopped him by grabbing his arm, taking his face in her hands.

"Jason, sweetie, have you been crying?" She asked, concerned.

"No, I got something in my eye and had to get it out." He replied, pretty convincingly. "Come on. Let's grab dinner." He led her out the door, feeling ashamed for lying.

Thanks everyone!