Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 78
Therapy Day

Tuesday morning. Mom drove him to therapy in silence.

Ash sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out the window. His jaw still hurt from yesterday. His knuckles were still bruised.

"Dr. Reeves is very good," Mom said finally, as they pulled into the medical complex parking lot. "She specializes in adolescent behavioral issues."

Ash said nothing.

"She's helped a lot of kids."

Still nothing.

"Noam, I need you to actually try. To talk to her. To—"

"I said I'd go. I didn't say I'd talk."

Mom's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "This attitude isn't helping anything."

"Neither is therapy."

"You don't know that. You haven't tried."

"I don't need to try. I know what's wrong with me." Ash turned to look at her. "I'm thirty-three years old trapped in an eleven-year-old body. No amount of talking is going to fix that."

Mom's face went pale. "Noam—"

"My name is Ash."

Silence. Heavy and painful.

"I'll pick you up in ninety minutes," Mom said quietly. "Please. Just... try."

Ash got out without responding. Walked into the building. Found Suite 203.

The waiting room was decorated like every child therapist's office—bright colors, toys in the corner, inspirational posters about feelings and growth. It made his skin crawl.

"Noam Walsh?" A woman appeared in the doorway. Mid-forties, brown hair in a bun, wearing slacks and a cardigan. Professional but approachable. "I'm Dr. Reeves. Come on back."

Her office was more of the same. Couch and chairs. Box of tissues on every surface. A shelf of therapeutic toys and games. A whiteboard with "Feelings Words" written across the top.

"Have a seat wherever you're comfortable," Dr. Reeves said, settling into her own chair with a notepad.

Ash sat on the couch. As far from her as possible. Arms crossed.

"So," she said, voice gentle. "I understand you got into a fight yesterday."

"Yeah."

"Want to tell me about it?"

"No."

"Okay." She made a note. "Your parents tell me you've been struggling with anger lately."

"My parents tell you a lot of things."

"They're concerned about you."

"They're concerned about their reputation. About what people think when their perfect son gets suspended for fighting."

"Is that what you think? That they only care about appearances?"

Ash shrugged.

"Noam—"

"My name is Ash."

Dr. Reeves paused. Made another note. "Is that what you prefer to be called?"

The question surprised him. No adult had ever asked that. They'd all just insisted on calling him Noam.

"Yes," he said cautiously.

"Okay, Ash. Why don't you like being called Noam?"

"Because it's not my name."

"But legally—"

"Legally I'm a minor. Legally my parents have conservatorship. Legally they can make every decision about my life. That doesn't make it right."

Dr. Reeves studied him. "You feel like you don't have control."

"I don't have control. That's not a feeling, it's a fact."

"And that makes you angry."

"Wouldn't it make you angry? If someone took away every choice you had? If they decided what you were called, where you lived, what classes you took, who you could see, what you could do?"

"Yes," Dr. Reeves said simply. "It would make me very angry."

Ash blinked. He hadn't expected her to agree.

"The question," she continued, "is what we do with that anger. How we express it. How we manage it so it doesn't hurt us or others."

"I managed it fine until recently."

"What changed?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do know."

Ash glared at her. "If you already know, why ask?"

"Because I want to hear it from you." She leaned forward slightly. "You're eleven. Your body is changing. Puberty is starting. Hormones are flooding your system—testosterone specifically. And for someone with your unique situation, that must be particularly challenging."

"My unique situation?"

"Being an adult consciousness in a child's body. Having all the emotional and intellectual development of someone in their thirties, but the physical and hormonal reality of an eleven-year-old."

Ash's jaw clenched. She understood. She actually understood, and somehow that made it worse.

"The anger you're feeling isn't just situational," Dr. Reeves continued. "It's chemical. Your body is producing testosterone at levels it hasn't in years. That affects mood, aggression, impulse control—"

"I know what testosterone does."

"Intellectually, yes. But knowing something intellectually and experiencing it are very different things." She made another note. "When was the last time you felt this angry? Before the regression?"

"I don't remember."

"Try."

"I said I don't remember."

"Ash." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I can only help if you're honest with me."

"I don't want your help."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because my parents are making me."

"Just like they make you do everything else."

The words hit like a slap. Ash felt his hands clench into fists.

"That's what this is really about, isn't it?" Dr. Reeves said quietly. "Not just the anger. The powerlessness. Every day, you wake up and live a life others have chosen for you. And now, with the hormones, with the physical changes, you finally have something that feels like power. The ability to hurt someone. To fight back."

"Shut up."

"Hitting Brett felt good, didn't it? For a moment, you weren't helpless. You were strong. You were in control."

"I said shut up."

"But it didn't last. Because here you are, in therapy you don't want, preparing for a hiking trip you don't want, living a life you don't want—"

"SHUT UP!" Ash was on his feet, fists clenched, breathing hard.

Dr. Reeves didn't flinch. Just watched him calmly.

"Interesting," she said. "You want to hit me right now, don't you?"

Ash's whole body was shaking. The rage was right there, burning under his skin, begging to be released.

"But you won't," she continued. "Because you know there would be consequences. Because despite everything, you still have some control. You can choose not to hit me."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're in pain. I know you're angry. I know you feel trapped." She set down her notepad. "And I know that underneath all that rage is grief. Grief for the life you lost. The autonomy you lost. The identity you lost."

Ash felt his eyes burning. Hated that she was right. Hated that she could see through him so easily.

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Okay. What do you want to talk about?"

"Nothing. I want to leave."

"We have another hour."

"I don't care."

"Your parents are paying for ninety minutes. We can sit in silence if you prefer, but you're staying."

Ash sat back down. Glared at the wall.

They sat in silence for five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

"This must be exhausting," Dr. Reeves said finally. "Being this angry all the time."

Ash didn't respond.

"The fight yesterday—tell me what Brett said that made you snap."

"Why?"

"Because I'm curious what specific trigger made you cross the line from anger to violence."

Ash was quiet for a long moment. Then: "He said I hit like a girl."

"Ah." Dr. Reeves nodded. "An attack on your masculinity. At a time when you're already struggling with your physical limitations, your changing body, your lack of agency—which are all things that can feel like threats to masculine identity."

"Stop analyzing me."

"It's literally my job."

Despite himself, Ash almost smiled at that. Almost.

"You know what the really messed up part is?" he said quietly. "I know it was stupid. I know hitting him solved nothing. I know I just made everything worse. But in that moment, I didn't care. I couldn't care. The anger was bigger than logic."

"That's the testosterone talking. The adolescent brain struggling with impulse control. It's actually completely normal for an eleven-year-old boy."

"But I'm not eleven."

"Your brain isn't. But your body is. And your body is flooding your brain with chemicals it hasn't dealt with in two decades." Dr. Reeves picked up her notepad again. "Have you talked to your parents about what you're experiencing?"

"They wouldn't understand."

"Have you tried?"

"What's the point? They've already decided everything. Therapy, hiking trip, gifted classes. They don't care what I want."

"What do you want?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

Ash looked at her. Really looked at her. She seemed sincere.

"I want my life back," he said quietly. "I want to be Ash again. I want to make my own choices. I want to not be trapped in this body, in this life, in this endless childhood that's not ending for another seven years."

"That's a lot of wanting things you can't have."

"Thanks. Really helpful."

"I'm not done. You can't have those things. That's reality. The question is: what can you have? What choices can you make? What control can you find within the constraints?"

"None."

"That's not true. You chose to hit Brett. That was a bad choice, but it was yours. You chose to come to therapy—"

"I was forced."

"You chose to walk in. To sit down. To eventually talk to me. Those were choices." Dr. Reeves leaned forward. "The space between stimulus and response—that's where your power is. That's where you get to choose who you are, even in this situation."

"That's bullshit."

"Is it? Or is it the only thing that isn't bullshit?"

The session timer went off.

"We're out of time for today," Dr. Reeves said. "I want to see you Monday when you get back from your trip. Same time."

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

"You always have a choice. You can choose to come and talk, or you can choose to come and sit in silence. You can choose to work on managing your anger, or you can choose to let it control you." She stood. "Think about it over the weekend."

Mom was waiting in the parking lot. Ash got in the car, slammed the door.

"How was it?"

"Fine."

"Did you talk to her?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And nothing. Can we go home?"

Mom started driving. After a few minutes: "You need to pack when we get home. For the hiking trip."

"I don't want to go."

"I know. But you're going."

"Why?"

"Because your father thinks it will help. Because you need physical activity and time away from everything. Because maybe Uncle Nate can get through to you in a way we can't."

"This is stupid."

"Maybe. But you're still going."

At home, Ash went straight to his room. Sat on his bed. Stared at the wall.

There was a knock.

"Go away."

Dad opened the door anyway. "You need to pack."

"I'm not going."

"Yes, you are."

"You can't make me."

Dad raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to test that theory?"

"What are you going to do? Physically force me into the car?"

"If necessary."

Ash stood up. Walked over to his father. Got right in his personal space. Had to look up—Dad was over six feet tall, and Ash was barely five feet—but he tried to make himself intimidating anyway.

"I. Am. Not. Going."

Dad looked down at him like he'd lost his mind. Glanced over at Mom, who had appeared in the doorway.

"Noam," Dad said carefully. "Step back."

"Make me."

"Patrick, maybe we should—" Mom started.

"Shannon, he needs to pack." Dad's voice was calm, controlled. "We're leaving at five AM whether he's ready or not."

Dad looked back at Ash. "Go to the garage and get your hiking gear. Then pack. Hiking boots, warm clothes, sleeping bag. If you don't bring a sleeping bag, you'll be sleeping on the ground. Your choice."

"I'm not going."

"Yes, you are." Ash stood there, fists clenched, shaking with rage.

"Honey," Mom said quietly. "Please. Just pack. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

"It doesn't need to be at all!"

"Yes, it does. You got in a fight. You're suspended. You're angry all the time. Something needs to change." Mom's voice was tired. "Your dad and Uncle Nate think this will help. So you're going."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you'll go anyway, without supplies, and be miserable." Mom rubbed her face. "I'm too tired to fight with you, Noam. Just... please. Pack your bag."

She left.

Ash stood in his room, alone, breathing hard.

His choices:

1. Pack and go on the stupid trip with basic comfort
2. Don't pack and go on the stupid trip miserable

Not going wasn't actually an option. Never had been.

Just like everything else in this life.

He grabbed his hiking backpack from the closet. Started throwing things in. Sleeping bag. Change of clothes. Hiking boots. Toiletries.

Each item felt like surrender.

But what else was new? His whole life was surrender. Giving in. Accepting what was forced on him.

At least in the mountains, there would be fewer people to see his humiliation.

He zipped the backpack. Set it by the door.

Tomorrow at dawn, he'd get in the car. He'd go on the stupid hiking trip. He'd pretend to learn whatever lesson they wanted him to learn.

And he'd still be angry.

Because the anger was the only thing that was actually his.

The only thing they couldn't take away.

Even if they could control how he expressed it.

Even if they could force him into therapy and hiking trips and whatever else they decided was "good for him."

The anger would still be there.

Burning.

Waiting.

His.