Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 82
Under the Anger

Monday morning came quiet and slow.

Ash woke to sunlight through his curtains, not an alarm. The clock said 9:47 AM. Mom had let him sleep in.

Everything hurt. His shoulders, his back, his legs. But it was a different hurt than the angry tension he'd carried for weeks. This was just physical. Simple. Honest pain from honest work.

He made his way downstairs slowly, each step reminding him of yesterday's six-mile descent.

Mom was in the kitchen, reading something on her tablet. She looked up when he entered, her expression carefully neutral.

"Morning. How are you feeling?"

"Sore."

"I bet. Dad said you hiked almost twenty-five miles."

"Something like that."

She stood, moved to the stove. "I kept breakfast warm. Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon."

Real food. Not instant oatmeal or trail mix.

"Thanks."

He sat at the table, ate slowly. Mom poured herself another cup of coffee, sat across from him. Not talking, just... being there.

"Dr. Reeves is at eleven," she said finally. "Do you want to talk about the weekend before we go?"

"Not really."

"Okay."

They sat in comfortable silence. Ash ate. Mom read her tablet. No pressure, no interrogation. Just quiet morning peace.

"Your dad said Uncle Nate had to..." Mom paused, choosing words carefully. "Had to provide some structure. When you got angry."

"He tied me to a tree."

Mom's jaw tightened slightly. "Your dad didn't mention that specific detail."

"I tried to punch him. So he tied me to a tree until I apologized. No dinner, no tent." Ash kept his voice flat, factual. "It worked."

Mom was quiet for a moment, processing. "That's... extreme."

"Because you would have argued against it. Would have said it was too harsh." Ash looked at her. "It was exactly harsh enough. I needed to learn I couldn't fight my way through everything."

Mom nodded slowly. "You're probably right. I would have wanted to intervene. That's why your dad didn't tell me." She paused. "And that's probably why it worked. Because you knew I wasn't there to step in."

"Yeah."

"Are you hurt? Physically?"

"No. Uncle Nate was careful. Just sore from the hiking."

She nodded again, seeming to settle something in her mind. "Okay. Sometimes... sometimes you need consequences I can't give you. That's hard for me to accept, but I'm learning too."

At 10:45, they drove to Dr. Reeves's office in silence. Mom kept glancing at him, worry radiating off her in waves.

"I'm okay," Ash said as they pulled into the parking lot.

"Are you?"

He thought about it. "I don't know. But I'm... different."

Dr. Reeves took one look at him and her eyebrows rose slightly.

"Well," she said, settling into her chair. "You look exhausted."

"Hiking trip. With my dad and uncle."

"How was it?"

Ash almost laughed. Almost. "Educational."

"Tell me about it."

So he did. The whole thing. The forced march, the talking about him like he wasn't there, trying to fight Uncle Nate, being tied to the tree. The rocks. Forty pounds of them by Saturday afternoon. The weight of anger made literal.

Dr. Reeves took notes but mostly just listened.

"How do you feel about what happened?" she asked when he finished.

"I don't know."

"Try."

"Tired. Embarrassed. Angry that they had to do that. Angry at myself for making it necessary." He paused. "Confused."

"About?"

"About who I am when I'm not angry. Because for the last few weeks, that's all I've been. And yesterday, I was too tired to be angry, and I didn't know how to be anything else."

"What did that feel like?"

"Empty."

"And is empty better or worse than angry?"

Ash considered. "Different. Angry hurt other people. Empty just hurts me."

"Does it hurt? Or does it just feel unfamiliar?"

"Both."

Dr. Reeves set down her notepad. "Ash, can I tell you what I see?"

He nodded.

"I see someone who's been using anger as armor. As long as you're angry, you don't have to feel the other things. The scarier things."

"Like what?"

"You tell me."

"I'm not—" He stopped. Felt the phantom weight of a rock that would have been added for the defensive tone. Started over. "I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do. Under the anger, what's there?"

"Nothing."

"Try again."

"I said nothing."

"And I said try again." Her voice was gentle but insistent. "Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Please."

Ash closed his eyes.

"Take a breath. Good. Now, imagine the anger as something physical. Like the rocks you carried. It's heavy, it's hard, it's weighing you down. Now imagine setting it down. Just for a moment. What's underneath?"

"I can't—"

"You can. What's under the anger, Ash?"

"I don't—"

"What's under the anger?"

"Pain." The word came out strangled.

"What kind of pain?"

"Everything." His throat was tight. "Everything hurts. My situation, my body, my lack of choices, the way my parents look at me like I'm a problem to solve, the fact that I have seven more years of this, the fact that I—"

He stopped. His eyes were burning.

"The fact that you what?"

"The fact that I did this to myself." The words came out in a rush. "Multiple overdoses. Years of fucking up. I gave them the opening to do this to me. If I'd just stayed clean after the first time, if I'd just been stronger, if I'd just—"

"If you'd just been perfect?"

"If I'd just been better!"

"Better at what? Being an addict? Because that's what you were, Ash. An addict. Not weak, not bad, not failing. Sick."

"That's just an excuse—"

"No, it's brain chemistry. It's genetics. It's a disease that kills people." Dr. Reeves leaned forward. "You didn't choose to be an addict any more than diabetics choose to need insulin."

"But I chose to use the first time."

"When you were, what, twenty? A young adult making a mistake that happened to trigger a genetic predisposition you didn't know you had?"

"Stop making excuses for me!"

"I'm not making excuses. I'm stating facts. And the fact is, you're angry at yourself. Have been this whole time. The rage at your parents, at Brett, at your teachers—it's all deflection from the real target."

"You don't know—"

"I do know. I've been doing this for twenty years. The angriest kids are always the ones who hate themselves the most."

Something in Ash's chest cracked.

"I ruined everything," he whispered. "I had a chance to stay clean, and Jordan... but I still chose to go there. I still snuck out. I still put myself in that situation. And now I'm eleven years old and my parents control everything and I can't even be trusted to make my own choices because I kept making terrible ones and—"

"And you're human," Dr. Reeves said quietly. "You're human and you made human mistakes and you're living with consequences that feel unbearable."

"They are unbearable!"

"But you're bearing them."

"Badly!"

"Still bearing them." She handed him tissues. "Ash, listen to me. The anger isn't really about your parents or your situation. It's about shame. It's about self-hatred. It's about the crushing weight of blaming yourself for something that was only partially in your control."

"It was in my control—I chose to sneak out, I chose to go to Jordan's—"

"Did you choose for Jordan to shoot you up while you were unconscious?"

Ash went silent.

"Your parents told me what happened. You were asleep. Jordan injected you without your consent. That's assault, Ash. That's not your fault."

"But I was there. I shouldn't have been there."

"No, you shouldn't have. That was a bad choice. But making a bad choice doesn't mean you deserved what happened." Dr. Reeves leaned forward. "You want to know what I see? I see someone who was trying—twenty-six days clean, going to meetings, following the rules. Who made one impulsive decision to see a friend, and had that decision turn into a nightmare."

"And my parents didn't believe me. They thought I was lying about Jordan. They thought I used on purpose."

"Can you understand why? Given your history?"

"That doesn't make it hurt less!" Ash's voice cracked. "They chose the regression over believing me. They chose to take everything away rather than trust that maybe, this one time, I was telling the truth."

Ash couldn't answer. Could barely breathe through the tears.

"You want to know what I see?" Dr. Reeves continued. "I see someone who had been fighting addiction for years, who had multiple overdoses, who was trying so hard that last time—twenty-six days clean—and who got assaulted by someone he trusted. And is now living with consequences that feel like punishment for being in the wrong place."

"It is punishment—"

"No. It's your parents' desperate attempt to keep you alive. Extreme definitely, but not punishment. They're not punishing you for being an addict. They're terrified of losing you. You'd already overdosed multiple times. They thought they were going to lose you."

"So they took away everything that made me me!"

"Did they? Or did they take away everything that could kill you while hoping the real you would survive?"

Ash sobbed harder. "I chose prison! I chose twenty years in prison over this! And they— they got conservatorship and overruled me. I was screaming, begging them not to, and they did it anyway!"

"That must have been traumatic."

"Traumatic?" Ash laughed bitterly through his tears. "They stood there while I begged them. While I promised I'd do better. While I told them the truth about Jordan. And they still chose this. My dad said the words. 'We choose the Fresh Start Regression Program.' While I was right there, begging him not to."

Dr. Reeves was quiet for a moment. "That's a lot of betrayal to carry."

"They didn't believe me. About Jordan. They thought I was lying like all the other times."

"Were there other times you lied?"

"Yes! But not that time. That time I was telling the truth and they didn't believe me and now I'm here and—" His voice broke completely. "I don't know who the real me is anymore!"

"That's okay. That's what we're here to figure out."

They sat in silence while Ash cried—really cried—for the first time since the regression. Cried for the life he'd lost. For the choices he'd thrown away. For the person he'd been and couldn't be anymore.

When the tears finally slowed, he felt... empty. But not the angry empty from yesterday. Just... spent.

"I'm so tired," he whispered.

"I know."

"Not just physically. I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of hating everyone. I'm tired of fighting."

"Then stop fighting."

"I don't know how."

"You started yesterday. When you chose not to add rocks. When you helped with camp without being asked. When you recognized the anger and chose not to voice it." Dr. Reeves smiled slightly. "That's not giving up. That's growing up."

"I'm supposed to already be grown up."

"No, you're supposed to be exactly where you are. An adult mind in a child's body, navigating an impossible situation with whatever tools you have." She paused. "The anger was a tool. It protected you from feeling this pain. But it got too heavy to carry."

"So what do I do now?"

"Now? You feel the pain. You grieve. You process. And slowly, you figure out who Ash-in-Noam's-body wants to be."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer there is."

The session timer went off.

"Same time next week?" Dr. Reeves asked.

"Thursday," Ash corrected. "Mom said I have appointments Monday and Thursday now."

"Good. You need it." She stood. "Ash? You did good today. Really good."

"I just cried for forty minutes."

"Exactly. You felt your real feelings instead of hiding behind anger. That's huge."

Ash stood to leave, then turned back. "The rocks thing. Is that real? Do they really do that in the military?"

Dr. Reeves smiled. "I don't know about the military, but it's a technique. Physical weight to represent emotional weight. Your uncle sounds like a smart man."

"He tied me to a tree."

"And it worked, didn't it?"

Ash couldn't argue with that.

Mom was in the waiting room, pretending to read a magazine but obviously anxious. She stood quickly when he came out.

His face was probably puffy and red from crying. There was no hiding what had happened in there.

"Ready to go home?" she asked carefully.

"Yeah."

In the car, she didn't ask about the session. Didn't push. Just drove.

"Mom?" Ash said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. For everything. For the drugs, for the overdose, for making you and Dad do this. For being so angry. For—"

"Stop." Mom pulled into a parking lot, put the car in park, turned to face him. "You have nothing to apologize for. You have a disease. You got sick. We did what we thought would keep you alive."

"But—"

"No buts. We love you. We've always loved you. Angry, addicted, regressed—doesn't matter. You're our son. Both of you. Ash and Noam. All of it." She was crying now too. "We just want you alive and safe and as happy as you can be in this situation."

"I ruined everything—"

"You survived. That's all that matters. You survived."

They sat in the parking lot crying together—mother and son, or mother and whatever complicated thing Ash was now.

Finally, Mom wiped her eyes, started the car again.

"Ice cream?" she offered.

"It's barely noon."

"So? You've had a hard morning. You're suspended. I'm calling us both in sick to life." She managed a watery smile. "What kind do you want?"

Ash thought about it. "Cookies and cream."

"You always loved that. Even when you were little the first time." She pulled out of the parking lot. "Some things don't change."

"Yeah," Ash said quietly. "I guess not."

It wasn't much. But it was something.

A start.

A tiny crack in the wall between who he'd been and who he was becoming.

And for today, that was enough.