Day 7 / 12:42
It’s Sunday. On his timetable, it says that, apart from lunch and visiting hours, Saturdays and Sundays at Greenhills are ‘unstructured’. Noah can catch up on chores like cleaning his room or doing his laundry. He can do some of the schoolwork his teachers have sent him. He could do some gardening with Mr Bill or ‘socialise with other residents’.
Give that a miss for now. Remember what the Turner woman said? Small steps.
That’s right. So, for now, Noah will keep to the timetable he’s followed for the last 6 days. There’s no group, or exercises or handcrafts, but journal time is after lunch and that’s what he’ll do now, write about his family search, how it started and with it, the need to know, to balance both sides, create stepping stones that would lead him to who he is, why he is.
Ms Turner will know about the Family Tree; it’s come up in sessions with other therapists so it will be in his file. What she won’t know is how much time he’s spent on it, how far back his research has taken him. Or not, in the case of his father.
He can tell Ms Turner about that, he can even add it to a ‘5 Things’ list. But there are some things he can’t share. He’s not allowed the words.
His family know when it started, and how. They’ve seen the rules become more and more complicated, lived with the changes that had to be made. But they don’t understand why and Noah can never risk trying to explain.
They listened and tried their best to make things easier, to create a space where he was less agitated, less worried.
They watched as he started, stopped, and began again. They could see what was happening, but he was forbidden to share the details, to let them know how he felt.
1. That he had to listen to the commands filling his head, telling him how to count, what to balance, what order to do things in.
2. That he tried and tried to get everything right.
3. That each time he made the smallest mistake, he had to go back to the very beginning.
4. That his heart beat faster as he tried to slow down.
5. That his anxiety grew every second he wasn’t holding them all safe.
Even now, as he writes, Noah feels his breathing quicken. He pushes his heels hard into the carpet.
It was no one’s fault that he didn’t improve; they couldn’t do much, because of the rules. He tried, at first, but when he did the Dark descended, full of threat and fear and horror.
So far, Greenhills isn’t helping. Every time he makes space to think, to restore order, something changes. Usually it’s small, but it’s enough to throw everything out. A couple of minutes here, a couple there.
Noah knows what they’re doing, and why, but—
They don’t understand the dangers like you do.
That’s true. And he can’t explain any of it.