“How did you manage to get to college in the first place?”
“Well, I guess partially by luck. I like reading and writing, and I guess my college essay was impressive enough. With my long-term PTSD diagnosis, anxiety and such, I qualified for a couple of grants and scholarships. I do pretty well on written tests. When there’s a lot of reading and then an essay test over what you read, I do okay on those. I get high enough marks in those classes to keep my grade point average up.”
“English classes? That kind of thing?”
“Yeah, mostly English, some literature. I did all right in math classes initially, but after calculus, I couldn’t keep up anymore. Missing one class would put me so far behind that I never knew what was going on.”
“So why not declare an English major?” I don’t even need to hear a response before I already know the answer. “You’d
have to talk to the dean. I get it.”
“Yeah.”
“But you’ll never get a degree without deciding on a major.”
“Yeah.”
I narrow my eyes at Rocco, waiting to see if this topic is something that will upset him, but he doesn’t seem concerned about not having a major. In fact, it doesn’t bother him at all.
“How old are you, Rocco?”
“Twenty-five.”
“And when did you get to college?” I already know the answer, but I wait for a response anyway. Rocco just smiles sheepishly. “You don’t want to graduate.”
“I know this place. I’ve been in the same dorm room since I got here. If I graduate...”
“You’d have to find another place, find a job, and start a life.”
“Yeah.”
“So you’d rather stay in limbo, a professional student.”
“I never thought about it that way, but I guess so.”
“Oh, Rocco.” I wrap my arms around him and hold his head against my chest. “You know you can’t do that forever.” I feel him shrug in my arms. “Someday, no mater what, something will change.”
“I know,” he whispers.
I hold him for a while, wondering if there are any words I can offer that haven’t been said to him before. I know Cree has talked to him a lot, and I’m sure he’s had a pile of professional counselors, but I also know they just aren’t enough sometimes.
“There was a time,” I say, “when I didn’t want to talk to anyone either. I lashed out at everyone who got near me, physically or otherwise. I spent a lot of time just being mad at life and wondering why I didn’t get one of those perfect families with Sunday dinners and trips to the park. I was stagnant and full of self-pity. People encouraged it, too. Not intentionally, of course, but they walked on eggshells around me and excused my behavior because of what I’d gone though. Maybe if one of them had just smacked me and told me to stop fucking up my future...I don’t know. Maybe we all have to figure that out ourselves.”
“Figure what out?” Rocco asks.
“At some point, I had to make the decision to heal. Maybe not get over it all—it will always be a part of me—but that doesn’t mean I have to let it run my life. I take my power wherever I can get it, including how I approached you. That’s part of my healing. Maybe it’s time for you to make the decision to heal because no one else can do that for you.”
“I don’t...I’m not sure I can.”
“Because you don’t know where to start?”
“Yeah.”
“With small stuff. It always starts with small stuff. Maybe if we figure out some of the small things, we can tackle the bigger things, too.”
“We?”
“You aren’t in this alone, Roc. I’m here for you. As much as I don’t care for him, Cree is here for you, too.”