Page 1 of Saint
Saint
Unremitting, my toes curled in the size twelve Jordan 5s that laced my feet. Through continuous extension and flexion, the motion didn’t cease bringing me comfort as I sat in the office of one Dr. Raine Gibson. She held a notepad between her thumb and forefingers, though she deprived the pad of ink, refusing to write a single note.
“Has anyone ever suggested that you may be neurodivergent?”
I was raised by a man who taught me the importance of words, the power they wielded, and the significance of prefixes and suffixes. As I aged, I amassed respect for my upbringing and the expedient conditioning it housed. Words weren’t intonated unless there was intent behind them. They weren’t uttered unless there was clear meaning attached to that intent.
So when I heard neuro, I instantly connected it to my mind, how my thoughts were processed, and my nervous system. Divergent, different, conflicting, deviating—all synonyms to suggest, in a polite way, that my head was unlike the greater population that surrounded me.
Unsanctioned, my lips released a sigh, and my toes began the frequent curling and straightening they always did to settle me.
Growing up, my mother always said my nerves were worse than a pregnant woman past forty weeks carrying twins. It was a running tease about the way I responded to stimuli back when shit like this hadn’t been scientifically defined as a thing. Back then, there weren’t any heavy feelings about specific terminology. There weren’t fucking pronouns. There weren’t hissy fits thrown over names that didn’t exist because neurodivergence wasn’t a… whatever the fuck it is.
“Nah. I haven’t,” I countered Dr. Gibson. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, toying ignorant, though I’d already broken the word down for my understanding.
Across from me, she sat on a sofa similar to the one I was in. Hers was a third of the size I was situated in. The lofty couch was much too oversized for her office, but I relaxed in it regardless. Maybe that was the point. People crossed her threshold in search of something. Comfort was required in order to locate it. The couch I sat on was comfortable as hell.
Though mildly disinterested in the conversation, I was still curious to know what the VA-appointed psychiatrist had to say. It was through my benefits that I connected with Dr. Gibson. Not directly. The VA provided shrinks for veterans, but the care for mental health was sub-par at best.
Often, the VA didn’t treat preexisting mental health conditions. It immediately disqualified you from being eligible for care. Yet another fuck you from the government for all we did in our line of duty.
I found Dr. Gibson through a recommendation from one of those sub-par doctors. She was highly recommended, and for good reason. Dr. Gibson was excellent, and the quality of her care was felt in my pockets, too.
“So, your brain operates differently from a neurotypical or average person. You see the world differently. This isn’t a medical diagnosis, but it serves as a descriptor for some of the things you may or may not have experienced. Am I… scratching the surface of what you may have experienced?”
Big toes, pinky toes, all of them furled.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” I breezed, locating several pieces of lint on my pants and proceeding to line them up in a single file on my thigh.
I knew exactly what she meant. My response had been wary. Guarded and watchful, I was. The instinct was shared with every soul that crossed my path. With psychiatrists, I’d learned they only rationalized what you furnished freely. An inch yielded a mile. If depth was what she sought, she would work for it.
“Tell me about your childhood. How were you as a child growing up?”
Hmm. As she adjusted the conversation, I wondered if she had seen through my deflection.
“I’m the second eldest of four. Pretty happy as a child. Healthy two-parent Black home.”
“Did you notice any differences between you and your siblings growing up?”
“Of course, Doc,” I smirked. “I’d be remiss not to emphasize that we’re all different,” I clipped.
“Mr. Miller,” audibly, she sighed. The patience I’d mentally lauded her for was depleting. “It’s your dime we’re on. We can spend this engaging in a circular conversation, but it will only benefit one of us once your time is up.”
Okay.
So she had seen through my deflection.
“Loud noises, physical touch, crowded spaces… It all… messed with me,” I caved.
“In what way?”
“I had to counter it with something. A distraction,” I explained, dusting the neat line of lint off my pants.
“What was your distraction?”
Dr. Gibson was right in the pocket, and she knew it as she pressed forward relentlessly in her pursuit of whatever category she sought to lump me into.
“I used to… bang my head.”