James

The VA center was warm and noisy and full. Exactly the type of situation James liked to avoid, and yet, he found himself standing outside an open door for the third time this week, watching, listening. He had first gone to the center because… well, because you were apparently supposed to do that to get better. At first, he hadn’t found anything he liked, just crowds, and scowls and people wanting him to share his story. Then, he’d found them. A counselor with a Monday, Thursday and Friday schedule, just little group sessions. They didn’t push a lot, were good at reading people and didn’t treat everyone like they might snap any minute now. No, they’re the exact mixture of steady and calm, strong and soft, that makes James not want to flee immediately. He doesn’t join the group, scared of having to share information about himself, or his past, and because he likes the noncommittal standing in the hallway, because he can leave at any time. But today, today he finally went inside. Sat on a little plastic chair next to the door, fisting his hands in his pockets, facing his anxiety head on, for 50 minutes.