"I can understand why you were so attached to Holden, why you saw him as not only your friend, but your hero, your savior. I can see that, Ryan."
My chest felt tight. "Yeah," I sighed. "We did everything together. We went to different colleges, but then he got drafted to the 49ers and he helped me get the interview for the job as their athletic trainer." He'd been different after that, though. Somehow the fame had seemed to . . . dim him. It dimmed the light that had been Holden's spirit. And then he'd gotten injured and started taking pain pills . . . The same pain pills I'd eventually started taking to take up where he'd left off. Somehow it'd been less painful than accepting he was dead. It had been the only way I had to keep him alive and make myself disappear. "Do you think I'm crazy, Dr. Katz?" I tried to laugh, but it came out strange, choked.
"Crazy? I try not to use that word in my diagnoses, Ryan." She smiled. "We're all crazy in our own ways. Would I diagnose you with a mental illness? I would say that I somewhat agree with the psychiatrist you originally saw, Dr.—"
"Hammond," I offered.
"Yes, Dr. Hammond. He diagnosed you with a dissociative disorder brought on by trauma. I would tend to agree, based on our sessions so far, although the disorder generally pertains to the patient having two or more personalities. You present differently than some other patients in that you took over a real person's identity and gave up your own. Nevertheless, that would be my diagnosis if I had to check a box. Unfortunately, the mind doesn't always fit itself into neat little boxes, does it?" She gave me a faint smile before continuing. "In your case, though, it makes sense, does it not? You learned early on how to separate your mind from grief, from pain. And then when Holden died, you experienced trauma once again and fell back on your reinforced and conditioned response: mental removal. You blamed yourself for his death. You blamed yourself for not seeing the extent of his unhappiness, and for not being able to do anything to help him. I think that in an effort to understand it, you became him. You looked to save him as he saved you, and in so doing, escaped a bit of your own grief. And the pain pills made it easier, of course, to distract yourself from the true issue, although they did not cause this disorder."
I leaned my head back, looking up at the ceiling. "That sounds . . . crazy. How did I even manage to put one foot in front of the other while I was that out of my mind?"
When I looked back down, Dr. Katz gave me another small smile. "The mind can be very mysterious. There are things that can break us all. But people with mental disorders still often hold jobs requiring complex skills, and contribute to society in a number of valuable ways. But if we're using the word crazy to cover the broad spectrum of mental sufferings, including yours, then yes, you were crazy for a time. Do you still feel crazy?"
I released a breath of air, looking out the window, unseeing for a moment. Did I feel crazy? Mostly, no. I recalled that sense of being in a dream that I'd felt after Holden died and the entire time I was at Brandon's lodge. I had walked and talked, convinced myself I was Holden, lived his life, picked up right where he'd left off, but I'd had no real connection to anything. Until Lily . . . It's how she'd brought me back, made me want to face reality again. "No," I finally answered. "I still feel sad. Maybe I'll always feel sad." It wasn't the kind of sorrow that brought tears anymore, though. The sadness simply was part of me now. It had settled into my bones and I just kind of figured it'd always be there. "But I don't feel crazy."
I couldn't help but think of Whittington. If I'd lived a hundred years ago, I'd be one of those people drooling in a corner somewhere, perhaps lobotomized, my organs removed. At the very least, I'd be forgotten . . . invisible, worthless. A shameful stain on my family and society.
She nodded. "Ryan, do you think that, in part, you became Holden because you believed you should have been the one to die that night? Did you wish it had been you instead of him?"
I studied my hands. "Yes. Sometimes I still think that."
"You realize, of course, that's your father speaking, right? Neither of you deserved to die. Not Holden, and not you."
I sighed. "I know," I finally said. But especially not him. Not him. He was the superhero, the golden boy.