For the next two days I stay holed up in my room. I feel as if I’m in a daze, unable to find any reasons for joy or happiness. The food I eat has no flavor, and the sounds I hear are like background noise. I suppose one might call that slipping into depression.

Out of concern, my parents are quick to arrange my therapy sessions, despite my disapproval. But hey, since I’m paralyzed from the waist down I can’t really resist them. Three times a week I’m pulled from the house and taken downtown. On Monday’s and Thursday’s I go to the rehabilitation center for body strengthening, and on Saturday’s I’m dropped off to see a therapist. Neither are enjoyable, or helpful. My physical training is exhausting, mostly because my legs have become dead weight that I must learn to live and maneuver with. Aside from that, my therapist is a quack, delving into the deepest realms of nonsensical phycology just so he can milk my mom and dad for a paycheck. Honestly, I’m just so sick of everything at this point.

“Did you hear me?”

I blink and look up. “What?”

My therapist, Dr. Whatever his name is, gives me a glare. “I asked if you heard me. These sessions mean nothing if you’re just going to slack off you know.”

They aren’t helping anyways.

“Now then, Mr. Fola, we were discussing the power of positive thinking, in case you’ve forgotten.”

At this I almost laugh. “Yeah, positive thinking. I’m so sure that will work on my legs.”

“It’s not for your legs Zane, it’s for your mind. Mentally, you can overcome anything that you want to. Fear, uncertainty, embarrassment, these are the only things holding you back from living normally.”

I curl up my fists. Does this guy know anything about living with a disability? No amount of wishful thinking will bring my girlfriend back. Having positive outlook won’t make my life any less difficult to deal with.

“Alright, I can tell you’re not up to anymore talking today. Shall I call your parents?” The therapist asks.

“Sure. Why not? Call my parents up like I’m some kid in school. It’s not like I’m an adult with my own cellphone or anything.”

He gives me an irritated smile. “It’s merely procedure, Mr. Fola.”

I roll my eyes and turn myself around to leave the room. Doors are the trickiest part about being in a wheelchair. Especially those that open inward instead of outward. I’m still not experienced enough to manage the multitasking of it, so unfortunately, my therapist has to come over and help me. Once the door is open I take off into the hall without a thank you or good bye, too ashamed to even face him again. Soon enough I reach the lobby where one secretary and another patient sit quietly.

I take my spot by the window, waiting for my parents’ car to arrive. Usually, it takes about twenty minutes for them to come and get me. However, today, nearly thirty go by before I decide to pick up the phone and ring them.

“Hey, where are you guys?” I grumble impatiently.

“Hi honey! Sorry, we won’t be much longer. Your father and I were just finishing up our grocery shopping before we came to get you.”

I feel my throat tighten. There it is again. That feeling of total helplessness. As a grown man, I’m used to driving my own car and living by my own schedule. But now I’ve been reduced to a second thought, a passenger of my parents’ agenda. I really am like kid.

“Zane, honey? Can you hear me?”

I quickly hang up the call. Then, once we get home, I go back to my room without a single word.