My Six Weeks with Dave

Imaginary Friends

I sat silently, unsure of what I was about to do. It felt like so much was resting on it. I took a deep breath in, steadying myself, and I thought. Hi, my name is Cassie. Not Cassandra, but Cassie. I was so nervous, my hands were trembling. It was strange to be having a conversation with no one. It felt like it had given me an invisible audience, which made me feel even more embarrassed about myself. What was I doing? Why did I think this would work? And who in their right mind introduced themselves to a book? It felt like I was stuck in this world of anxiety and loneliness.

I put my pen on the paper, and I wrote: My name is Cassie. I don't believe I can put my thoughts into words. No one will ever comprehend what I'm saying, not even to myself. I'm such a fool. A diary; my only confidante. What a peculiar thought; that I am talking to myself. Something I need to erase from my mind. It's almost as if speaking to a fictitious character makes me feel only slightly less pathetic. A story of a girl with an imaginary friend, assimilated into the term 'crazy'. Let's try, shall we? I'll call you Dave, Dave the Diary.

I'm writing about my life because my shrink, Dr. Vigue, thinks it's the only way for me to deal with the anger I'm bottling up inside. Can you sense my rage? My friends always tell me I have a "toxic personality" and that I just need to release my feelings through writing. What she really means is that I should set my emotions free; like a bird soaring through the sky, liberated from its daily worries. That's what she gets paid for–to give me advice that I don't even want. But right now, I just need to focus on myself and figure out what I need to do next.

Not that I'm arrogant or anything, but hey, it's my diary. I'm allowed to be self-centered. I don't like to stay in my own negative emotions. Though I'll admit that I'm no saint either. I often ask myself, 'who am I?', but I know the answer as it lies within me. 'I'm Nobody.' Dave, my confidant, you know me better than anyone, or you will at least, though I know you are only a figment of my imagination. Distracted again. Okay, concentrate Cassie. I will try to stay on track, but it's so hard when time moves so quickly?

People call me average Cass. I'm nothing extraordinary. A face in the crowd, someone you can't pick out of a lineup. I'm the girl you forget right away. I don't stand out, nor do I want to. They don't know who I really am; they don't understand my thoughts, my feelings, my aspirations. But that's okay; I don't need them to see me for who I am. Because I prefer being average; it keeps things simple. Besides, I have secrets that only I know about. Average Cass has depth if you look closely.

I guess you could say that I'm depressed. There's really no other way to put it. It's not like being sad sometimes; it's an actual clinical diagnosis. At this moment, I was sitting in my therapist's office. Yet, I remained silent, unable to carry on a conversation about my depression. I ignored her and complained to you, Dave, because she made me feel like my secrets were exposed. She kept talking, filling the air with meaningless dialogue and I sat there wishing for the 45 minutes to be up so I could leave. That's been our routine until one day I decided that hiding in the darkness was no longer enough. Our 45-minute-long hour is up and she prescribes me more medication. Good job Doc.

Perhaps you're wondering why I go to therapy sessions, Dave. It's simple. I lack joy in anything. Nothing that I do brings me happiness. Not one thing in life resonates with me. I'm here for no reason other than to occupy space and then fade away. I don't have any genuine friends. The acquaintances I keep are oblivious to my days of crying and wishing that I had never been born; they don't know the darkness inside me. It's like they don't even care if I disappear; they'd simply keep living their own lives. You're the only one who truly knows me, Dave. But you're the only one who isn't real. Dr. Vigue cleared her throat clear.

"I asked you a question," she said, her voice calm yet firm. I peered at her over the edge of my book.

"No, you didn't. Or at least, I don't think so." Dr. Vigue studied me for a moment before repeating,

"How much medication do you have left?"

"I'm on my last week," I replied flatly.

Wordlessly, she reached for her prescription pad and began jotting down what I assumed would be my next month's medication. This was the only thing she seemed to excel at — prescribing pills and sending me away. I was on my fourth medication cocktail, still searching for the one to solve all my problems. Dr. Vigue couldn't decide if I was just depressed or bipolar, so she put me on a medley of pills that made me feel like a lab rat. My brain was her toy, and I had no control.

"You should really think about going to group therapy," she said, pushing the prescription into my hand.

"Right. That is not about to happen," I laughed, taking the paper from her. She forced a card into my palm and calmly said,

"I think it would be good for you." But I knew she was wrong - the only thing that would help was time.

"I'll think about it."

That was the lie that I had been repeating for weeks, and Dr. Vigue knew it. She knew the truth; that I was too weak to make the decisions that would lead me away from the darkness of my mind. She nodded, and the appointment concluded. It was no use. Therapy could never help the sadness I carried. I slunk past the painting of the three monkeys—Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil, See No Evil—and into the waiting room. There, underneath its yellowed fluorescent light, was the one ray of sunshine in my life: John. His light brown hair and kind eyes were a balm to my soul. I could never understand what he saw in me to make him stay by my side for the past two years.

"Ready to go?" he asked, closing his book. As always, he had driven me to my appointment and waited patiently for me to finish. He is too good for me.

"Yep," I answered, stopping in front of him. He leaned down and planted a gentle kiss on my forehead, sending a wave of warmth washing over me.

We walked out of the office hand-in-hand, taking in the fresh air. As we rounded the corner, an overwhelming urge to tell him how much he meant to me—how much his unwavering support had kept me afloat during my darkest days—struck me. So many times over the past two years, he had been there for me when no one else had been. He had stayed up late on countless nights just to talk with me and listen as I vented about my struggles—both real and imagined. He had never once judged or doubted me; instead, he reminded me that life was worth living and that eventually things would get easier if I hung on long enough.

So that day, as we made our way back home from the doctor's office, I tried to find the words to tell him how I felt, but I couldn't seem to find them. My mouth opened and closed like a fish. I looked at him, inhaled deeply, and just sat there with my mouth hanging open. He rolled his eyes and laughed. John smiled down at me before pressing a gentle kiss against my forehead again.

"You are worth it Cassie, don't you ever forget that."

His words moved something deep within my soul and gave me the strength to face whatever lay ahead of us. He had been my rock for two years now, and I still couldn't comprehend what he saw in me. But I felt a glimmer of hope each time he held me in his strong, yet gentle, arms. That's all I needed to keep going. He bent down and kissed my forehead before we left the office, and I couldn't help but feel a little better about myself.

I love him Dave.