Vanilla

Smiles

On the car ride to my psychiatrist, the air is thick with silence. But at the same time, the unspoken words are deafening. 

My sister doesn't say anything, but I know what she is thinking: why? Why did you end up this way? Why couldn't I have been blessed with a better sibling? I deserve that.

My father's thoughts are obviously swelled with regret and disdain as well. I see the almost indistinguishable tensing of his mouth, prepared to throw out any number of insults and profanities at me, to make me "ashamed of what I had done with my life, because I should be." 

My mother...my mother is probably the least concerned with speaking. She just sits there with her hands on the wheel and her eyes glued to the road ahead, indifferent towards the whole situation. She probably wouldn't have care if I overdosed. Good riddance.

And I refuse to speak because I know my family set me up to this by taking my pills. Even Krista, who has finally become the sister I always wanted over the past couple of years, betrayed me. 

So this is why I  am more than relieved--overjoyed--when we finally pass through the journey of hell and arrive at the brick prison-like building across town. I think I would be relieved even if it was an actual prison I came to.

My psychiatrist's name is Linda. She is a middle-aged African American woman with perfect skin and perfect chocolate hair, despite her age. When I enter her room, Linda is holding her pocket mirror and reapplying mascara onto her already-black eyelashes, and she smiles her fake smile upon my arrival. "Hi, sweetie!" she squeals. 

I try not to throw up.

I've never liked psychiatrists, or therapists, or counselors, or any profession of the sort. Yes, I respect what they do and how difficult it can be, but...I have yet to enjoy a favorable experience with one.

But that doesn't mean I don't know how to act around them. The whole session with Linda, I smile and nod and put on a facade of perfect contentment. When she asks me if I am feeling better than the previous night (the night of the pill incident), I smile and nod some more, and assure her enthusiastically that I feel entirely at ease. That I will never touch another drug again.

And this is why I am shocked at what she says next.

"Jackie, I think the best thing for you right now would be to spend a couple of weeks in a drug rehabilitation center. I know of a very nice place, where the nurses are very professional and will treat you well..."

I don't hear anything she says after that. I feel pressure closing in on me on all sides, and my heart drops to my feet. 

I should be glad I will be getting away from my family, right? But something about it....the thought of rehab makes me feel more stupid and weak than I previously thought. My whole life, I have viewed rehab as a place where only horrible addicts and delinquent children go to, and have never, ever imagined myself to ever step foot into one. And now here I am, and I will be...

I do not want to see myself that way.