Catchphrase (Camren)

1.

"It's like a crushing weight inside my chest. All of my organs feel heavy and each breath is a struggle, you know? And, like, I only see the sadness. It's everywhere, inside of me and inside of you. I can't help but notice it and it consumes my very being. It's like I've lived the misfortunes of everyone around me and it's becoming too much to bear."

"Lauren," my therapist starts in her mild scolding tone like she does every time I talk to her about how I feel like I can help it, "why won't you take the medication I've prescribed for you?"

I sigh from my place in front of the floor to ceiling windows of her luxurious tenth story office in downtown Miami. I admire the beauty of the city skyline and think of how many people it must've taken to build this metropolis. Those workers had families and favorite songs and probably even pets. I think that nearly everyone has those things, I have them, too, so why do I feel so out of place amongst everyone I know?

"Lauren, you haven't answered my question," she speaks again in a somewhat defeated tone.

I turn and look at her, rolling my eyes in the process, "I don't need fake happy pills to exist, Doc. I should be strong enough to live with this, I am strong enough to live with this. I've told you a million times, Amelia."

"Doctor Cambell," Amelia corrects me just like she has every week for the last three years, "I've told you a million times," she mocks me.

I smile at her even if I don't find this very funny. She may not be a comedian, but her record shows that she is exceptionally bright. She double majored at Cornell, first in her class, and had the choice to become a lawyer or a therapist. In my opinion, she made the wrong decision.

"My bad, Doc," I turn my attention back to the red glow of the Miami evening outside. Absentmindedly, I run my fingers over the inside of my left forearm. Amelia notices this and smiles faintly but she doesn't comment. She knows that it's a nervous habit of mine.

"Have you been writing lately?" she asks like she does every time. My answer is always the same.

"No, I haven't had anything to write about."

"Why don't you try writing about how you feel, when you feel it? Maybe it will help narrow down what is causing you to feel the way that you do."

I ignore her suggestion for the third time this month, "I bet if we recorded and played our conversations over each other, they would overlap perfectly."

In my peripheral vision, I see Amelia sigh again and move a strand of her blonde hair out of her face. I've always had a thing for blondes. "I can't help you if you aren't willing to help yourself."

I mouth the words as she says them. This is her Catchphrase. Everyone has one. My mother's is "I'll see you later, mija", though this is almost always a lie. My dad's was, "Cheer up, sport". Even though I'm nearly a legal adult, I still miss when he would ruffle my hair and say those words. His eyes always shone with affection, and his smile was like a disease; infectious.

That is another reason why I don't want to take the pills. My dad suffered a lot when he was around and the medication concealed it. I was too young to know better, but even my mother was fooled. That's why everything went to shit a little over three years ago when he took his life. That's why I'm standing in this infuriatingly bland office.

"Life sucks, Amelia. I don't want pills, I'm managing the fight just fine on my own." My head starts to hurt, explaining what I feel takes a lot out of me.

"If you took the pills, you wouldn't have to fight," she says.

"Didn't they teach you how to console people?"