Forgetting Roman

{one}

{one}

                “So Aspen,” Dr. James began as she took a seat opposite of me with her white notepad and black pen. “How are you feeling today?”

                “Fine,” I told her as I rubbed my hands over my dark skinny jeans. “I feel fine.”

                Dr. James nodded before she pushed back her side swept bangs, “I understand your back at university this week. How are you handling that?”

                I shrugged and began to play with the loose thread of my sweater sleeve. The black string suddenly held my attention captive as Dr. James’ question replayed in my mind a few times. I thought over my words before I licked my dry lips and decided simple was the best option, “Fine.”

                The woman sitting before me sighed as she wrote a few notes down on her notepad, “Aspen, it’s been six months since you’ve started therapy,” She reminded me. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to open up.”

                I glanced up at her through my dark lashes and noticed she was already looking at me- black pen poised over her white notepad ready to jot down more notes. For the last six months I had been seeing Dr. James twice a week. My mother thought it would help me ‘get over my issues’, but in reality I knew that the only reason she enrolled me into these therapy sessions was because she didn’t want any more rumors about her ‘suicidal’ daughter not getting the help she needed.

                My lack of response told Dr. James today wasn’t the day I chose to open up to her and finally talk about my problems.

                She sighed before she wrote down some more notes and continued, “Have you had any more urges?”

                I closed my eyes and swallowed the large lump that had created itself in my throat. Yes, every minute of every day. “No, I haven’t had any recently.”

                Her hand flew across the white notepad once again before she began to ask question after question. I hated how I knew what was to come after the first couple of questions. Every session was the same; the exact questions were asked in the exact order. She would write down a few notes after each question asked and would give me a small smile after every other answer I would give her.

                “Alright,” Dr. James said with a heavy sigh as she stood from her seat, “Our time is up for today, but I will see you again next week.”

                I nodded as I stood from my seat and grabbed my coat. As I slid out of the room and out the building completely, I didn’t feel better like my mother had promised many times. In fact, it seemed that after each of my sessions, I felt worse than before.

                Each session did nothing to help me like my mother thought seeing a therapist would. Seeing Dr. James didn’t help me forget the images I saw in my mind, nor did she help me stop hearing the voices in my head. She didn’t help me suppress the urges I craved. She didn’t help me when the nightmares came in the middle of the night, nor did she help when I fought the demons inside my head alone at two in the morning.

                However, to keep up our family appearance, my mother thought it would be best if I saw a therapist to ‘help me get better’. She didn’t understand that no amount of therapy sessions would help me with my depression. Seeing Dr. James wouldn’t help me stop hearing voices in my head, nor the urges to binge, cut, drink, or smoke. Seeing Dr. James wouldn’t help me forget Roman- the one to put me back on the path that I had steered away from.

                She couldn’t help me, and that scared me because if she couldn’t, who could?