How do I really describe this? I've been trying for so long, an hour, and would like to be done. But I can't get this idea out of my mind. Memories, ideas, they play the same way.
I'm sitting at a table. It has twenty chairs, but only two are filled. Beside me is my therapist. The sound of his breathing, scratching and sniffling is enough to make me keyed up. Like, my nails were short before, but now they're down to the quick, and there's blood bubbling on my thumb. Not dripping, or rolling, just a bubble. Over the course of the meeting, it dries.
My therapist speaks. I can't remember his name, and I'm sure it doesn't matter. I'm half tempted to call him Trusty, for the hound he resembles. It's just as useful as calling him wax, visually.
TRUSTY (NOT TO BE CONFUSED AS BEING TRUSTWORTHY)
How have things been? Has your...depression, has it been manageable?
I haven't killed myself, there's a start. That's what I'd say to Kathy, but I liked Kathy, even if her price was enough to make the Hatter straight again. Like, he'd see the bill, and it'd drive him so mad he could only be normal. Reverse psychology. She'd appreciate that.
KAYLYNN
I'm fine. I've just been, you know, playing soccer.
And crying. Staying in bed all weekend, not even rising to brush my teeth or do laundry. There's this big pile in the corner of my room now, I'd show you. I don't use my bins anymore, I just kind of sift through my laundry basket. Oh, and there's this whole thing where I'm numb and unfeeling for about ten hours of the day, when I'm not with friends or at soccer. But soccer isn't a lie. I try not to lie often, anymore. It's a struggle. But I do.
TRUSTY
And with your friends? Do you feel as though you can talk to them, if you ever get low?
Yeah, I can. I love my friends. I say as much.
TRUSTY
That's good, having a support system. Do you think your friends notice when you're having a hard time?
No? Yes? No. I asked Nye about this, later, and she admitted to No. I laugh it off. I'm so much more alive at school, when others can control me, and keep me away from that maddening cage that is my bed.
KAYLYNN
Yeah, I think they can.
I tell him they invite me over, play some old movies. As though my friends could stomach anything made before Riverdale. The eighties was an era, man. Terminator and The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller. I say that we're close and talk about this stuff. As though it doesn't make my skin crawl thinking about how many boundaries I'm crossing just to say "hey, I'm going to commit" in anything less than a sarcastic way. And to get in deep about that kind of stuff...I can't ever avoid it. I can't explain why. It all flies out of me, through fingers and mouth, and I wish I could recall it. Who wants to know? Who cares? I don't. Not really.
He's talking more now. I'm not sure about what. My ruin-all brother, maybe. Or my ability to "manage". My eyes focus on the spot over his shoulder. I study the white plaster wall, and the class photos tacked above him, and wait for his shape to blur. Better.
TRUSTY
So, do you ever feel...down? Enough to...cause harm?
Just say "kill yourself". Or "cut". Or something. I'm not going to flinch with my hand on the trigger. The skipping around makes an uncomfortable situation unbearable. I nod and run my nail between the lines in the chair. He's looking at his notes again. I clear my throat.
KAYLYNN
Uh - yeah, but I'm not...you know, I wouldn't do anything.
TRUSTY
And, I'm playing the devil's advocate here, I know, what if you were going to?
Would your friends stop you?
Would anyone stop me? If I really tried, no. But I don't try. It's impossible to explain.
KAYLYNN
Yeah, I bet - no. Maybe not. It's never really been so bad that I...well.
TRUSTY
What if it were to get so bad? What would you do? Medicine, counseling...?
KAYLYNN
Nothing, really. I would just ride it out.
TRUSTY
It's not a wave, Kaylynn. It's depression. You're going to have to learn to manage this
for...well, the rest of your life. It won't go away, and this type of depression...
KAYLYNN
Doesn't get better?
TRUSTY
It's manageable. Not curable. There's not enough research, funding. That jazz.
I focus back on the clock and tune him out. This is a repeat session, really. I have nothing to report. He's got nothing I haven't figured out myself. There are ten minutes left, and I could leave, but he's desperate to keep going. Pourquoi? Who knows.
TRUSTY
Kaylynn?
KAYLYNN
Oh, I don't know.
TRUSTY
Yes, I suppose your mom would know better.
About? What? I? Didn't? Hear? You? Nodding works. I nod.
TRUSTY
We should be going. Will you show me back to the office?
The office. Oh, God. Across the school, up several flights of killer stairs. I would rather die. I send him straight ahead, instead, and excuse myself to go into the English room. It's safe there, and warm. I hug The Book Monster, and am not surprised to feel my eyes sting. I hate this vulnerability. Kathy was better, because I knew her, sort of. She knew me well enough for it not to matter that I didn't know her. I hate men, I think, and feelings. Men who dissect my feelings and make everything seem so much less complicated and layered than I think and would like it to be. How I think I might like it to be.
