Icarus

2

The lady behind the desk, Trina, is overly cheerful as she pecks away on the computer screen to find my appointment. Someone working in a clinic for crazy people should not be this excited at 8:30 in the morning. I wouldn't be. Granted, I was one of said crazy people. Studying her, I notice how the foundation she uses falls into the crevasses of her wrinkled face and gives her a scarier appearance. I think about suggesting she stop using base altogether, and then decide that the comment is rude, so I bite my tongue. I've been practicing that since I've been back. It's hard not to go into every situation hackles raised, not to be defensive when I'm uncomfortable.

The waiting room is empty, save for me and Mrs. Trina. I've barely lowered myself onto the hard, wooden chairs before my name is called through a door on the side of the room. I stand up and consider bolting. Mom wouldn't know any differently, provided that my shrink didn't call her, which she probably would. I had been threatened with a type of year-round summer camp for crazy people. It was one of the ones where they fed you pills in a small paper cup and made you wear blue dresses around their hospital. It was somewhere in the mountains. Leaving that scary thought behind, I followed the lady through the door, deciding to follow the wishes of my family.

Dr. Jaeger is pulling the blinds up on the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall when I walk in. It makes the room brighter, less cramped. The anvil lifts a fraction from my chest. This being my second session, I thought it would be easier than it was last week, but my hands are still shaking as I sit down.

"Cucumber water?" she asks, taking her white coat off. It does something to make her look more personal, less like a doctor. The emerald green of her shirt complements her dark skin. 

"Uh, sure." I hang my own jacket on a hook by the door and sit down. She pulls a plastic cup from a sleeve, pours water from a pitcher, and garnishes it with slices of cucumber and mint leaves. If she found it strange that she had already sliced cucumbers sitting in her mini-fridge, she didn't let on.

"I've been told," she says, getting settled with her notepad. "That I'm coming off as cold and intimidating. Specifically, I was compared to Princess Elsa. I talked to someone of my friendlier psychiatrist friends, and they told me to look less like a doctor and more like a person." She unfolds her glasses and examines them. "I argued back that I didn't go to college for ten years to not get to wear my blazers to my job, but then I made a little girl cry because she agreed that I was scary." She rolls her eyes. "She wouldn't stop until I took off my coat and reading glasses. Then she said I looked like her teacher from the second grade. Any other evaluations you would like to give about my performance?"

I debate whether I should joke, be sarcastic, or if I should be honest, so I consider my words carefully before answering. "Having the windows open is better. The mahogany makes it looked cramped and claustrophobia inducing. Maybe invest in some lamps or something." I look at how harried she looks at the thought of interior decorating before suggesting, "Also, maybe see a doctor of your own, or maybe just drinks with a friend. You look like you could use someone to vent to."

She nods thoughtfully before changing the topic entirely. "You know, I'm actually surprised that you showed up today. Most teenagers either don't show up for the second session at all, or they're dragged in, kicking and screaming, by their mothers."

"I was threatened. A slip to Sunnyville Home for the Mentally Ill was slid under my door this morning. It's some ranch in Colorado that keeps crazy people like myself. I weighed my options: talk to some lady for an hour, or move away for a year to live in an asylum. The math isn't hard."

"Agreed," she says. "I also talked to some other doctors about your case, and they said keeping a journal really helps their patients going through the same thing."