Day 5

DAY 5 WEDNESDAY

 

Today is Wednesday. Today is my meeting with Jacqueline, my therapist. Let me tell you about my therapist for a moment, before you meet her.

 

Jacqueline is very steady, which I guess is a pretty good quality for a therapist. She's tall, and skinny. She says it's because she's from the Netherlands. She tells me about her home country whenever she can't get me to spill all of my secrets. Jacqueline's face is very kind, but her eyes are terrifying. They make me feel like she's scanning my brain. Her mouth is always curved in the beginning of a smile, though, and she's never mean. Sometimes I wish I could be more like her. Other times, I'm scared she's getting way too far into my head.

 

“Alex, welcome. Tea?”

This is what I hear every time I walk through the simple white door into Jacqueline's office. And I always say no. I'm feeling weird today though. This morning I woke up feeling like something was different, but I have no idea what. I just felt weird. So this time, when the same greeting comes, I say yes. Jacqueline's expression flickers with surprise for half a second, before she composes herself again. “What type?” I shake my head. That's too much thinking. I'll give up being different if I'm forced to think too much about it. Jacqueline has learned the meanings of most of my body language, and so she just grabs whatever tea is closest, and then hands me a paper cup. The sleeve around the cup says “Careful! I'm hot!” with a winky face. It almost makes me chuckle. I breathe in the water vapor that lazily rises out of the cup. It smells like watery strawberries.

“So, Alex. How are you today?” Jacqueline's eyes try to meet mine, but I focus on keeping my tea in it's container as I sit down on the fluffy love-seat across from Jacqueline's chair. Faintly, I wonder how it works with family therapy sessions.

“I'm fine, I guess. Summer vacation has started.”

“And how is that going?”

“It's not.”

“What do you mean with that?”

“I just mean that I don't have anything to do. It's nothing bad.”

Jacqueline stares at me. Her eyes are blue, and her hair is blond. I think she's very pretty. I don't think she's married or anything, though. Her fingers are bare, and the only picture on her desk is one of a little blond girl, of maybe six or seven years old.

“Is there something bothering you, Alex? Did you pass your exams?”

I shrug. “I don't hear back from my teachers until next week. They felt okay though. Not anything fantastic.”

“Is there anything you'd like to talk about, Alex?”

 

This is the question I never understand. Why would you ask me if there is something I want to talk about? If there was, wouldn't I just talk about it? But again, I remember the weird feeling from this morning. Should I maybe just talk for once?

 

“Well, sure. Why not?” I say. Jacqueline becomes surprised again, but this time she can't hide it quickly enough. So instead of pretending that she thinks this is normal, since it's obviously not, she settles on looking excited and encouraging. I bet this is what is called a 'breakthrough' in therapist talk.

 

“Alright. Go ahead,” Jacqueline gestures toward me with her pale, ring-less hand. “Whenever you're ready.” 

 

Okay. So I sort of worked myself into this one. Looking at my therapist's expecting face, I know I can't just say nothing like I usually do. I struggle between thinking that this is a very bad idea, and feeling a tiny amount of some strange emotion; maybe relief. I'm finally going to say something. It's finally going to happen.

 

“I'm not exactly happy.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how idiotic that sounded. I mean, why on earth would I be at a therapist if I was a happy person?

“What I mean is, I'm not happy and I have no idea what to do about it.”

Jacqueline watches me with serious eyes. “Are you asking for advice?” she asks. Her voice is on therapist-mode, as usual. It happens after she asks if I want tea, and only ends after the little bell on her desk goes off to signal the end of the session. Sometimes I hate that voice. How do you expect to reach people if you talk like the personification of a hospital? I asked her once. She told me her job isn't for her to reach me; it's to get me to reach myself. I told her it was bullshit, and left.

Jacqueline is a really good person, and I'm sure she's a good therapist. I'm just not a very good patient.

 

“Jacqueline?”

“Yes?”

“Can we do one of those games you used to do, where I pretend to be someone else and talk the way they would?”

We had given up on those games when I was 14. That's when I started pretending to be an addict whenever she asked me to impersonate my mother. Jacqueline's eyebrows rise as she considers my question.

“Well, sure. If you think that would help you.”

I nod. “Yeah, it would. Except I need you to pretend I'm your daughter, and not your patient.”

My therapist frowns. “My daughter?”

“Yes. Pretend I'm your daughter, except I'm 18 now, and I'm unhappy, and I need your help.”

 

I start counting the seconds as Jacqueline's therapist mind processes my request. I wonder what types of alarms are going off in her head right now. Maybe this is a sign that I'm going insane? Eventually, after I count 143 seconds, Jacqueline nods very slowly. “Okay, I can do that.” Her voice has changed. It's no longer in therapist-mode. It's like a mom's voice, but slightly wary. “Go ahead and say what you want to say,” she says. Her eyes aren't scanning anymore either. As I wait another 54 seconds, her eyes melt from her x-ray machines to warmer watery-blue. I wonder if she ever scans her daughter. I take one more deep breath (72 seconds now) before I start. I don't even know what I want to say, but I look at my hands and open my mouth anyway.

 

“Every single day is the same. I don't even know if there is anything to look forward to anymore. I'm struggling to get through even minute of the day, much less every hour. School was a bit of a reprieve, when I could be depressed and no one would care anyway, but now there isn't even that. I have to wake up in the morning and be happy for my mom, I have to eat lunch in the afternoon and be happy for my mom, and I have to be there for dinner in the evening and be happy for my mom. I can't pretend for much longer, and I don't know what to do. I don't want more medication, but I do need some advice. I want out.”

 

My voice is tight when I finish my speech. I don't even remember what I've said now, already. What will Jacqueline say? I carefully look up, my eyes trying to roll higher than my head will allow. I can only just see her hands without moving my head up. I figure I should look higher, since she's not saying anything. I'm not entirely sure if it's a good sign. When I get the courage (energy) to look up at the face, I'm sort of confused about what I see. Jacqueline's eyes are wet, and her mouth is turned down. Her eyebrows hang low, frowning. I'm confused, because I have never, in all my years of therapy, seen Jacqueline emotional. And it is very disorienting.

“Oh, sweety,” she says, softly. Her lips barely even move. I watch in wonder and misunderstanding as she stands up and comes toward me. I don't get what she's trying to do until she has wrapped her arms around my shoulders and is pulling me toward my feet. “I'm so sorry you feel that way, Alex. So, so sorry.” I hesitantly lift my arms around my therapist as I feel her tears soak into my shirt. I randomly realize that this is the shirt I slept in. “Um, it's not your fault?” I try to reassure her, but it comes out as a question. I try to figure out what to do in a situation in which my therapist is the one in need of help. After a moment, Jacqueline sniffs and pulls back.

“Okay, okay. I'm good. I'm sorry about that,” she says. I just stare at her. I'm still not sure of what to do.  I sit down again, and Jacqueline sits in her chair. She looks at me seriously. She opens her mouth, and then closes it again. Then she takes a breath, and bites her lip.

 

“Alex, if you were my daughter, I would tell you that you need to find something that makes you happy. You need to get away, find a hobby, make a friend. You're depressed, sweetie, and therapy and medication is obviously not helping much.”

 

I stare at my therapist, eyes wide. She literally just told me that what she has been doing for the last ten years has been useless. And what am I supposed to do with this? If I could find something that would make me happy, then I wouldn't really be here in the first place. “What do you suggest I look for?” I ask skeptically. Jacqueline shakes her head. “You can't look for it, you just have to experience new things, and you'll find it.” I want to mention how ridiculously vague that sounds, but just then, the bell goes. Right on cue, Jacqueline gets up and hugs me again. “Find something to make you happy, Alex. Please,” she whispers. When she pulls back, she whips out a pen and writes a series of numbers on my thin arm. “Call me, okay?” she almost pleads. She gives me one last smile, and then I'm out the door.

 

Outside, I stand still for a moment. What exactly are you supposed to do after your therapist tells you to go be happy? I'm supposed to experience life, but what the hell does that mean? I groan out of frustration. I might as well head home. “It's not like I have anywhere else to go,” I mutter. I start walking toward my car, but then something hits me. What if I could go somewhere else? I said I wanted out. What if I just go? I glance back to the window of the therapist office, and then at my mom's car. The car is dirty, covered with grime that hasn't been washed off in months. We haven't had a good rain, either. I lay my hands flat on the roof. They're too skinny. I'm too skinny. Everyone says so. On my left hand is a ring. It's on my thumb, since it just hangs loosely around my ring finger now. I usually try not to think about it. But this time, I let myself. I remember the crinkly skin around his eyes. The warm lips that would kiss me to protect me from the monsters that came at night. His big, strong hands that could make me fly. I remember my father for a moment. But in that moment, I realize what I'm going to do. I'm going back to his home.
I'm going to Monterey, California.