I decided he was about twelve. He was wearing black Nike shorts, white sneakers, and a faded plaid button-down. He was alone, which was no surprise. Dr. Ring liked parents to drop us off at the door so that the kids “took ownership of their therapy” and didn’t feel like we were trapped here, even though we were. My mom was in the car doing a crossword puzzle and would pounce on me if I made a break for it. I know because it happened one time.
Dr. Ring appeared at the door to his office. He was tall and thin and pinkish-pale, with a few wispy tufts of white hair that liked to stand up. I guess the whole thing was technically his office; a glass door from outside led to a small lobby with dark green walls like a forest and then two more doors—one to the therapy room and the other to a bathroom. There was also a desk for a receptionist, but Dr. Ring never seemed to hire one, so it was usually just me and some fake ferns hanging out until he was ready for the appointment. And now this new boy, apparently.
“Come in, James,” Dr. Ring said. “Sara, we are just going to have a quick chat. I will be with you soon.”
Then he disappeared back into his office.
James stood up and went to join him. He looked at me and smiled.
“Hey, Sara.”
James closed the door behind him, and I sat there, frowning.
I picked up a magazine and read about developments in brain science. None of it seemed like it was going to fix me.
They were in there for twenty-two minutes. There is a clock on the wall that alternates between silence and the loudest noise in the world, depending on your level of attention. Then James walked out and smiled at me again. I looked away because he was a stranger and therefore not to be trusted. But the way he stared at me made my skin tingle. I was glad he left.
“Sorry, Sara,” Dr. Ring said. “Come on in.”
I sat down on the red corduroy couch that was reserved for crazies, and Dr. Ring sat in the red corduroy chair beside it, which was reserved for him. He was nice enough. He liked clipboards and talking about the past, but I think that was his job description.
“What does he have?” I asked, looking toward the exit.
Dr. Ring raised his bushy white eyebrows. He did that a lot.
“You know I can’t tell you that,” Dr. Ring said.
His voice was low and sounded a little British. I know because I watch Doctor Who.
“I’ll figure it out,” I said.
He sighed. “I don’t doubt it. Ms. Hugger told me you nearly had a panic attack today. Or what is it you call it?”
“False Alarm,” I muttered.
They had set up a support network so Ms. Hugger could call my mom and dad and doctor and probably my friends if I had any. I imagined sometimes their faces popped up in holograms around a table and they said things like “the old evil has risen” or “there has been a disturbance.”
“We might want to look at upping your medications to thirty milligrams. It would help.”
“Why not sixty?” I said softly, staring at the dusty books behind him. The titles were Talking Through Grief and Child Psychology and The Mysterious Brain. Dr. Ring let me borrow them, and I had read every single one. None of those had fixed me either.
“Sara, you know the medications are helpful. You know what it was like before.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“You were having a difficult time,” Dr. Ring said. He was already writing something down. “I read all of the old reports. Daily panic attacks. Mood swings. Depression.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“It was much worse. You are too hard on yourself. You are much more stable now. Not as many wild swings. Fewer episodes. We are going to try to get them down to zero. I am going to sign off on the thirty milligrams of citalopram and thirty milligrams of lithium. It’s an effective combination.”
“And very normal.”
Dr. Ring looked up from his notes. “Excuse me?”
I didn’t meet his eyes. I just stared at the old books. It was all I liked about his office.
“Taking brain pills. It’s very normal. Just like all the other kids at school.”
“Sara, what did I tell you about your obsession with normal?”
I kept my eyes on the books. “To give up on it?” I whispered.
“To redefine the idea,” he said. “What do I always tell you? What was the first thing I said when we started?”
I sighed. “If I want to be someone else at the end of this, then I will be disappointed.”
“Exactly.”
I ran a finger along the back of my hand. I felt it, but I wondered if it felt the same for normal kids. Maybe they felt every pore. Every hair. It was hard to trust anything when you were crazy.
I stopped on my knuckles and remembered the blood. There were still a few little white scars like my mom’s sunspots.
“I would also like to recommend you for group therapy,” Dr. Ring said.
My eyes flicked back to him. “What?”
“You don’t have to talk. But there are other kids like you. You can just listen to them.”
I could already feel my throat drying up. I wanted to cough, but Dr. Ring would write it down. He said my coughing was a nervous tic, something called a habit cough, but it wasn’t official yet, and I didn’t want another label.
“That sounds like a bad idea,” I said.
He smiled. “It will help. Being around other kids might be very cathartic for you. Even if you don’t talk. Trust me. They are every Thursday night.”
“I’m busy Thursdays.”
“Are you really?” he asked skeptically.
I stink at lying. “I could be.”
“And now you are. Let’s talk about this near panic attack. Tell me how it started.”
I stared at the books again for a moment. He always let the silence hold.
“I wish I knew,” I said finally. “I must have done something very wrong.”
I wasn’t talking about today, and he knew that. He knew who I blamed for all of this.
And so he told me for the hundredth time it wasn’t my fault that I was sick.
And for the hundredth time, I pretended to believe him.
NOTE (ABOUT GAMES)
Confused about the Games? Don’t feel bad. I explained it to Dr. Ring, like, seven times. There are three different ones. In order of most common to least common:
1. False Alarm
2. The Lead Ball
3. The Danger Game
False Alarm is a fancy name for panic attacks. To be clear, they are real panic attacks, but the reason I get them is a total lie. Like, my brain tells me I am dying. Of course, I’m not. Not really. And every time when the panic attack is over, I realize it was another false alarm. You’d think I would be ready. But my brain is a wonderful actor and makes me think I am dying every single time. And she does that during breakfast, or when I’m on the toilet, or in class, or in bed, and even when I say, “Can we please do this later?” she makes me play anyway.
The Lead Ball. I got this name from A Christmas Carol. You know those ghosts with the lead balls and manacles? Well, sometimes it feels like I have chains strapped to me. But I still have to go to school, so I just grab the lead ball and drag it for as long as I can. I feel heavy almost all the time, but it gets worse some days. Much worse. Dr. Ring says it is the depressive symptoms.