I can’t believe I just shared that, but it actually feels good to vent.
“My dad barely notices I stopped wearing sweaters with cats on them. He probably still thinks I want to be a pet store owner, so you can imagine how helpful his insight might be. And whenever he does talk to me, it’s to lecture me.” I shake my head. My family sounds so dysfunctional.
“My parents barely communicate with each other, and if they do manage to talk about anything outside their own issues, it’s about my brother. He has a whole other story that is really much more interesting than mine. Anyways, do I think they know what’s really stressing me out? No. They probably don’t think I have anything to stress about.” I lower my pitch and take on Dad’s disciplinary tone. “‘You’re only sixteen. What could possibly be so stressful? Stop being so egocentric and realize that the rest of the world is much worse off than you.’”
Dr. Kowalski reaches for a bottle of Perrier on his desk and pours himself a glass. He then closes the green file and looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Perhaps it would help if you knew what your parents are concerned about.” He passes me my file with a reassuring nod. “Would you like a glass?” He reaches for a cup.
I make circles with my finger on the surface of the file. “Uh, no thanks. I don’t do bubbles.” I bend the bottom corner up slowly to reveal Mom’s perfectly angled script interspersed with the typed questions. For some reason, I feel as though I’m invading her personal diary. “Am I allowed?”
“It’s your health information.” Dr. Kowalski gets up and moves to the rolling chair at his desk and begins typing on his laptop.
Curiosity takes over, and I sift through the pages, searching out any embarrassing stories or lies I should be correcting.
Sensitive baby; startled easily. Sucked her thumb until she was six. I cringe at the reality of seeing my early imperfections so plainly stated. Fearful to try new things. Afraid to fail. Often asked when routine events would happen. Escaped through make-believe friends. Ouch. She could have left that one out. Now uses acting as an escape. Assumes people are judging her. Overly emotional since puberty. My eyes begin to burn, but I hold back the tears. Emotionally fragile over past few months since the death of her grandmother. Has nervous habit of scratching her hair.
I sound like a freak show. I search for anything normal or slightly positive. Seems to connect with others on a deeper level than most teenagers. Can empathize without experiencing another’s pain, and yet seems to carry their pain with her.
My mouth opens, and I freeze on this line, reading it again and again. Carry their pain with her. How does she know that about me? I’ve never talked with anyone about it before. I press my lips together and blink hard.
“I’ve read enough.” With my eyes averted, I close the file and thrust it back onto his desk. It lands right next to his notepad and the underlined word trichotillo-something.
As though I’ve touched a burning stove, I jolt back and shove my hands under my thighs. Tricho—was it mania? Mental note: Google what I can remember of that name when I get home.
He leaves me to listen to his typing for what feels like a twenty-floor elevator ride. With each floor, my brain becomes more messed up, trying to process everything I just read. The clicking stops, and the wheels on his chair swivel to reveal scuff-free loafers within my lowered field of view. I keep my focus on his shoes. If I meet his gaze, I’ll break.
“So, may I ask you my first question again?”
Through gritted teeth, I whisper, “It’s okay, I get it.” I bite my lip hard to keep it from trembling. “I’m messed up.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The cafeteria drones with its standard level of commotion. Five long rows of tables hold about a third of the student population during one of the two lunches scheduled each day. When the weather gets colder and fewer are willing to make the short trek across the street to the plaza, that number increases. And so does the noise. The chaotic rate of conversations and activity should cause us all to have ADHD, but instead it provides a numbing, almost calming effect. This—paired with the irresistible aromas of fresh chocolate chip cookies and imitation McDonald’s french fries—makes the tension of morning classes somehow slip away. Dr. Kowalski should take a lesson from Ridgefield’s lunchroom if he’s striving to calm teens into baring their souls.
A single, underbaked cookie lies neglected at the edge of Ashley’s tray, so lonely and in need of someone to appreciate it. She won’t even notice if it decreases in size. I bend off a small chunk while she fiddles with Ethan’s ever-growing shag of hair.
She slaps my wrist right when I bend the half-baked dough. “Get your own, cookie thief.”
“Come on, Ash, it’s therapeutic for me.” Here comes my puppy begging, honestly perfected from watching the movie Bolt. While babysitting of course. Her stank-eyes retreat to mildly unamused, and the whole cookie takes flight and lands with surprising accuracy on my plate. “Wouldn’t want to upset the doctor.”
“I’ll let him know about your generosity.” I wink while devouring the still warm, chewy goodness.
Both Ashley and Jade know about the therapy session with Dr. Ko-wow-ski, as they have now named him. They don’t know I broke down into a pile of mush. Or that I got diagnosed with some random impulse-control disorder within the first five minutes of my session. Google was very helpful with fleshing out the details of my trichotillomania. Mom now has confirmation of my messed-up brain function. And even better, she probably already knows it’s related to obsessive-compulsive disorder. Not that I have any time-related fixations. And this is the icing on the cake: I now have written proof that pulling my hair can impede my chances of finding a husband. I didn’t need Google to slam me with that reality. Yeah, I’m that awesome.
I may have also swayed the girls’ understanding of the sessions as being obligatory (which Mom says they are) grief counseling (which I say they’re not). But given how much emotional energy I discharged during that first session, I’m okay with a cookie pity party, whatever the cause.
With melted chocolate reinforcement, I return to my trig assignment. Any attempts at mental math are thwarted almost immediately by an orchestra of high-pitched pings—a sure sign that something gossip-worthy has hit social media. Jade, Ashley, and Ethan immediately turn to their phones, but I fight the urge to dig mine out of my bag. This on Dr. K’s advice of removing myself, whenever possible, from the social FOMO epidemic. His parting words: “Worry about yourself and not all those other kids and their drama.” Although I took offense to the word kids, I think the point may still be valid. I do tend to obsess about what I may be missing out on if I don’t check into Instagram every five minutes. So, my baby step this week was to silence my alerts and bury my phone when not in use. I have proudly made it through six days so far.
Apparently, Dr. K didn’t take into account that I’m in the company of at least one acquaintance with a device at any given time during the school day. In this particular instance, I get the stereo version from the table of jocks behind me, who feel it’s necessary to share the details with added commentary in place of the emojis and GIFs.