dial. “About?”
“Well, school starts in a few days and I have scheduled an appointment for you to see a doctor.”
“What kind of doctor?” It is rhetorical; I know where this dialogue is leading; her warnings were clear in the car. But for some reason, I cling to the hope that the last few good days, being in a new home in a new city, she might change her mind.
Mom looks at me like I just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “You know what kind of doctor,” she says softly then continues. “Her name is Dr. Felicia Larson. She is a psychiatrist who specializes in adolescent mental disorders.”
“So, she is a shrink.” My aim, to fluster Mom in return for her coming up here and dropping this bomb in the middle of my room.
Mom rises from the bed and crosses her arms over her chest. “She is a psychiatrist and she will have answers for us about your state of mind, Evan. There is no need to get defensive.”
Here we go again! I set my camera on my desk, expecting a lecture.
“You were there when I told Doctor Middleton I wanted an objective opinion from someone specializing in mental illness.” She pauses, waiting for me to give some type of acknowledgement that I understand what she is saying, but I am bitter and resentful and I give her nothing.
“Evan, we need to establish you with a doctor here. What if Dr. Larson suggests a medication change?”
“What if she says I don’t need medication?” I retort.
“We need to speak to someone that is familiar with your condition,” Mom says firmly.
That word, “condition” sets me off. “Damn it! Again with the condition thing! IT has a name. IT is depression and some probable bipolar shit that I am not buying!”
I think of Gavin standing out there minutes ago, raging over something that could be as mundane as what I am spiraling over now. Was it something that small? Am I just like Gavin?
“EVAN! ENOUGH!” Mom hisses at me, sharply.
Dad knock my door and peeks in. Mom and I clam up.
“Hey you two. Everything okay?” Dad says with a tone of concern.
I look to Mom, aiming to put her on the spot, before I whirl around in my chair to face the desk.
Dad claps his hands to try and clear the air. “Okay, can my two ladies break away for a movie and popcorn? Picked out a classic.”
Dad is holding Ferris Bueller’s Day Off; a movie that I have seen about thirty times. The go-to movie for good humor. Mom is looking at Dad smiling. She knows he has picked a good one.
“How about it, Ev?” Mom says.
I really just want to stay up here, but I figure doing that will only make Mom and Dad more confident that my moodiness is in dire need of a specialist.
“All right, “I smile weakly. With a loud sigh I release the last remnants of irrational anger.
Dad pats the door frame with his hand. “Okay, I will go pop the popcorn.”
Once Dad disappears from the doorway, Mom turns to me, her arms folded over her chest. “I didn’t mean to upset you Evan,” she says in a guilty voice.
Frustrated that she is apologizing, I quickly respond with empty words. “It’s fine. Just wasn’t expecting it.”
I look away from her pitiful gaze to make it known that I am done talking. A shuffle of her feet on carpet and she leaves the room. The claustrophobic walls of my room expand again.
The anxiety isn’t improving; the spiraling is still there. I am not getting better. The medicine isn’t working. It’s not working because I don’t have bipolar. This is just me.
Hot tears spring from the corners of my eyes and I wipe them away with the sleeve of my t-shirt and try to pull myself together before going down stairs to watch the movie with my parents. They laugh out loud at all the funny parts. I don’t. I want to; I just can’t get it to come to the surface.
It’s the medication. It’s making me numb. It’s supposed to make me feel better and all I feel is nothing. Everything is just out of my grasp - emotional nothingness.
We
“Well, school starts in a few days and I have scheduled an appointment for you to see a doctor.”
“What kind of doctor?” It is rhetorical; I know where this dialogue is leading; her warnings were clear in the car. But for some reason, I cling to the hope that the last few good days, being in a new home in a new city, she might change her mind.
Mom looks at me like I just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “You know what kind of doctor,” she says softly then continues. “Her name is Dr. Felicia Larson. She is a psychiatrist who specializes in adolescent mental disorders.”
“So, she is a shrink.” My aim, to fluster Mom in return for her coming up here and dropping this bomb in the middle of my room.
Mom rises from the bed and crosses her arms over her chest. “She is a psychiatrist and she will have answers for us about your state of mind, Evan. There is no need to get defensive.”
Here we go again! I set my camera on my desk, expecting a lecture.
“You were there when I told Doctor Middleton I wanted an objective opinion from someone specializing in mental illness.” She pauses, waiting for me to give some type of acknowledgement that I understand what she is saying, but I am bitter and resentful and I give her nothing.
“Evan, we need to establish you with a doctor here. What if Dr. Larson suggests a medication change?”
“What if she says I don’t need medication?” I retort.
“We need to speak to someone that is familiar with your condition,” Mom says firmly.
That word, “condition” sets me off. “Damn it! Again with the condition thing! IT has a name. IT is depression and some probable bipolar shit that I am not buying!”
I think of Gavin standing out there minutes ago, raging over something that could be as mundane as what I am spiraling over now. Was it something that small? Am I just like Gavin?
“EVAN! ENOUGH!” Mom hisses at me, sharply.
Dad knock my door and peeks in. Mom and I clam up.
“Hey you two. Everything okay?” Dad says with a tone of concern.
I look to Mom, aiming to put her on the spot, before I whirl around in my chair to face the desk.
Dad claps his hands to try and clear the air. “Okay, can my two ladies break away for a movie and popcorn? Picked out a classic.”
Dad is holding Ferris Bueller’s Day Off; a movie that I have seen about thirty times. The go-to movie for good humor. Mom is looking at Dad smiling. She knows he has picked a good one.
“How about it, Ev?” Mom says.
I really just want to stay up here, but I figure doing that will only make Mom and Dad more confident that my moodiness is in dire need of a specialist.
“All right, “I smile weakly. With a loud sigh I release the last remnants of irrational anger.
Dad pats the door frame with his hand. “Okay, I will go pop the popcorn.”
Once Dad disappears from the doorway, Mom turns to me, her arms folded over her chest. “I didn’t mean to upset you Evan,” she says in a guilty voice.
Frustrated that she is apologizing, I quickly respond with empty words. “It’s fine. Just wasn’t expecting it.”
I look away from her pitiful gaze to make it known that I am done talking. A shuffle of her feet on carpet and she leaves the room. The claustrophobic walls of my room expand again.
The anxiety isn’t improving; the spiraling is still there. I am not getting better. The medicine isn’t working. It’s not working because I don’t have bipolar. This is just me.
Hot tears spring from the corners of my eyes and I wipe them away with the sleeve of my t-shirt and try to pull myself together before going down stairs to watch the movie with my parents. They laugh out loud at all the funny parts. I don’t. I want to; I just can’t get it to come to the surface.
It’s the medication. It’s making me numb. It’s supposed to make me feel better and all I feel is nothing. Everything is just out of my grasp - emotional nothingness.
We
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