My Psychiatrist and I

The doctor's personality is as plain as her office. I mean, beige walls and brown carpet–are the insane not allowed colors? I bite my tongue to prevent myself from saying as such.

Instead, I offer a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. A grimace more than anything. Her smile is too bright, plastered on like a doll from a store. She reaches out a frail hand, wrinkled and cold against my picked and unhealed skin. A habit I have not yet gotten rid of. Though I'm sure it has not gone unnoticed in the eyes of the professional across from me. The chair is merciless against my back, the wood digging in like a cruel reminder of why I'm here in the first place.

"Alrighty, let's get started, shall we?" I don't respond. The silence is thick and suffocating, and I wish the boring carpet would sweep me up whole. It doesn't, because the world is cruel like that. Reluctantly, I nod my head, giving some sort of an answer to get the staring to stop. To get the eyes off me. I regret it immediately at the sound of the keys on her laptop being pressed. What could I have possibly done already for her to write down? Heavens know my existence is enough to write a ten-page paper about. But I mean, it was just a nod.

The typing doesn't stop for another minute. "Not much of a talker, hm?" She jokes, sending a wink my way. I avert my gaze to her desk. Photographs of young adults are displayed, smiling in each other's embraces. Two young men, looking similar to the woman before me, catch my eye. "Those are my sons! The photo was taken a few years back at Thanksgiving." Her voice is filled with fondness and pride, which my parents never had when discussing me. I brush the thought off.

"Cool." My voice wavers as I speak for the first time this session. It's quiet and unconfident, showing how much I don't want to be here. She begins typing again. I hold myself back from screaming.

When she finally stops again, she pats her hands on her thighs before turning in her seat to face me fully. The printer below the desk starts going off, printing who knows what. "Your last therapist sent their report for you. We could go over that as a start if you're willing." When the printer stops, she takes out two copies of the notes, one for her and the other for me.

I hesitantly read the one-page report.

Patient Name: Luisa Montelbano

Patient DOB: 3/12/2004

Diagnosis: Clinical Depression

Notes: Does not talk often unless prompted multiple times. Refusal to take medications prescribed.

“Sound familiar?” I meet her gaze with a shrug of my shoulders. Who cares if it was? That seemed to be the answer she was expecting. Leaning in, she points to the diagnosis on the page, keeping eye contact as she does so. “You know you don’t have to be ashamed of yourself.”

A surge of energy bursts through my veins, fiery and burning, the smoke begging to be released. I snap back before I can stop myself. “Who said I’m ashamed?” A shitty defense back, I’ll admit. “Maybe I just don’t want to hear about it every five seconds. Ever thought about that?”

Whatever reaction I was expecting was not the grin I got in response. “There’s that fire I was looking for. I knew you had it in you.” I roll my eyes and get up, stopping short of the door.

“I’ll see you at our next session!” She calls out, seemingly okay with the abrupt ending to our meeting.

“Whatever,” I respond, leaving without looking back. I wonder if this is what she planned all along.

* * *

The office is still as dull as ever, the next time our session rolls around. It’s been a week, a long one at that. It feels more like an eternity by the time I sit down in the same uncomfortable chair again. My bones ache, my head pounds, and my eyes threaten to close every second, and yet Doctor Alctaz looks delighted to see me back.

“Good to see you again, Luisa.” I wish I could say the same. She continues when I don’t say anything. “I was thinking that for today, we could go over the medication your old therapist recommended you take. How does that sound?” Her eyes study me carefully as if I’m an art exhibit that needs figuring out. She looks at me pointedly as if she knows how much it makes my skin crawl–as if she’s itching to get a reaction out of me.

“Sure,” I say, mindlessly running my thumb over the recently bitten fingernails. Another habit I have yet to get rid of. The nearby printer gives a screech of life, yelling on my behalf in the once again silent room.

The paper I’m handed is freshly warm, light as a feather, and yet heavy in my hands. I’ve read these side effects a thousand times–they’re not why I refuse to take them. The truth is much simpler, one that I know deep down, Dr. Alcatraz is aware of. One that she is actively trying to push out, to get me to admit.

My hands begin to shake, my eyes blur, and the words blend together before me. “Are you trying to make me feel insane?” I ask.

She leans forward in her chair, captivated in this moment. “Is that what you feel? Insane?” She knows the answer. I know it too.

The words are thick on my tongue. “Yes.”

“You should not feel insane for having a mental illness, my dear.”

I internally groan. “Well, I do.”

I feel the paper getting taken out of my hands and a cold palm replacing it. “These meds will make you feel better. It will make you accept yourself. What’s the worst in trying?”

What's the worst in trying? The question of the ages. “I’m not sure.” Her hand squeezes mine again.

“Should I put in a prescription, hmm?”

I haven’t answered for a long time. And when I do, it’s quiet. “Yes, please.”

Maybe I’ll feel something else for once.