Truth & Temptation

by Riley Edgewood

  Flushed is a definite. From my head to my toes and all the spaces in between. Aching, too, for more of Alec. His time. His mind. His tongue…

  I even say good morning to my grandparents when I walk into their house. Gramps' baggy eyes widen in shock. Gran stares at me like I'm something on the bottom of her shoe.

  Oh well. Don't care.

  I don't skip up the stairs, but it's close.

  I close my door and spin myself onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, grinning like a fucking idiot.

  Oh well. Don't care.

  My grandparents start to yell at each other below my room, so I put on my fancy headphones from Alec and dive back into my post-apocalyptic vampires. And then I download a book on persuasive reasoning so I can better help Alec with his investment proposal.

  I'm still so happy by the end of the weekend, I actually consider canceling my doctor's appointment. I don't, though. I've been through the cycle enough times to know that the darkness always finds its way through. The anger. The sadness. The…blah.

  But when I walk into my early Monday appointment—one I still can't quite believe I have, even being here—I feel like an imposter. It's like being sick—and knowing it'll return, but all the symptoms have disappeared right in time for a visit. What if the doctor doesn't believe me?

  Guess that's an answer in itself. She'll see how pissed I get if she doesn't believe me and immediately understand I need help. I bite back a snarky laugh. Who knew my anger could be a failsafe…

  A nurse brings me to a shabby yellow room and weighs me on an ancient scale and asks a few questions about my visit. I'm up front with her. "Don't tell me what the scale says. And I'm here because I have anger issues and I want pills to make them go away."

  She blinks, her pale blue eyes growing amused. "That's not exactly how it all works, but you're on the right track. Dr. Jones will talk to you about all of it."

  Dr. Jones turns out to be a chubby man with a sharp gaze. I thought the picture of Dr. Jones on the network's website showed a woman, but I'm sure I mixed it up. I'm tempted to ask to speak with a woman, but find it difficult to say the words. Which is weird, because usually I have no problem with this sort of thing.

  Instead, I stay silent and he begins the appointment, sitting on a stool with a thin laptop on his knees, asking me a series of questions. I answer, shortly but honestly, and eventually I slip into feeling a little more comfortable.

  Until he asks if I've ever had thoughts of self-harm or suicide.

  For some reason, it pisses me the hell off. "No. I have anger problems. I get sad sometimes. But that doesn't mean I'm suicidal."

  Compassion crosses his face. Maybe it's been there the entire time. Or maybe it's pity. I can't tell, and that pisses me off, too.

  "I'm sorry," he says. "I have to ask. And I also have to ask, if you ever do feel those things—will you promise to call 911 to get help first?"

  "Yes," I say. "But it's not going to happen. Growing up with my grandparents… If that was going to happen, it would've happened a long time ago."

  He opens his mouth, but I can tell by his expression he reconsiders what he's going to say at the last minute, and instead asks, "Do you ever have thoughts about harming other people?"

  God. Enough is enough. "Well, I wanted to stab my dinner date with a fork the other night."

  And he makes a fucking note on his little laptop.

  "Wait—I'm kidding. You get that, right? Sarcasm?"

  "I get it." He makes another note.

  "What are you typing?"

  "Tell me why you're here."

  "Tell me what you're typing."

  "Notes to make sure I don't leave out details that might be helpful with your treatment."

  It's almost physically painful not to roll my eyes. He knows why I'm here. I told them when I made the appointment. I told the nurse who brought me here. But all these annoying notes of his are making me feel like I'm skating on thin ice—and he mentioned a treatment, which is my entire reason for coming. So I go with blunt honesty. "I want a drug to help control my anger… And when I get sad. And the way my thoughts spin at night, keeping me up. Sometimes so much I get stomachaches."

  He considers me, thoughtfully. "Sounds like maybe you have some anxiety in the evenings?"

  I consider him, blandly. "No shit."

  "Anger and sadness are often symptoms of depression," he continues as though I haven't just acted like a total asshole, which makes me feel like an even bigger one.

  "Okay," I say, trying to keep my tone kinder. I wish it wasn't so hard. "But what can I take to make it all go away?"

  "There are several things you can try before we move on to a medicinal approach. Have you tried other methods?"

  "Mood journals? Free counseling?" I wait and when he nods again, I say, "I'm not an idiot. I looked up every possible method available to me without health insurance years ago. I tried journaling—but my handwriting pisses me off. I tried books—but reading's a huge part of what started all of this in the first place. Everything blurs together. Instant anger trigger, believe me. I started going to church for free counseling. Didn't help—they tried to bring religion and prayer into helping me make myself feel better. Not against those things, sometimes I halfway believe in God myself, but they didn't do it for me. I can go on and on here, but I promise—if you name it, I've tried it."

  Even right now, having to list these things, having to prove to him that I need something stronger, is making me clench my teeth. I have health insurance now. I want a fucking pill that makes me happy.

  He makes another note.

  My annoyance roars.

  But finally, finally, he says what I've been waiting to hear. "There are medications that can help stabilize moods, but—"

  "No buts. I want to try."

  "But," he says with a small smile. "There's no one stop fix-all solution."

  "I get it." I lift a shoulder, not to imply that I don't care, but that I know there isn't anything I can do about what he's said. "But anything will help at this point."

  "Okay," he says. "I'll recommend a starting dose of fifty milligrams of Zoloft. It's an antidepressant that helps with anxiety too, which may help you fall asleep easier in the evenings. We can see how you do on that, and go from there."

  I've waited so long for this moment it actually takes a few seconds for his words to sink in. And when they do, relief is instant; it punches me right in the tear ducts. I blink away the wetness. "Thank you."

  "Don't expect immediate changes," he warns. "And start with half a pill for the first week or so, to give your system time to get used to the drug."

  I nod, but think yeah fucking right. I'm tempted to take an entire bottle at once.

  Then, though, I nod a second time, really agreeing. I want to get better. I should follow his directions.

  "The Zoloft will help with many of your symptoms, but I also suggest a mild over-the-counter sleep aid for at least the first few weeks because before the medication begins to help, it can enhance a few of those feelings," he continues. "I also recommend that you set up an appointment with our onsite psychologist, Dr. Reyes."

  "Psychologist?" My emotions, previously so happy and forward-moving, rebel, scattering in all directions. "Is this because of the fork-stabbing comment? Because I swear I was joking."

  "No." He shakes his head. "It's because an antidepressant will help with much of what you describe, but combining it with therapy will make a world of difference."

  "Can't I try the pills first?" I've wanted medication for so long—I thought a primary care physician would be all I needed.

  "You took the first step in coming here," he says. "You want to feel better, to get better, right?"

  I study a painting on the wall, a sailboat, while contemplating his words. "But a shrink? I'm not good at talking about things."

  "You've done fine with me."

  I wonder if he'd change his answer if he'd been able to hear my thoughts. "You're a doctor
and can't judge me."

  "Dr. Reyes is trained to listen even better than I am."

  Fuck. He has a point. And maybe pills plus talking will help me figure out how to break out of my own mind sooner.

  Because, really, the quicker the fucking better.

  Even these thoughts are pissing me off.

  Which…just…why?

  Knowing my feelings are ridiculous makes me furious, which makes my feelings even more ridiculous which… Spiral, spiral, spiral. This shit has to stop.

  "Fine," I say. "I'll set up an appointment."

  "I can do it on my computer."

  "Making sure I don't back out?"

  "Making sure it's as easy as possible for you to do this," he counters, tapping away. "She had a cancellation, so she has an opening in half an hour. Can you stay to see her?"

  I have the first half of the day off. He doesn't know that. I could say no and walk out with my prescription. But…as tempting as that is, I should probably give this a try. I blow air out through my lips loudly, probably rudely, before I respond. "Fine."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  "TELL ME WHY you're here."

  Oh my fucking God. If one more person asks me this… "Because you had an opening."

  Dr. Reyes looks at me from her faded leather armchair, her expression annoyingly patient.

  I lean on the ratty couch she directed me to sit on. "Because I'm starting antidepressants, and Dr. Jones thought talking to you could help in conjunction with that." This is so uncomfortable. Three times today I've had to say what I want. I've had to share that I have issues and I want to fix them and it makes me feel so fucking weak I want to scream.

  "You feel angry a lot, sad sometimes, and anxious when you try to fall asleep." She doesn't make me repeat myself again, and I start to unwind. "You've tried non-medicinal methods in the past and have been unsatisfied with their results."

  "Tell me something I don't know." I crack a smile. She smiles wider. I start to like her.

  "How about you tell me when these things started to happen? Were they all together, or one at a time?"

  This gives me pause as I try to remember. "The anger first, I think? It was forever ago—before high school even… Maybe in elementary school. I was kicked off my soccer team in middle school for my temper. And again in high school." I sigh. "Feels like I was born pissed off, to be honest. Which might be the case, considering my mother barely stuck around long enough to give birth to me. And ignored every attempt I made to contact her when I found out who she was a few years back." Which is so much more than I meant to say.

  She waits for me to go on, and when I don't, she asks, "You were raised by your grandparents?"

  Deep breath. "Yep. And they suck. And I'd rather not talk about them."

  This time, she doesn't respond when I wait, so I grudgingly add, "Right now, anyway."

  She continues to wait, but I can play this game, too. Finally, she says, "Dr. Jones left a note that sometimes when you read, things blur together—and this can be a trigger for your anger?"

  "Can be? Try always. And mostly anger. Sometimes attempting to read only a paragraph makes me feel like giving up on everything. Which I know is lame. Which makes me pissed off—or, sometimes, sad… Like, blah. Can't get out of bed. Because I'm too old to still have trouble reading. I mean, I don't have bad eyes or anything. I don't get it."

  She asks me a bunch of questions about my reading difficulties—and other things I've always struggled with. I'm halfway furious having to think about it all, and halfway relieved to get it off my chest to someone I won't worry about looking dumb to.

  "Imagine," I say. "Just imagine being forced to read the same book every day, but the book's written in… I don't know, Ancient Greek or something. But you don't get it. And nobody explains it in a way that makes it readable, the letters are all squiggly and impossible to capture—yet somehow everyone else is moving on to the next level of Ancient Greek and you're not and your teachers are getting irritated and your grandparents don't care at all. So you know what happens? You get passed up. To the next level. Where you're someone else's problem. Where you're even more confused.

  "Even teachers who tried to be positive were all you can do it, you can do it. But no. I really couldn't. So I stopped trying. Because I kept passing. It didn't make a difference. And maybe I wanted someone to pick up on it. Maybe I was dying for someone to notice. But that was back then. Now? Now I'm fine. I can read at a functional level. All I want is not to have to think about it anymore."

  At this point, I'm out of breath and out of steam. Dr. Reyes stands and pours me a cup of water from a pitcher on her desk.

  "Anyway," I say, embarrassment making my mouth even drier. It helps that Dr. Reyes doesn't allow any judgment to cross her face. "What does any of this have to do with Zoloft?"

  She sits back in her chair, her eyes still assessing me. "Were you ever tested for a learning disability, in high school or before?"

  I take a long swallow of water, my face suddenly numb. "Excuse me?"

  "The way you describe your difficulties reading, and with note taking, is indicative of a visual perceptive learning disability."

  Little trembles, a lot like fear, ripple under my skin. I place the glass on her desk. "In English please?"

  "The things you're mentioning, the way you answer my questions, leads me to believe you have a learning disability that affects how you understand information that you take in visually, and, often going hand-in-hand with a visual perceptive discrepancy, a touch of dysgraphia—which affects handwriting ability."

  "In dumber English?"

  She gives me a chastising look. "You have difficulty processing communication that you see. It's easier for you to hear things."

  This.

  This finally clicks in.

  I'm sure I should find this information upsetting. I'm sure it means I'm dumb…but, amazingly, the corners of my mouth refuse to stay down. Those trembles weren't fear. They're excitement. "That would explain a lot."

  "I can schedule a formal assessment for you; however, I'm not sure you'd find it extremely beneficial. At this point, there's not a lot the paperwork will do for you—and it can be costly. If you'd like to delve in further we can certainly discuss it."

  I shake my head, still smiling. "Just knowing what you think, just understanding there's a reason for the problems I've had…" I trail off before I can say that it's enough, because my throat is tightening and my nose is stinging and my eyes are growing wet. "It's enough."

  So many memories swirl through my mind. Frustrated teachers. Books unread; tests failed. Handwritten English assignments with more big fat red Fs across the top because they were unreadable. For years, I tried to convince my teachers I wasn't lazy like they all said. Eventually, I stopped bothering. Let them believe whatever they'd like. I stopped caring…

  "You must think I'm weird to be smiling," I continue. "And I'm sure later I'll be doing the opposite, when it sinks in that I'm dumb. But knowing there's something legitimately—medically—wrong with me? It's…freeing."

  "A learning disability doesn't mean you're dumb, Teagan," she says. "I have no doubt you're a capable, intelligent young woman—especially given how you're reacting. All this means is that you process things differently. That you might need different avenues to help you when you need to read something, or write something."

  "Like audiobooks?" I ask, thinking of listening to Dracula on Friday night, of The Passage, of the other books I've listened to ever since Alec set me up with the app for my phone.

  "Exactly."

  But… "That won't help me at work, though. And, as much as I love listening to stories—I need my job. I want to succeed." Wow. Saying it makes me understand how true it is. I want to succeed. I want to be Denise. Or higher.

  "There are tools that will help, though. There are text-to-speech readers available. Or, if you don't have access—increasing font size, say in your email folders, may help. Perhaps you can request
a laptop to take notes on at meetings, as your handwriting troubles you."

  Imagining it all is…thrilling, to be honest. "Oh God, that would help me so much."

  "Because you're an adult, Teagan, for much of this you'll have to be your own biggest advocate. Do you feel comfortable asking your boss, or the HR department, for some of these aids?"

  Alec's face flashes through my mind. He's already helped me so much without realizing it. "Yeah, I do."

  She nods. "Good. I'll give you a printout before you go, listing some of the available options to consider."

  "Does this mean I'm not actually depressed?" I ask. "That I'm just dumb?" I smile wider, so she'll know I'm joking (mostly).

  "Not dumb," she repeats, anyway. "But much of what you describe sounds, on the top, like clinical depression. We can delve a little deeper for the rest of the hour. There is frequently a link between the two, learning disabilities and depression. Does depression run in your family?"

  The urge to smile is gone. "I don't know my parents, and my grandparents would never admit something like that." And this time, I find myself telling her everything. Never knowing my father. A mother who claims I don't exist and who's returned, unopened, every letter I've ever sent. The words tumble like drunk gymnasts from my mouth, and I let them.

  So we talk.

  And we talk.

  And we talk.

  I'm more candid, more open with Dr. Reyes than I've ever been with anyone.

  We talk about what it means to be realistic and to stay honest with myself. I tell her I'm always honest with myself, not mentioning my mirror reality chats. She says that's good, that I've been helping myself—but when I'm feeling down, I need to be careful not to be too hard on myself.

  "Depression can make people see themselves through a distorted lens," she says.

  I laugh, a little bitter. "Trust me, I'm way harder on most other people than I am myself. That's a huge part of the reason I'm here. To be nice."