This was when I stepped in and told Dr. Middleton I was not psycho and he was full of shit. Irritability and irrational behavior... check.
I know, bad Evan. Shouldn’t have done that in Dr. Wannabe-Shrink’s office at the very moment of diagnosis.
Mom and Dad chastised me immediately on my lack of respect. Dr. Middleton completely overlooked my blowup, but did give my parents the ‘see, I told you so’ look and spoke directly and intentionally to them for the rest of the appointment.
He sat behind his chair, pulled out a prescription pad from his side drawer, and started writing as he continued to speak. “Cybalith S is a mood stabilizer; also known as Lithium.”
Lithium? He was putting me on a medication made of a soft metal found on the Periodic Table? A lump of fear in the pit of my stomach migrated quickly to my throat and my mouth went dry in a matter of seconds. He was about to continue when my mom interrupted him, “Dr., I mean no disrespect, but I think we would like a referral to a psychiatrist at this point.”
Mom was good with words and I was thankful she was on my side regarding the dose of metal I was being prescribed.
Dr. Middleton looked to Dad immediately with expectations of him to show some kind of manly and domineering over-ride of Mom’s questioning his professional authority, but Dad didn’t. Dr. Middleton nodded and abruptly said, “I understand. A psychiatrist specializing in adolescents should take over from here, but getting an appointment might take a few weeks. There aren’t many adolescent psychiatrists in our area and they book up quickly.”
Mom and Dad looked at each other with concern then back at the doctor. Dad asked, “What if she has another one of these spells?”
With my dad’s sign of concern, Dr. Middleton ripped the top prescription sheet from the pad, tore it up, and began writing on a new sheet as he spoke. “I suggest a low dose of antidepressant and a mild tranquilizer for the first plan of action. Zoloft, the antidepressant will help level her depression and mood.” He ripped one script from his pad and began another. “Xanax will help with the insomnia and in turn help with any manic type episodes Evan might experience between now and you getting in to see the specialist.”
Mom chimed in, “I’m familiar with both.”
She was? The doctor said he had some samples of the Zoloft and he left the room briefly. Mom and Dad sat quietly, gazing at each other, obviously wondering where they went wrong with me. I simply zoned out, I wasn’t a part of this decision any more. All he was doing was throwing medication down my throat. Medication I might not even need and my parents were on board with or without me because they were afraid. Afraid for me and of me.
After we left the office... correction, after I stormed from the office without a word to the doctor or my parents, I ranted and raved in the car with shameless slurs and maniacal ideations.
Mom got a few words in edgewise though. “We are calling a specialist, but until then we need to do what is best for your health. He isn’t just drugging you, Evan.”
Dr. Middleton suggested a few days to watch how I reacted to the antidepressant. I wound up staying home for a week. I took one Zoloft in the morning and one Xanax every night before bed, under Mom’s watchful eye, to help with sleep. The Xanax actually helped with the insomnia for a while. The side effect was it made me feel dopey, sleepy, and limp which helped me relax enough to sleep. I thought that was a sucky way to have to go to sleep every night. I hadn’t felt any of the Zoloft’s side effects yet, so I thought I was in the clear or it wasn’t working on me. Mom watched me like a hawk, asking me endlessly, “How are you feeling?”, “Do you feel anything?”, and “What are you feeling?”
Low and behold, the third day, mid-morning, the side effects of the Zoloft kicked in. The tremors, the racing heart, the anxiety, dry mouth, and more hit me mid-morning. Mom called Dr. Middleton’s nurse and she told her to give me Xanax to help with the side effects.
“What? That is going to put me to sleep Mom! I can’t function like this! I won’t be able to function at school on this stuff!”
Mom shook her head, “The nurse said to cut the dose in half to curb the side effects. You only need to take it until the side effects taper off.”
I started pacing around the kitchen, unable to stand still and wanting to crawl out of my skin. I felt alien to what was happening to this body I no longer recognized as my own. “No, I’m not taking it. This isn’t working! Look at me! It is making me worse!”
I was crying hysterically by this point and Mom was trying to hold it together. Her voice shook. “Listen to me Evan.”
She grabbed hold of my shoulders and held me still. “Baby, the nurse said it is the side effects of the medicine getting into your system. In a few days your body will stabilize with the medication but now, we need to keep them under control. Do you understand what I am saying to you? You have to take this.”
She held the broken pill in front of me in her palm and a glass of water in the other. I put it in my mouth and washed it down with water before bursting into tears. Mom held me to her as I cried. She walked me to the sofa and sat with me until the shaking subsided. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
I spent the next three days taking Xanax, every four hours, to curb the tremors and the desire to jump out of my skin. Every time I tried to think about something, it would slip through my mind, like my thoughts were detaching. I was clumsy, dropping everything I tried to put my hands around. I felt like puking constantly and food wasn’t appealing. Mom and Dad made me eat something small at each meal. Between the two of them, they must have called Dr. Middleton’s nurse fifty times asking when the side effects would ease up. Sunday was day six post Xanax and Zoloft cocktail. I woke up that morning not feeling the coolness on my skin that happens before the anxiety creeps in for the first time since the cursed day three. I was able to hold down soup and crackers that morning and at night I actually ate a full meal. I had broken out of my personal hell on earth and I was starting to feel like myself again. That night, I didn’t need the Xanax to fall asleep. Mom and Dad agreed to shelf the Xanax for any future manic episodes, as instructed by the nurse, but as far as I was concerned, I didn’t intend to take the damn Xanax for my manic ‘spells’, BECAUSE I WASN’T BIPOLAR OR MANIC.
Barking this argument at Mom and Dad was pointless, like beating my head against a brick wall. “The doctor said,” or “the nurse said”, was the mantra in our house from that moment on; it still is.
The week I was out of school, mom conferenced with my principal, counselor, and teachers via phone and email. She told them I had been very stressed and needed to decompress; doctor’s orders. The counselor and my teachers agreed, I would be allowed time to make up all the work when I returned to school. It was a relief. I did care about my education and didn’t want to screw up advancing to the next grade due to this ‘need for decompression’.
Feeling better than I had in days, I chose to work on the assignments I had missed so I wouldn’t have so much catch up work. I was able to get a lot of it done, but I still had a few more assignments to complete.
Monday morning, as I walked through the main hall and into the attendance office, it was evident the confidentiality of my absence was breached. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. I mean, everyone knew everyone else’s business in our community and if they didn’t, they found out from someone who did; bottom line, people talk and somebody talked about my decompression and stress.
When I walked into first period Algebra, my classmates’ whispers and my teacher’s dodgy eyes were more than obvious. My teacher carefully chose her words as she welcomed me back. It was evident they had their own perception of why I had gone missing for a week. I would bet money their thoughts weren’t as simple as stress. Murmurs of mental case, psycho, and freak from under my peers’ breaths were accompanied by giggles and snickering that carried on throughout the day. Did they really think I couldn’t hear them? OF COURSE NOT! They knew and it made them feel powerful, in contro
l, like an alpha in a pack of wolves.
The first week back, before school and during lunch hour I sat in Ms. Stewart’s office, working on the rest of my assignments. The work wasn’t all from her class, but she was the only teacher I felt comfortable with after returning with my diagnosis.
During my time with her, I worked up enough confidence to apologize for screwing up the interviews and the piece for the paper. She accepted it with very little discussion, but I could see her curiosity stirring. She wanted to ask what happened to me, why I acted the way I did. She never asked though. My mom had already talked to her so she must have known everything. But, telling her face to face was me admitting my failure and I wasn’t strong enough to do that; not with Ms. Stewart.
Each morning, I worked on my assignments as she sat at her desk grading papers. One day, I imagined her telling me I was so much stronger and braver than I gave myself credit for and everything would get better for me. That was the last day I worked in her classroom. She was the first and only connection I made in all my years of school and in a weird way, I thought distancing myself would keep our connection frozen in time and unscathed by my flaws. I would be strong and brave Evan in her mind; not broken.
That night Dad got home and announced the opportunity his firm gave him in Braxton Springs. I begged to finish out the last few weeks of school from home, not wanting to step foot in the halls of my school one more day. Surprisingly, everyone agreed to it; especially Mom and Dad. I completed my assignments from home. Mom delivered them to my counselor, who distributed them to my teachers. Thus I was no longer a strain on my high school’s fragile society, who let me disappear in peace. Mom and Dad let the search for a specialist on my ‘condition’ fall by the wayside and said they would look into a specialist once we settled in Texas.
I spent the last week of school in the counselor’s conference room, taking my final exams. In passing conversation at dinner one night, mom said Ms. Stewart had a hand in making the decision for me to work from home happen. Flaws and all, she was on my side until the very end.
I GRAB THE WHITE PLASTIC trash bag off the floor and toss in the excess packing paper along with my three year books from Paramount High School.
August 2014
Journal Entry #1
Not sure if this is how I do it, but here it goes. Dr. Elliot thought I should try journaling. He said to just talk about my day, something good that happened, or even as simple as a quote from a favorite book. He called it something social, but not social.
He asked me to do this when I started seeing him, after what happened at school in April. I saw him two weeks ago and he said even though he wasn’t going to be seeing me weekly any more, he wanted me to keep a journal to help with self-counseling. I didn’t know that even existed until he told me. Mom said I had to stop seeing him because the insurance wasn’t covering it anymore. I have ignored his suggestion, until now... obviously.
This is harder than I expected. Okay, I’m doing my journal on my 17.3” HP Pavilion Laptop. It has an Intel Core i3 and 4GB of memory and a 750GB hard drive. Brody bought it for me last Christmas. Mom got me some gaming software to download to it also. Starship 1 and Starship 2. Both are pretty cool.
Next door neighbors moved in at 12:32pm Central Standard Time today. A father, mother, and daughter. Daughter’s age is unknown.
Her name is Evan.
I was reciting Hamlet and I got stuck when she approached me. “Stuck” is when I have this strange thing happen; it’s a seizure. My mind just freezes up. Anyway, I was standing in her driveway, but I felt like she was intruding on my space at the time. She asked me what I was reciting. She actually knew what I was doing. I didn’t feel like speaking to her though. Didn’t trust her. I mean, I don’t even know her.
Then, she did the worst thing she could have ever done; she touched me. The touch was warm and sticky, and a feeling of a heavy, oily residue remained long after her hand left me. Brody came up to us and all I remember is running home. I shouldn’t have ran. It was stupid. I hate that I feel it this way.
Next time I see her, I have to remember to ask her how old she is and if she has read Hamlet. Maybe tell her I’m sorry for running. Time for dinner.
-G.F
“HEY EVAN.” MOM KNOCKS SOFTLY and calls through my closed door.
“Yeah.”
“You awake?” she asks, rhetorically.
I lift the full plastic trash bag off my bed and carry it over to the corner of my room where I have broken down all the unpacked boxes.
“Can I come in?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
Mom opens the door slowly and looks around. “Wow, you have been busy in here. Burst of energy, huh?”
She leans against the door smiling and a wave of guilt for spiraling earlier hits me again. I pretend to busy myself by shifting the boxes from one wall in my room to the other. “Sorry about earlier,” I mutter.
Mom tilts her head to rest on the door and waves her hand, lazily. “It’s all right. Today was a stressful day for us.”
My mood lightens a little.
“We saved you some food,” she says.
Food? I just ate lunch. I look out my window and see it is dark. “What time is it?” I ask.
There is glow shining behind the blinds of the next door neighbor’s window. For a millisecond I wonder who occupies it, Gavin or Brody. I secretly hope it is Brody.
“It is nine thirty,” says Mom. “We had Mexican food. Enchiladas, quesadillas, charro beans. I called for you about an hour ago, but I guess you had your music on.”
I take the earbuds from around my neck and unplug from my iPhone, placing it on my bureau. “It helps me work.”
Smiling excitedly now, mom says, “Take a break honey. I made you a plate. Come down and have a bite.”
I’m not hungry, but I don’t want to get into an argument. “Can I bring it up?” I open my hands to show evidence of the state of my room. “I would like to work a little more on this.”
“Looks like we may have to get you a desk and chair in here. You have so much room now,” she comments as I pick up my camera from the bureau.
Noticing it in my hand, she steps into the room and toward me. I figure she is going to say something about her memories of using the camera and how it has taken so many pictures, but she doesn’t. She places her hands on top of mine and asks, “You tired?”
She asks every night without fail; she worries too much.
I move around her, toward the door to head down stairs. “No,” I reply
She follows behind me and says, “I’ll get you something to help you sleep after you have eaten.”
The insomnia is back with vengeance. It doesn’t bother me too much. I sleep every night, but sometimes as little as two hours and never more than six. Plus, I don’t want to become dependent on a pill to make me sleep when I was doing fine. “No, it’s all right. I’m good.”
“You need to sleep Evan. You tossed and turned all night last night in the hotel.”
I thought I had disguised my sleeplessness by laying there awake quietly and as still as humanly possible, but I guess she was up listening.
“Sleeping in a new place is hard for everyone,” she continues with her efforts to convince me to take the Xanax.
I don’t respond as I walk into the kitchen. Dad is sitting at the table with random stacks of unpacked boxes around him, eating a bowl of ice cream. He looks up and asks me, “Been busy?”
The remnants of take-out Tex-Mex is evident; foil wrapped flour tortillas, Styrofoam bowl of beef fajitas, a side of rice and beans, chips and salsa, and a small bowl of guacamole. My stomach rumbles, contradicting my thoughts of not being hungry. It smells delicious and I quickly make up a taco with a side of rice and beans. “Yeah all the boxes are unpacked,” I respond.
“We need to get her a desk, Aaron. She has so much room in there,” Mom says as she transfers a stack of plates from a box into the cabinet.
“We can pick o
ne out tomorrow. A good break from unpacking,” comments Dad between bites. “What do you say, Evan?”
I want one, but I really don’t feel like looking for a desk. I chew quickly and swallow a bite of my taco and shift on my feet before I answer, “You guys go. I will like whatever you pick out.”
They eye each other with a cautious look. That look means they aren’t comfortable leaving me alone. I look from Dad to Mom. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m an invalid.”
Dad wads up his napkin, wipes his mouth, and sits back in his chair as he says, “We know you aren’t an invalid, Evan.”
I take another bite of my taco and drop my gaze to my plate as mom chimes in, “Evan, it isn’t that we don’t think you can handle staying here alone.” She stumbles a bit over her words, solidifying the onslaught of a lie in progress. “It is a new place, a new home. What if...”
Annoyed by her tiptoeing around the fact that they don’t trust me by myself, I snap at her. “What if I what? What if I lose it, have a breakdown while you are gone?”
Dad warns, “She didn’t say that, Evan.”
I grimace as I turn, open the refrigerator door, and grab a bottle of water. “Whatever. She didn’t have to,” I mumble.
I close the door to the refrigerator, pick up my plate with only the remaining edges of the tortilla left, and toss it into the waste basket. I look from Dad to Mom as they stare at me silently, waiting for my next move, my next psychotic spiral.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, which surprises to both of them.
Mom reaches into her purse and pulls out a brown transparent medicine bottle. “Take something to help you sleep, will you?”
I shake my head. “I told you that I’m tired. I don’t need them.”
Without waiting for an argument to start over the damn medication, I quickly mumble “Good night,” to them and take the stairs two at a time before disappearing into my room.
Dismantling Evan Page 5