“But it’s not okay. You always say that, but it’s not. The world is completely fucked. We’re going to war, again, and we’re killing the planet, and I can’t even walk down the hall at school without some little fucking Christian hypocrite trying to crucify me.” I looked up for a moment, and seeing how anguished they looked reminded me of why I don’t talk about this stuff. But I went on.
“Sometimes … I can’t turn this stuff off,” I said. “Right now, somebody is killing one of the last clouded leopards, just so he can sell somebody else a dried leopard penis. And that person will buy it. He’ll buy the very last one, and by the time I have children, there won’t be any leopards left. And no mountain gorillas. No elephants.”
Now that I was talking, I couldn’t stop. “You didn’t know, but when we went to see that stupid Wild Thornberries movie, and I saw those forest elephants, those cartoon elephants, I sat there and cried.”
“You did?”
“And it was just a cartoon. And I feel so useless—and don’t start telling me how wonderful I am.” Here was the thing: I felt at once that I was right to cry for the forest elephants and that I was being pathetic. Not just because they were cartoon elephants, though that heightened my sense of silliness, but also because I feel I should be stronger, that I’m just oversensitive. And while I didn’t want to be coddled, to be told that I was good and the world was bad, I did want some kind of reassurance. And I hated myself, once again, for needing it.
“We all feel useless sometimes,” said Mom.
“Frequently,” said Dad.
“So how do you go on?”
“You just do.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said Dad. “What’s the alternative? Not going on. You’ve been exploring that. And you must know that suicide is only one way not to go on. Plenty of people give up, but keep living. But you will never do that, and neither will we.”
“Why not?”
“We just won’t.”
“Love,” said Mom.
We sat for a moment, letting the word hang.
I couldn’t argue. I was thinking of DJ, of course, but she didn’t mean that. Not only that.
“On that note, should we eat?” said Dad.
“Yes.” I stood up.
“First, come here,” he said standing and opening his arms. I came to him, and he enfolded me, and Mom as well.
They helped me finish the dinner I had started—sautéed veggies and pasta with sauce from a jar. The windows were steamy from the big pot of water that had been boiling all this time, and the kitchen filled with a warm garlicky scent from the tortilla garlic toast that Dad always makes when we don’t have Italian bread. We ate there in the kitchen, not talking much, listening to the jazz show on the radio.
“Thanks for making dinner,” said Mom.
“My pleasure. Thanks for coming home. Are you going to get in trouble for missing tonight?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s what she has a union for,” said Dad, getting up and taking our plates to the sink. “The contract allows for one suicide scare per season. But we can’t do this again. And as much as I hate to, I think we’d better start round two.”
Mom wanted to know what I meant by being crucified in the halls at school. The conversation had been so open, I hated to gloss over that little bit.
“Well … ” The question was, how much to give them? The real story is that I happen to be weird. Always have been. But once I stepped completely out of line, people saw a reason to attack me—the mark was unmistakable. That it happened to be religion and politics was beside the point. But that’s what got this stuff going—it was the only tangible thing I had.
“Well, you know I haven’t said the Pledge of Allegiance since fourth grade. I don’t stand for the national anthem. I got kicked out of choir for refusing to sing ‘Proud to be an American.’ That stuff hasn’t exactly made me popular. But it’s okay now.”
“Define okay,” said Mom.
“Nobody’s bugging me anymore.”
“Good,” she said. “But you should have let us know what was going on.”
“And if that’s blown over … ” said Dad. “You’re sure it has?”
I nodded.
“What about your health?” asked Mom. “How’ve you been feeling? How have you been eating?”
“Fine,” I said. “Though I did have some massive headaches in Oregon.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Lately, yes.”
“For me,” she said, “part of the shock of this has been that it came up when we both have noticed you—I don’t know—blossoming? There’s the new style, the boyfriend, and what seems to be a new comfort in yourself. Is that fair to say?”
“I guess so.”
“And that’s why we’re inclined to believe you,” said Dad, “when you say you’re all right.”
“But I’m not going to leave it at that,” said Mom. “We’ve had a good talk, but I think you should see someone.”
I knew who “someone” was.
“You have friends, and us, to talk to. But it might be nice to have someone neutral, confidential.”
“My diary?”
“The diary is great,” she said, “but it’s you. If you’re depressed, then your diary will just tell you that you have every reason to be depressed.”
“Do you think it should be a doctor?” asked Dad. “Somebody with a prescription pad?”
“That’s a good idea.”
“No, Mom, Dad, come on. You want me to go on Zoloft? Just take a little happy pill and be like one of those bubble-people in the ads?”
“Nobody has prescribed anti-depressants,” said Mom. “Maybe you’re not depressed—I’m not a doctor.”
“And doctors don’t know everything. But I know that if you see a psychologist who thinks you’re clinically depressed, then you’ll have to see a psychiatrist as well. Might as well see one person” said Dad.
“Might as well see no one.”
“I think we might let you get away with not showing us your story right now, Cassie. Am I right?” He looked at Mom.
“For now,” Mom said.
“But you have to see someone,” Dad said.
“This is non-negotiable. You will see someone,” Mom said.
“Okay. Send me to the shrink,” I said.
“Good,” she said, “I’m glad you agree. Is it really eleven o’clock?”
“And time for bed. But Cassie, I know I also speak for your mother when I say this: the worst thing that could possibly happen to us would be to lose you. Or your brother.”
“It’s unthinkable.”
“You have to be careful with yourself. We love you too much.”
“Will you promise us that if it gets bad again, if you feel like you want to get out, you’ll tell us?”
“We have to know that,” he said. “We need your promise.”
“Even before—before it gets too bad to talk about—talk to us. Will you do that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Promise?”
“Okay, Mom. I promise. You don’t have to worry.”
Journal Nine
16 October
Hey, my diary. Should be exhausted today, but I’m feeling pretty up, though Mom irritated me by skipping her small group rehearsal to stay home and watch me until Dad gets home. She was waiting for me with a nice healthy snack, and when I objected to it all, she told me to think of it as being for her, to make her feel better—not because I really needed coddling.
DJ and I met in the caf this morning, but we didn’t get much work done. I told him about yesterday’s big drama. He thinks my parents are incredibly cool, and I think he is, because he didn’t give me
a hard time about the suicide issue, just accepted that it was part of the story.
I got a summons to go see the counselor, one of those slips that says NOW in huge letters. I told her that I didn’t need to talk to her, my parents were making an appointment for me. She acted interested in my story, but I won’t let her see it. Her door is always open, she said, which I was thrilled to hear.
At the Tolkien lunch, Griffin wanted to skip ahead to The Return of the King, to discuss Denethor.
This was obviously for my benefit. Denethor is a character who gives up hope and takes his son Faramir—who is afflicted with Black Breath, a kind of terminal despair—to the halls of the dead, and has them both placed on funeral pyres, doused with oil, and set on fire. Gandalf and Pippin save Faramir, but Denethor burns himself alive. Griffin wanted to be sure I knew that the enemy’s greatest weapon is despair, and that the heroes keep going even when hope is lost.
Afterwards, DJ and I made our way back up to the eighth-grade wing, holding hands, not talking. Halfway up the stairs, that same teacher who talked to me about my un-businesslike attire called down from where she was policing the stairwell, “No PDA, kids, you know the rule.”
Holding hands? Against the rules? And where was she when I was getting tripped and pushed and having my books knocked all over the floor? I should have held on even tighter to DJ’s hand and then kissed him right in front of her.
After school, Nathan, Jenny, and Matt were all at Matt’s locker, when Matt said, “How’s it going, Osama?” I ignored them, but when I was fiddling with my backpack, he slammed my locker shut. He and Nathan and Jenny laughed as they walked off.
“Small amusements, for small minds,” I said. “Have a nice day, Bible-Boy!”
“At least I don’t worship the Koran,” he called.
“Love you, too!”
At dinner, Mom and Dad told me about my appointment with the shrink tomorrow morning at ten.
“You even get to miss half a day of school,” said Dad.
“But writing club,” I said. “Can you pick me up after that?”
“Our daughter wants to go to school?” said Mom.
Things were almost normal—they were mocking me again.
“More than I want to go to a psychiatrist.”
“But you’ll still have to see the head shrinker, so we must conclude that you don’t want to miss your beau at the writing club.”
“Whatnever, Dad, I’m, like, so totally sure,” I said, my mock-teen voice a bit too authentic. “Isn’t it possible that I don’t want to miss the writing part?”
“I’ll pick you up at 9:30,” said Mom. “We’ll have some paperwork at the doctor’s.”
“So what’s this going to be like, anyway?”
“You vill sit un der couch, unt Herr Doktor vill make direct his obserwations into ze core of your psyche.”
“Ya, das iss gudt, mein papa.”
“Her observations,” Mom said. “But actually, she’s a certified Mesmerist. I’m not sure if she uses a pocket watch, but she’ll put you in a state of profound hypnosis. Then you’ll tell her all your secrets. Then she’ll tell me.”
“Great, Mom, your dream come true,” I said, but I was kind of proud of her. Usually it’s Dad who comes up with the nonsense. But of course he had to get in on it:
“You forgot,” he said, “about how she’ll make Cassie bark like a dog.”
“And levitate.”
“And consume large quantities of meat, poultry, and shellfish.”
“And most importantly,” said Mom, “you’ll be trained to a bell that the doctor will give your parents.”
“Right,” said Dad. “Absolute, unquestioning obedience. For life.”
They stopped and beamed at each other, imagining this last bit.
“Enjoy your little fantasy, parents,” I said. “Don’t you want her to program me to vote Democrat for life, too?”
“Good Lord, Cassie,” Dad said. “We give you some credit for intelligence.”
“But maybe she’s got a point. What if she gets some kind of brain injury?”
“Or falls victim to demonic possession.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Are you done yet? Aren’t you afraid I’m going to blame everything on my sadistic parents?”
“Parent,” said Dad. “Singular. That’s what psychoanalysis is all about: you lie around on the couch and, whatever you say, the shrink brings it back to an anal-retentive mother.”
“I think it’s actually the oral-diarrhetic father.”
“Seriously,” I said. Things were more than back to normal now. I was getting a little sick of it.
“Seriously,” said Mom. “I don’t really know. But she comes highly recommended. And she said that, though we’re making you go, it’s really for you, Cassie. You should probably think about what you want to get out of it.”
I couldn’t think of any appropriately sarcastic response to that, so I guess this shrink thing really is throwing me off my game. And I’m left with the question: what do I want to get out of this counseling?
Mostly, to get a clean bill of health. I want to be able to report to Mom and Dad that I am certified non-suicidal and one hundred percent normal. I’m afraid that won’t be as easy as it was with the counselor last year.
So what am I going to tell her? After last night, I’m all talked out. I’d say as little as possible and hope to be left alone again, but I think I am going to have to give her something. Maybe I could tell her all about how people were bugging me and my attempt to move up to high school. I’d like to move on from all that, though, and just enjoy what’s going on now: relative calm at school, a few friends, DJ. I could tell her about the good things, but she is going to want to know why I was so down that I wrote about suicide.
The more I think about it, the madder I get. It was a story. Just because I write about somebody who kills herself doesn’t mean I am going to. I resent having to go through all this. But I do. And now I’m falling back on clichés and advertising jingles. “Just do it,” Cassie. Put on your sweatshop shoes—sold by the company that cares about building your self-esteem—and get in there and just do it.
17 October
DJ and I ditched writing group so we could work in the library. Though I am a little faster on the math stuff, he doesn’t really need my help. His trouble is that he can’t get anything done in class, and he can’t make himself do homework.
“Daydreaming,” he said. “That’s all I seem to be good at.”
“Well, you better get caught up—if you think your mom’s mad at you, just wait and see what I’m like if you’re still grounded this weekend.”
Unlike yesterday, we were very productive and got all his stuff finished. I wanted to tell him about my doctor’s appointment, but I knew that would get us off track. I’m serious about getting his grades up.
About halfway through class, Mom came to pick me up and take me to Dr. Velez. The biggest question on my mind, as we drove downtown, parked, and rode the elevator up to the eighth floor, centered on the word “confidential.” What you say to psychiatrists is supposed to be private, but here my mom is making me go, and she’s paying for it. Even though it’s supposed to be for me, I had to wonder how much she was going to hear. Especially after that hypnotism stuff.
When we got there, Mom filled out a bunch of paperwork, and I got something a lot like the “depression inventory” that I had done not quite a year ago. I moved all the way across the room so that she couldn’t see my answers—though I figured the doc would fill her in anyway.
It was both sides of the page, asking me about changes in my sleeping and eating, how often I had feelings of worthlessness, hopelessness, helplessness, persistent thoughts of death, et cetera, et cetera. You know me, Di, what do you think? All of the above. But to an a
bnormal degree? I wasn’t sure how to answer, how far the truth would get me, how much to tweak my answers. Most of the tricky ones I put about in the middle of the range, which was not too far off.
By the time I’d finished, it was after ten, and the doctor came out to get me. She introduced herself and then asked me to follow her back. Mom was standing there, uninvited, wondering if she should sit back down or follow.
“You can wait here, Ms. Sullivan, or come back in fifty minutes if you wish.”
“Okay, I’ll wait,” she said, and plopped back down into her chair.
I followed Dr. Velez as she led me into her office and shut the door behind us.
“Either the chair or the couch,” she said, sitting in one of the arm chairs herself, crossing one leg over her knee, and writing on a clipboard on her lap.
I thought I might as well do this psychiatry thing right, so I went for the couch. I was going to stretch out on it, but it felt too weird, and I perched awkwardly at one end. I imagined her writing something like, “Subject chooses couch. Seems anxious, ill at ease, nervous.”
“Why don’t you tell me what brings you here, Cassie?”
As if she didn’t know. I was tempted to shake my head or shrug, like I had with good old Mr. Kimball and Dr. Hawk. So far her couch-side manner was underwhelming me.
“My mom told you what’s going on, didn’t she?”
“She did. And although this was her idea, I would like to know why you think you’re here.”
I might as well start talking, I thought, and sighed. Didn’t mean to do it, but it came out long and loud. It was kind of a big question. How far back should I go?
“Long answer or short?” I said.
“Let’s start with the short, and then we can go back and fill in the details.”
“I wrote a story that ended with the main character’s suicide. So my teacher and my parents freaked out and think that I am about to jump off a cliff or something.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Why did the girl—was it a girl?”
“Yes.”
“Why did she take her own life?”
Or Not Page 24