The Nearly Girl

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The Nearly Girl Page 13

by Lisa de Nikolits


  “Now,” he said gently, and his voice was a sweet caress after his abrasive high-energy sales pitch, “now, I know that Rome wasn’t built in a day and the same can be said for your mental health but we have twelve beautiful weeks, twelve sturdy sessions and by the end of that sound dozen, if you follow my directions, D.T.O.T. will have changed your life.”

  He grinned, a flashy, self-satisfied grin, and cocked his head to one side. “And what exactly is D.T.O.T. you might ask? We’ll get to that in a moment. Before we do, I’d like you to introduce yourselves and tell us a bit about your problems. There’s no need to feel ashamed. We know that each of you is here because you’ve got a problem. You’ve been diagnosed as such or you wouldn’t be sitting here, sponsored by the government in a generous effort to cure you.”

  He brought his hands together in a prayer-like pose, leaned his chin on his fingertips, and reflected for a moment. “I believe in being frank,” he announced abruptly and he sat up, ramrod straight, his expression kindly and suggestive of benevolent friendship. “Yes, I believe in being frank. There’s no point in beating about the bush. Would a physician tell an ill man that he’s healthy? He would not. Therefore, don’t hold back. Let there be no shame in the things you tell each other. Just put it on the table. Throw it down.”

  He stroked his goatee with one hand and then he scratched his jaw, leaving visible red tracks on his skin. He leaned forward. “It is hard for me,” he admitted in a confidential tone, “not to get impatient with you at the beginning. You creep into this first session, frightened and even more panic-stricken than usual, and most of you are hardly able to form the words to describe your particular malaise. Can we agree to compromise?”

  He was imploring. “I will try not to be impatient and you’ll try to tell us clearly what your name is, and why you’re here. It’s very simple really. Just your name and your condition. Don’t ramble or elaborate or start telling me about your sad little childhoods. Just give me the facts. For example: I am Frances Carroll and I have agoraphobia. Full stop, next person. This is a great way for us to start our work together, particularly if public speaking is your phobia. Dive in and swim with the sharks, but don’t worry, we won’t eat you.”

  Amelia wondered if the good doctor would ever shut up. She was, however, mildly entertained and she thought that the therapy might not be as tedious as she had been dreading. She wondered what the cute guy was in for. He looked too normal for anything too bizarre. He was lovely, with clear grey eyes, a clean strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a full, sensual mouth. She blushed again and studied her hands, noticing that the fellow next to her was pumping his knee up and down in a distracting and annoying way. She glared at him and saw a bead of sweat dribble down from his temple, past his ear, and make its way to his jaw. She shifted as far away from him as she could.

  “Great!” Dr. Carroll announced. “You, go first.” He pointed to a plump middle-aged woman who nearly fell off her chair in fright.

  “Ah, I, um, I, well…”

  “No! No! No!” Dr. Carroll said. “Listen up, it’s easy. It goes like this; I am Amanda and I have claustrophobia. Try again.”

  “My name is Whitney and I have depression and anxiety and I am worried I am giving it to my daughter.”

  “Anxiety and depression are not like a prom corsage that you ‘give’ someone,” Dr. Carroll corrected her. “But certainly your daughter can learn and mimic your anxieties and yes, you could be severely impacting her life in a potentially negative and destructive way. But you won’t, once we’re done here. Well done on your introduction! Tell me, was that so hard?”

  Whitney looked down and shook her head, ripping a tissue to snowflake shreds and giving a quick sniff.

  “Moving on! Next: you boy. Go on, spit it out.” He pointed at the boy sitting next to Amelia. He was wearing a black baseball cap, mirrored aviator sunglasses, and a girly T-shirt cut to a low oval on his chest with a red sequined heart.

  When the good doctor pointed in his direction, the boy’s leg started pumping triple time. He suddenly jumped up. “I’m Kwon. I have social anxiety order,” he barked out and he sat back in his chair, his relief palpable.

  Amelia assumed she would be next but the doctor was stabbing his finger at people in a random fashion and she assumed it was part of the therapy to not follow order. Which was, she reasoned, predictable in itself, and she was inclined to point this out, but Doctor Carroll had signaled another hapless fellow.

  Not that this fellow seemed hapless, at second glance. He was huge, with his long legs stretched out in front of him. The laces of his construction boots were untied and he was shaggy-haired, like a giant bear.

  “I’m Alexei. I have anger management problems. Or so they tell me,” he growled. Alexei had a strong Russian accent. “I don’t think I get angry. I just don’t put up with bullshit. You want the truth, Doctor? You like us to tell you the truth? Me, I don’t have problems, other people have problems. I have no problems!”

  He sat back, satisfied, and Dr. Carroll who was slightly subdued, consulted his notes. “Right, you’re that person. Uh, okay then, whose next?” He stabbed his finger at the cute young man Amelia had been eyeing.

  “I’m Mike. I’m a business entrepreneur but I have difficulty with public speaking.”

  Dr. Carroll peered at him. “You seem fine to me. You sure about this?”

  Mike blushed scarlet. “Dr. Carroll, don’t you remember our consultation?”

  Dr. Carroll rifled through his notes. “Oh yeah, right, you belong in here. Sorry, it slipped my mind.”

  He sighed. “I’ve forgotten who has introduced themselves. Let’s start with you,” he pointed at a girl, “and we will go around from there. If you’ve already told us who you are, then wave to next person.”

  “I’m Ainsley and I have panic attacks,” the skinny blonde girl offered. She clapped a bony hand to her mouth as soon as she finished talking, thereby flashing a gigantic engagement ring.

  “I’m Persephone and I have social anxiety disorder and generalized anxiety disorder and borderline personality and agoraphobia.”

  Amelia eyed Persephone with interest. She was a hefty gothic girl in her twenties with long dark hair. Her upper arms were like giant albino bat wings. Amelia felt ashamed of her unkind thought but Persephone, wearing a sleeveless tank top, kept twisting her hair into a bun and showing off those strangely pale and middle-aged upper arms. Amelia forced her thoughts away.

  “I’m Joanne and I’m a lawyer with generalized anxiety disorder and OCD. I also steal things when I get nervous.”

  Joanne was skinny with wiry grey hair and black sunken hollows under her eyes. Her mouth was twisted to one side as if her tongue had got stuck trying to dislodge an errant piece of food. She was tall, in pinstriped trousers with a no-nonsense grey shirt unbuttoned to reveal an equally no-nonsense chemise. Amelia watched her pick at the cuticle of her thumb until it bled.

  “Oy, stop that! No self-harming in here,” Dr. Carroll said and he flapped a binder at her.

  Mortified, Joanne stuck her thumb into her mouth.

  “Next!”

  Next up was a pale porky fellow in his forties. He had a remarkable hairdo and Amelia could not help but stare. The man had an absolutely round head, the shape of which was accentuated by his greasy, grey, pudding-bowl-with-bangs haircut. His hair was combed forward over his head, starting at the nape of his neck and gelled and sprayed into an uncompromising position on his forehead. And he was wearing enough blush and lipstick to stop a patrol car.

  The man touched his stiff bangs with his fingertips before speaking. “I’m Gino. I’m in sales and, like Mike, I have difficulty with public speaking. I’m also an entrepreneur and I am hampering my own progress in my chosen field and—” The man waved uncooked-sausage fingers and was about to continue but Dr. Carroll interrupted him.

  “Good! Good, enough! Good,
moving on. You.” He pointed at Amelia who shrugged.

  “I don’t think I have a problem,” she said. “The rest of the world is out of time, not me. It’s not my fault that everybody else has got things back to front. I’m here so I don’t lose out on my welfare.”

  “Right, you’re the young woman with the undiagnosed disorder. Interesting, interesting.”

  “Dr. Carroll,” Amelia said. “You met me before, at my evaluation. Don’t you remember?”

  He ignored her. “Next!” He yelled at a sixty-something bottle-blonde woman who jiggled in fear. “I’m Angelina, I’m terrified of doctors. I keep making appointments because I’m sure I have a terminal illness but then I cancel and I can’t go.”

  A girl with long dark curly hair put up her hand. “I’m Shannon and I have claustrophobia.”

  “And I’m David, businessman, afraid of talking to clients.”

  “Good, good, well done.” Dr. Carroll said. “Has everyone gone? There were supposed to be twelve of you, like the disciples,” he chuckled, pleased with himself. “But there were two cancellations, so ten will just have to do.”

  He looked at his watch and sighed. “Introductions eat up so much time. The first session is nearly a waste of time but I am sure you are keen and eager to learn about what comes next, to find out about that which will set you free! Hands up all of you who are interested in learning about D.T.O.T.? Come on! Raise your hands! There you go, well done!

  “D.T.O.T.,” Dr. Carroll continued, “is revolutionary. D.T.O.T. is my invention, my contribution to the field of psychology. I started out fifteen years ago as a fan of the traditional Cognitive Behavioral Therapy programs and I could see there was some measure of success to be had. But? But not enough. I wracked my brains. I tell you, I’ve never worked so hard at anything as I did to try and find that thing, that elusive secret ingredient that would make this stuff really work. After all, we’re here to heal, not stick a Band-Aid on a leprous wound, but to heal. We’re here to heal!

  “I started experimenting. Slowly of course, with what I call Do The Opposite Thing. That’s what D.T.O.T. stands for: Do The Opposite Thing. It takes C.B.T. to a whole new level.

  “Now, don’t worry, this is perfectly above board. I had to prove myself endlessly, which was the hard part. I had to track statistics, medications, field studies, and control groups, and all the other bumpf that scientists demand. And I am delighted to tell you that D.T.O.T. passed every test and then some. It has been greeted as a revolutionary healing technique and you’re extremely fortunate to be here, if I may be permitted to say that myself. This is a rare and fantastic opportunity for you.

  “How does it work? The name should be fairly self-obvious but we’ll work together, never fear, on the specifics. I wouldn’t leave you with a bunch of ingredients and ask for a cake upon my return. No, we’ll walk through this valley together. We’ll traverse the cliffs, we’ll take shelter when storms threaten, and we’ll rejoice in the sunshine!”

  Amelia looked over at Mike who gave her a quick grin and then studied his hands. Amelia snuck a surreptitious glance at her wristwatch. She felt as if she had been in the room for a lifetime but it had only been an hour. There was still half an hour to go.

  “I want you to take out a piece of paper and a pen,” Dr. Carroll said. “You were told to bring paper and a pen. None of you brought any? Of course you didn’t, why am I not surprised? Luckily for you, I am prepared. I am at the ready.”

  He handed out sheets of paper and ballpoint pens.

  “Now, write down something that you do, as a result of your disorder. Come on, let’s be Speedy Gonzales. People, you all know what your disorder is! No news there, write down one example of something you do.”

  I take the wrong buses, Amelia wrote and she put her pen down.

  “Now, let’s go around the room,” Dr. Carroll said. “Come on, oh, I’ve forgotten your names, next time I’ll bring name tags, but for now, just say your name and read what you wrote.”

  “I’m Mike and I avoid talking on the phone.”

  “I’m Alexei, and I hit people.”

  “I’m Joanne and I cry in the washroom after meetings.”

  “I’m Amelia, and I catch the wrong buses.”

  “I’m Kwon, and I don’t help out in my parent’s store because I’m afraid someone will talk to me.”

  “I’m David, I avoid my clients.”

  “I’m Shannon, I don’t take elevators.”

  “I’m Angelina, I cancel my medical appointments.”

  “I’m Gino, I don’t talk at meetings.”

  “I’m Persephone, and I don’t leave the house.”

  “Excellent!” Dr. Carroll grinned. “We’re off to a fine start. Now, here are the rules: this is your homework and you must do it. This week, each of you, every single day, will do the opposite of what you have written down there. The exact opposite. Joanne, no crying in washroom. Kwon, you must work in the store and Angelina, you will go to an appointment. You get the picture.”

  “But, Dr. Carroll,” Joanne spoke up. “If it was that easy, don’t you think I would have done it before? Don’t cry in washroom. Don’t you think I haven’t tried telling myself that before?”

  “And me,” David piped up. “Sorry, Doc, but this is too simplistic.”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Dr. Carroll sighed. “That’s what it comes down to. Faith. Faith in me. Faith in yourself. Look at the logic here: you all have different disorders, correct? Well, some of you have the same disorder but the specifics differ. Now why is that, you ask yourself, or you should ask yourself. Why do I have this one and not that one? The answer is that they all have the same irrational base. You could just as easily have one or the other, there’s little rhyme or reason, despite exhaustive tests on nature versus nurture etcetera, blah blah blah. Therefore, I propose that if you simply do the thing you are most afraid of, and do it repeatedly, it will become a walk in the park, a piece of cake, or even, a walk in the park while you are eating cake!

  “But,” he added, and he eyed Joanne, “I get that you need tools to help you transition. In fairness, disorders weren’t amassed overnight, they were built over a long period of time and you need the correct tools to help break them down. And I will help you by giving you the tools today. One of them, anyway.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “Joanne,” he said, “stand up.”

  She did so, hesitantly.

  “I want to you pretend that you are driving your car,” he said. “Do you like to drive?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. So, pretend you are in your Ford Mustang or your ten-ton truck or whatever gets your rocks off. Come on, hands on the steering wheel, there you go, ten and two. Now, you’re going to drive your car and I’m going to follow you around and shout at you but you mustn’t stop driving. No matter whatever happens, you must not stop. And, people, you’ve got to follow me and you must shout at Joanne too, and no matter what, she must carry on driving.”

  He opened the door of the room.

  “We’re going to do this in the hallway?” Joanne was horrified.

  “Oh yes! Don’t worry, no one will blink an eye. That’s another thing, you people are all so me, me, me. No one’s thinking about you, no one’s watching you, no one cares! Off we go, so Joanne, get those hands on the wheel, ten and two, head out the door. You have to walk the whole way around the floor and back here to our room. You’ve got it?”

  Joanne nodded. She looked close to tears and her twisted, pursed mouth was even more puckered than usual, and the hollows of her eyes were violent black smudges. And Amelia had noticed that an ugly red patch was creeping up her neck.

  “Ready, steady, go!” Dr. Carroll shouted and Joanne started her slow walk down the hall with Dr. Carroll in tow and the rest of the group wandering haphazardly behind him.

  �
��You’re such a crybaby,” Dr. Carroll shouted at her. “All you want to do is run away and cry! Stupid crybaby, you’re no good at anything. You’re a useless crybaby! How does it feel to be such a stupid crybaby?”

  Amelia noticed that Joanne had picked up the pace, and so did Dr. Carroll, who trotted close to her, shouting up at her. “Crybaby! Useless, what a failure! I bet all you want to do is run away and cry, run away and hide and cry, don’t you? Don’t you?”

  Joanne kept her hands steady on the imaginary steering wheel and she lengthened her stride. Her jaw tightened and by the time she rounded the final corner, she was close to power-walking and Dr. Carroll was practically running.

  The group re-entered the room and Dr. Carroll closed the door, his chest heaving. “That was a good one! Well done, Joanne!” He nodded and grinned and looked more like a rabid chipmunk than ever.

  “And that was supposed to show me what, exactly?” Joanne was icy.

  “First off, you’re not crying now, are you?”

  “I’m furious,” Joanne told him.” I’ve never been subjected to that kind of thing before and frankly I won’t stand for it. Who do you think you are, with this cockamamie therapy?” She stood up and grabbed her purse.

  “Joanne,” Doctor Carroll said quietly. “Are you going to the washroom to cry?”

  “Are you crazy? Cry over you, over this? Not on your life!”

  “Then it worked,” he said. “Please sit down.”

  Joanne thought for a moment, dropped her purse and sat down.

  “Each of you is pursued by your own individual fears,” Dr. Carroll said, and for a moment he sounded close to normal. “Each of your fears is a loud irrational voice shouting at you. So what you need to do, this week, is drive your cars — drive them straight to your goal and never mind the idiot in the backseat yelling at you to cry, or to leave, or to do whatever it is you do. You ignore that voice or those voices, and you carry on driving! Notice, you do NOT talk to the crazy thought, you do NOT engage with it. Why don’t you talk to the thought? Ask yourself this: What would have happened if Joanne had stopped driving and started arguing with me? She never would have made it back to this room and she most likely would have ended up in the washroom crying. But she ignored me and she pushed though it and although it felt terribly uncomfortable and she got angry, she reached her goal without giving in to her fear.”

 

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