This Is My Brain in Love

by I. W. Gregorio

  What I can do, though, is relieve one of her stressors. She’s only doing that stupid business program for her father, and maybe because she doesn’t want to let me down.

  I think I’m doing the right thing by giving her an out, I really do. But I really, really should have given more thought to how her asshole brain was going to interpret what I said.

  JOCELYN

  If I felt like lead before, now I feel like ash. All it would take is a puff of wind, and I’d blow away.

  “You want me to break the contract?” I whisper. I hate the way my voice breaks. I hate how pathetic I am, that we’re less than a week into this stupid plan and Will already wants to bail.

  “No!” Will practically explodes in horror, and for the briefest moment it’s as if he’s reached out a hand to physically steady me, even though we haven’t touched. I know in my gut, in the release of tension in my chest, that he means it, and I wish I could bottle the intensity of his emotion and squirrel it away somewhere.

  It’s funny how your brain works, isn’t it? How it can warp reality like Silly Putty, pulling your emotions this way and that, so that you can think that something is absolutely true one minute, only to have doubts about it the next.

  I just want to know what to think. How to be. I don’t want my life to be a shapeless, endlessly changing plaything at my brain’s mercy. Is that too much to ask? For things to hold their shape for a little while?

  “I’m so tired.” Saying it feels both like I’m finally releasing a breath and like I’m admitting defeat. It’s the worst kind of confession: Weak. Pathetic. Selfish. I think about all the work my parents have put into giving Alan and me a fighting chance. I think of my amah, seventy years old and still waking up at six in the morning to prepare my lunches and start with veggie prep. And I’m the tired one?

  “I get it,” Will says softly. “I am definitely one hundred percent absolutely on board with the contract.…” He takes a deep breath, shakes his head.

  I brace myself for the “but.” When it comes, though, it’s not what I expect.

  “But I know that it’s a lot of pressure. It’s okay to be stressed. It’s okay to have doubts about the right things to say in the application.”

  It’s a good thing I’m sitting down, because the realization that this is the first time anyone has given me permission to be stressed? It’s a knee-wobbling revelation. My parents always look at my freak-outs with impatient exasperation and basically tell me to get over it. Priya always just tries to talk me down, tell me how everything’s going to be okay, which just winds me up because I think of more evidence to argue that it’s not. No one’s ever just agreed with me that things suck. It’s refreshing.

  “I wish I could just take a nap and have everything be all better when I wake up,” I say finally.

  “You and me both,” Will says. As we’ve talked he’s inched in closer to me, and I swear I can feel his body heat and smell the scent of his shampoo, something sweetly sharp that makes my brain whisper, Closer, closer.

  My mom and brother will walk in at any second so I resist the urge to lean into him, bury my face in his shirt so I can be surrounded by his smell and shut out the jumbled mess of my thoughts.

  Instead I just whisper, “Thanks,” and wrap my hands in my lap.

  “Always,” Will says. He’s quiet for a minute, unsmiling, and I feel a growing anxiety as I watch him start to say something, then stop.

  “Have you ever…” Will purses his lips and shakes his head. “Okay, there’s no way to have this conversation without sounding like a jerk, except to come clean to you.” He visibly steels himself.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “So you know those doctor’s appointments that I told you I had to go to?”

  “Yeah.” A couple of times over the summer Will had told me that he was going to have to be late for work.

  He grimaces and picks at the cuticles on his left hand. “Well, they weren’t dermatology treatments like I said. I’m sorry I lied to you.”

  “O-kay?” It’s weird. Instead of being apprehensive, I’m just confused and a little curious. It’s just another sign of how much I trust him, despite my brain’s best efforts.

  Will takes in a deep breath before blurting out, “I’m… They were therapy appointments. I’ve been seeing a psychologist since I was eight. Anxiety.”

  I can’t help it, but my knee-jerk reaction to the word “therapy” is to recoil and to wonder what Will’s been hiding from me. I blink and realize that I need to choose my words carefully.

  Because I am hopelessly pathetic, those words do not materialize.

  WILL

  Among my closest friends, it’s well known that I’m kind of neurotic. It’s a running joke, even, but I’ve never actually told any of them that I see a doctor, or that I have a diagnosis. Or two of them, really: generalized anxiety disorder, with a side of social anxiety disorder.

  It’s not that I’m hiding my mental illness, exactly—it’s out there in the open. I couldn’t conceal the lengths I’ll go to avoid certain situations, even if I tried.

  Besides, like Dr. Rifkin says, anxiety is a spectrum. Every single person who has ever existed has felt nervous over something at some point in their life. Which means, when I’m doing my exercises and using my coping skills, I can pass for normal well enough, even though my sister would lecture me and say, “There’s no such thing as normal.” She would tell me, “Everyone has their own shit to deal with.” I guess she should know.

  Still, I’ve never labeled my shit to my friends, because giving it a name pathologizes it, turns me from someone who can be a little anxious to someone who has anxiety.

  I’ve seen firsthand, with Javier, what that kind of label does to people. Not that his diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder really changes who he is, but it changes how people interact with him. That’s why I don’t volunteer the fact that he’s on the spectrum to people who have never met him. The couple of times I’ve seen him meet someone who knew beforehand that he was autistic, they saw everything he did through the lens of autism, using his diagnosis as an excuse, or an explanation. Even now, it’s rare that someone sees him as just a kid, instead of that kid on the spectrum.

  I’ve never wanted my teachers and friends to see me like that, to treat me with kid gloves because of the flashing neon ANXIETY sign over my head. So I’ve never said outright that I’m being treated for it, even though I think Manny, at least, probably assumes.

  It’s terrifying, then, how quickly I decide to tell Jocelyn, how after knowing her for mere weeks I’m willing to reveal something that I haven’t told people I’ve known for a decade. It’s a calculated risk, but one I’m willing to take because I truly don’t know how to help her—or really, whether she’ll accept my help—without my first admitting that I’ve got problems, too.

  I’m looking straight at her when I tell her what my appointments really were, so I see the confusion in her face replaced by something that’s a cross between disappointment and pity before she straightens her face into concern.

  In the silence that follows I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. Each of Jocelyn’s microexpressions seems to confirm all the fears I’ve had about coming out with my anxiety. I flash ahead to the next few weeks, imagining that Jocelyn will stop asking me to do things for the restaurant. Maybe she’ll take more things on herself, not wanting to stress me out. Or perhaps she’ll be like my grandma Domenici when I was growing up, constantly coddling me after anything that could remotely hurt my feelings. “Oh, Will, is everything okay? Can I do anything to help?”

  When Jocelyn finally speaks, it’s tentative, stilted. “Wow. Um, thank you for telling me.”

  I don’t know what to say. Am I supposed to say, “You’re welcome”? Then I remember why I told her in the first place.

  “I just thought… I thought it’d help you to know. Because I wanted to say that it helps, sometimes, to talk through things. Is there anyone you trust? Would
you want to talk to a… a professional? It wouldn’t have to be mine. I’m sure he could refer you to some other people.”

  JOCELYN

  Of course that was where he was going to go, I think, as I feel the anger building inside me. Anger coming from a little bit of hurt with a hint of shame. I should have known. Why else would he have made a confession like that out of the blue? It was smart of him. I’ll give him that. I can’t be mad at him for suggesting that I should see a shrink if he is seeing one, too. Except…

  “Why do you need a therapist?” I ask sharply. I have to grit my teeth to keep resentment from bleeding entirely into my voice. “You’re, like, the most stable person I know.”

  “Only because of eight years of therapy,” he says with a smile that borders on bitter. “You should have seen me before. I had these stomach pains that the doctors said were psychosomatic—literally in my head. I would cry before I went to school some days. Then I would cry when I got home because I was worried that I’d done some little thing wrong.”

  I feel a pang in my chest, thinking about grade-school Will curled up in physical pain because of his anxiety. “I’m sorry about that,” I say. The heat in my cheeks subsides as I wonder whether Will’s a quiet crier, or an ugly one, like me. “I’m glad life got better.”

  “That’s the thing, it’s not that life got better, I just got better at coping with it. There are mental exercises you can do to change your thinking patterns. It’s called cognitive behavioral therapy. The techniques are really helpful when you’re going in circles in your head.” Will looks at me hopefully, and I know he wants me to jump on his idea. If he could pick up a phone and make me an appointment with some mental health clinic this minute, I think he’d do it.

  But that is not going to happen.

  “That sounds nice. No, really it does,” I say when he gives me a dubious look. “But… what you’re describing doesn’t really sound like me. I’m not having, like, stomach pains or anything. I’m just having a rough day. I’ll get over it. I don’t think I need to, like, talk to anyone.”

  WILL

  There’s so much to say after Jocelyn brushes off my suggestion. I want to tell her that no, she doesn’t have the same symptoms that I have, but that’s probably because it’s not anxiety that’s her issue, but some kind of mood disorder. I want to tell her that I’ve noticed that she only picks at her lunch these days, and that her cheeks are less full than they were even a month ago. I want to remind her that twice in the last week she’s been late in the morning because she said she had trouble getting out of bed.

  Most of all, I wish I could show her how worried I am to see her being eaten up by guilt and low self-esteem. I wish she knew how much I wanted to see her happy.

  This is where my father would insert, “But it’s okay to be sad sometimes.” And my mother, who would argue that grief and hardship is a normal part of the human condition, would agree, quoting that Nigerian proverb about how, no matter how long the night may be, the day is sure to come. It’s like my anxiety. Depression is a spectrum, too. Every single person who has ever existed has felt sad about something at some point in their life. So who am I to push Jocelyn when she says she doesn’t need a therapist?

  This Is My Brain on Mute

  JOCELYN

  The next morning, Lauren White is the first one to show up for our casting call. When she comes in her nose gives a little wrinkle at the smell of lingering cleaning solution, and I feel an instant surge of dislike.

  “Hiiiii, you must be Jocelyn! I’m Lauren. Is Priya here yet?” She searches around the empty restaurant, as if Priya’s going to be underneath a booth or hiding behind the counter. She’s only a little bit taller than I am, with a pixie haircut and dirty-blond hair with highlights. Priya told her to feel free to do her makeup at home to save time, so her face is all red lips and rosy cheeks, with heavy mascara and eyeliner that make her look like a real-life Bratz doll.

  When Priya comes in with her brother Pranav, who is dressed up in a sharp navy business suit, I help Priya set up some shots while Pranav mercifully picks up conversation with Lauren. I’ve got to hand it to him—he’s pretty smooth, and even I can see the chemistry he has with Lauren.

  Priya notices me frowning at Lauren and comes over to me. “You okay?” Priya whispers as she raises her external lights.

  “Yeah, just tired,” I say. It’s as honest as I can be right now. I don’t want to bring up the scene she deleted. My heart feels sore still, but it’s not bleeding anymore, so I’m going to just let it be.

  “I think today’s going to be really fun.”

  And it almost is. Lauren, it turns out, is a freaking amazing actress, the type who can control her body language on the turn of a dime. One second she is her normal peppy, self-absorbed self, and the next second she is a world-weary waitress just passing the days until her next paycheck. I wish I had her talent—it would’ve made sneaking around so much easier.

  Priya and I gradually slip into our working rhythm—her the close-up person, me the eye in the sky and facilitator, pointing out wide-angle issues and running for everything we need to make the shoot go smoothly. Things are almost right—or at least, they’re never exactly wrong. The day is just… muted.

  After Pranav and Lauren leave, we run through the dailies, and they’re great, possibly even better than the day before. Priya’s practically glowing with satisfaction.

  “Jocelyn, almost every take we made is usable. Can you believe it? I think we might be able to do this on two days of shooting. One day for reshoots, tops.”

  “Good for you, that’s awesome.” Usually I’m charged when we go over our footage. Every single time it’s amazing to see my storyboards come to life with the actors’ interpretation and Priya’s framing. But today I feel like my brain is in one of those mesh foam wrappers they use to keep Asian pears from bruising in transit.

  Priya stares at me as if I’ve just slapped a baby in the face. “Good for us,” she says.

  “That’s what I meant,” I say, trying to muster up a scrap or two of enthusiasm. “Good for us.”

  Sundays are usually pretty slow in the restaurant, so Will only works for a few hours that afternoon to hash out a plan for the week. At first, things are kind of awkward, like we’re tiptoeing around the conversation where he basically called me a head case. There’s enough shit to do, though, that we get over it quick.

  We’re going to hit another slew of doctors’ offices tomorrow, and we start working on an idea that I had as I was cycling past one of the sports fields a few days ago: a post-practice special.

  Will gives a thumbs-up to my idea, which involves free on-field delivery with a full set of utensils and three dollars off a twelve-pack of Powerade instead of our usual two-liter soda. “Great idea to tap into the sports industrial complex. If you get a hungry high school lacrosse team hooked on A-Plus…”

  “… Thirty percent, here we come.” My eyes flick over to where my dad’s “dating contract” is taped behind the counter. “How did Alan do today?”

  “Not quite as well as yesterday. Eighty percent.”

  “Hey, at least he’ll pass.”

  “How was your day?” Will asks. “Did you guys have a good shoot?”

  I pause for a second. “Yeah, it was good.”

  “Only good?” Will asks, his mouth bending toward a frown.

  “No, it was fine,” I amend my statement. I hate that he can read me so well. “Priya did a great job. I just don’t really want to talk about it.”

  Will’s brow furrows. “Hey, you know what we should do,” he says after a minute or two of silence. “We need to start having a regular movie night. What’s next up in your tier-one movies?”

  “I’m not sure.” Tier-one movies are films that I really want to see that are either on Netflix or available through interlibrary loan. And I’m lying, I know the dozen or so movies that are in that group, I just haven’t had any interest in opening my spreadsheet to figure out what’s
on top. “I haven’t really been all that into any of the movies I’ve seen on my own lately.” I glance over to where my mom’s counting the cash register. “Maybe it’s because I’ve been seeing them on my own,” I whisper, giving him a half-hearted smile.

  He doesn’t smile back, like he recognizes it for the excuse that it is. “Maybe…” His eyes go unfocused for a second. “Or maybe… never mind.”

  There he is, holding back again.

  “What?” I ask, suddenly irritated. “Spit it out.”

  Will grimaces sheepishly. “You’re going to think I’m a broken record.”

  “Spit. It. Out.”

  He sighs, and his head drops into a hangdog position. “Okay, so my aunt Mary is a nurse at the U,” he says, his voice pitched so my mom can’t hear. “She’s really into mental health, always has been. She knows issues run in my family, so she’s always, like, screening us during holiday gatherings and talking about warning signs. And she says that one of the first signs of depression is losing interest in activities that you once enjoyed.”

  I bristle and turn on Slacker Radio, angling my laptop to face the counter and block our conversation a bit. “My not being impressed by Ben Affleck’s first attempt to revive his sputtering career is not a sign that I’m depressed,” I hiss.

  This time, Will doesn’t roll over the way he usually does when I give him pushback. “It’s not not a sign that you’re depressed, either,” he argues, though he has the grace to look uncomfortable doing it. “I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately; there have been a lot of ups and downs. It’s natural for—”

  I cut him off. “You’re right.” His mouth snaps shut, and God help me but he looks like a puppy waiting for its chew toy. I almost feel bad. “You are absolutely correct, going through stress and having ups and downs is perfectly normal,” I say coldly. “Would you freaking stop with trying to mother me? I am not depressed.”