Shoot Your Shot

Chapter Twenty-Three

Twenty-Three

Jaylen

My eyes peek over the top of the magazine as I look around the waiting room. The glossy pages crumple beneath my tight grip. We’ve been waiting long enough for me to read the gossip mag from front to back. I even completed the color analysis quiz—I’m a deep autumn. And possibly deeply unwell. I’ll know soon enough. The no-electronic-devices signs taped on every wall and stern receptionist keep me from checking the time on my phone.

When the team doctor recommended this psychiatrist to me, I figured she would have made sure the whole process was a bit more confidential than this. I thought I would be escorted through a back door or the doctor would make a house call—guess not. I pull my hat lower over my forehead.

“Relax.” Lucy digs her elbow into my arm. “No one here knows who you are. You’re not a celebrity, you’re a hockey player.” She snatches the magazine out of my hand.

“A mentally ill hockey player, apparently.” I fold my arms over my chest and sink lower in my chair.

The receptionist calls out my name, and I physically flinch. I “Shh” through my teeth, looking around to make sure no one has their phone out to snap a picture of me. I’m finally thankful for the sign. Lucy gives me an encouraging pat on the bum as I head back to the doctor’s office.

Inside, Dr. Patel sits behind a large wooden desk buried beneath leather-bound books. He sits about ten books tall and has a mustache that puts my pathetic Movember muzzy attempt to shame. His outfit is as monochromatic as the front and back book covers that frame him in his desk.

His office looks like what would happen if you gave a hoarder unlimited access to a Barnes & Noble. There are piles on the floor, on his desk, and stacked up in the shelves that run from the floor to the ceiling behind him. I figure if I’m going to trust anyone with my mental health, it should be the person who’s read that many textbooks on the topic.

Dr. Patel pulls a folder off the top of a stack of books and flips it open. He glances up at me as I make my way into his office and then back to the paper. “Jaylen, is it?” He motions me to sit in the chair across from him.

“That’s me.” I take a seat, sitting tall enough to try to get a peek at what he’s reading. Before he snaps it shut, I catch a glimpse of a singular piece of paper. What will my folder contain by the time I’m done here? What more is there for people to say about me?

He takes out a legal notepad and digs for a pen in the top drawer of his desk. Finding one, he holds it up like he’s hailing a cab. “Ahh, I’m always losing these. Now, please, let me know what brings you into my office today.”

“It’s not a big deal. It feels a bit dramatic to even bring it up.” While I stall, Dr. Patel sits patiently among his books. His silence is more probing than any follow-up question he could ask. I clear my throat. “I think I’m having panic attacks. It’s possible I’ve been struggling with them for a while now, but I thought they were nerves. I would turn over the puck, or my shot would miss the net, and suddenly I would find myself keeled over on the bench hyperventilating. I had a really bad one a couple weeks ago and it freaked some people out—myself included.”

Dr. Patel begins jotting down notes that I’m sure will be used to bulk up my folder. “Heart palpitations, sweating, shaking, shortness of breath, tingling…” he says, listing symptoms I’m all too familiar with.

“Don’t forget dizziness,” I interrupt.

“Do you know what could have brought on these intense feelings of anxiety?”

“Beats me. Was hoping you’d have some answers for me.”

If I knew what was making me feel like this, I would have put an end to it a long time ago. I wouldn’t have let myself hit rock bottom—jobless, released from a PTO, sneaking out of my hotel room without leaving my number for Lucy because I was so embarrassed with what I became.

So far, therapy is nothing like hockey. I’m used to everyone else telling me what’s wrong with me—I’m not defensively aware, I have no consistency, I’m not a team player. This is the first time someone is asking me to identify the problem.

“Any trauma in your childhood I should know about?” he asks.

“I have two older sisters who used to dress me up like a girl and push me around the backyard in a wheelbarrow chanting ‘Princess JJ’ well into my preteen years.”

“Tell me how that made you feel.” He jots down more notes.

“Included. They didn’t pay much attention to me otherwise.” I catch myself gripping on to the arms of my chair like I’m hanging from them. I slowly release my grip and wiggle my fingers.

Dr. Patel continues writing, despite my tight lips and cursory responses. “Okay. Any bullying, head injuries, or death you have experienced throughout your life?” he asks like he’s reading off a checklist.

“All of the above. How am I doing? High score?” An awkward laugh bubbles out of me.

“I’m not keeping score.” He uses the end of his pen to scratch his bald head. “Your parents, are they divorced?”

“Worse, still together.” I laugh at my own joke. Dr. Patel makes notes, and I instantly stop. Who do I think I am, a stand-up comic? This is so embarrassing.

I know how stupid I sound. I have an awesome family, my childhood was great, my life is blessed—why doesn’t my body know that?

Dr. Patel’s forehead wrinkles. “Should we try digging a bit deeper?”

“Shallow is fine,” I say. I appreciate what he’s trying to do—dig up some deeply buried painful memory—but the cause is obvious—my job is stressful. I can’t make mistakes, and I’ve made a lot of them.

His face softens. “You’re under a lot of stress at work.” It’s his first observation.

I’m far too exposed for direct eye contact, so I stare out the office window hoping to escape, but the view is solid gray. It’s painfully overcast today. “Being a pro athlete is stressful, and being an underachieving pro athlete is excruciating. Between the in-game panic attacks and postgame blues, it’s hard to find the joy I used to feel playing hockey. Things were better for me for a while, until they weren’t.”

He stares me down, like my diagnosis is written across my forehead. “Based on the information you’ve shared with me today, and the emailed forms you completed prior to this appointment, I’m writing you a prescription to help with your anxiety and depression.”

Anxiety and depression. I thought I was here for panic attacks. I think about objecting to my diagnosis, telling him he’s got me all wrong. All my teammates would agree, I’m the easiest--going guy ever. I get along with everyone. I never complain. I’m only mean when my job calls for it.

“Are you sure? Because, not to brag, but I’m a pretty outgoing guy. And for the most part, I really love my life.” I don’t want to question his expertise, but he could be wrong about me.

“Anxiety and depression do not discriminate, Jaylen. It can affect anyone, sometimes even those you would least expect. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Think of this medication as an integral component of your training regime. Does that sound reasonable?”

I nod. “Like making sure I eat enough protein, drink enough water, and get enough sleep.”

“Exactly. In addition, I recommend talking to a therapist about what possible triggers are leading to these panic attacks.” Dr. Patel scribbles down the names of a few therapists he recommends and hands it to me.

“Isn’t that what the barber shop is for?” I joke, looking over the list as if I would recognize any of the names.

“Is your barber a licensed therapist?” Dr. Patel interlocks his hands on the desk, his elbows bumping into books as he wiggles forward past a pile of encyclopedias on phobias, trying to maintain eye contact.

“Not in the technical sense.”

“Then no,” he says flatly.

I leave the office with a prescription slip in hand, therapists listed on a loose sheet of scrap paper like restaurant recommendations, and another appointment scheduled a month out. It wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be, nothing like being called into the general manager’s office after a slew of poor performances.

Back in the lobby, Lucy is curled up asleep in her chair snoring with her mouth open. I gently tap her shoulder and she wakes with a full-body jolt and a gasp. “I’m resting my eyes.” The receptionist glares at us.

“Looks like I’m an overachiever on and off the ice. I have both anxiety and depression.” My joke earns a giggle from Lucy, which makes the stares coming from strangers in the waiting room worth it. It’s nice to have found someone I can be myself around. She wasn’t freaked out over my panic attack, or this appointment, or even my diagnosis. She’s looking at me like she always does—like I’m still the same person.

Lucy stands up to slow clap. “Wow, congratulations. Welcome to the club. We’ve been expecting you, but we were too sad to tidy the place up for your arrival. Hope you like microwaved melted cheese on saltines.” Lucy gives me a formal curtsy.

I laugh even though I’m not following her joke. Guess now I’m the rookie and she’s the vet.

“Too niche?” she asks.

I hold up my prescription. “No, fluoxetine.”

She grabs it out of my hand and reads it over. Between keyboard clicks we hear the receptionist groan and recognize we’ve overstayed our welcome.

“Nice! Hopefully it works for you. If it doesn’t, then your doctor will help you find something that does.” She tucks the prescription in my pocket and throws up the hood of her jacket. I do the same as we dart out into the parking lot in the rain.

“Thanks for coming with me today,” I say as we get into my car. “And thanks for being so cool about this. I was really freaked out when he told me I was anxious and depressed. I was like, ‘Could an anxious and depressed person do this?’” I point to my face and give a big full smile. “Apparently they can.” The rain drops ricochet off my car loudly as we hide out together before heading back to my apartment.

“It was nothing.” Lucy pulls back her hood and tousles her shaggy bangs. Behind her hand I can still see the bashful expression she’s hiding.

“It’s not nothing. I probably would have kept pushing through the panic attacks and playing until I collapsed on the ice if you hadn’t intervened.” I wipe a raindrop off her cheek with my thumb.

Since our night together in my apartment, Lucy and I have been seeing a lot of each other. I’ve been giving her rides to and from the rink whenever I can while she paints another mural—this one much larger and in the concourse of the facility.

“It was really difficult to see you suffering that day and I wanted to help. I’m proud of you. Is that totally cheesy to say?” Lucy grimaces.

“I’m used to people telling me they’re proud of me, but it’s nice to hear it from you. Especially with something like this.” I start the car and pull out. I’ve got the rest of the day off, and Lucy and I plan on spending it in bed together watching anime—and not thinking about what deeply buried trauma lurks within me.

“You’re just so relentless on and off the ice,” Lucy teases.

I throw my head back and laugh a deep cackle. “More like deeply flawed.”

“A painting without flaws lacks all character. I find your cracks deeply endearing,” she says, staring out the window.

I bite down on the flesh inside my cheeks and merge onto the highway.