December 22
5 months ago
WH EVER YOU GO, THERE Y U ARE
Some of the letters had slid out from the wooden slats meant to keep them in place.
A decorative blackboard with a knotted-pine frame hangs above the watercooler.
Somewhere behind me a noise machine gurgles.
I am meant to feel soothed. In this oasis, self-loathing is only a concept.
I’m in the waiting room alone. Bundled in my winter coat, cold still nipping the tip of my nose. My skin itches underneath all the layers I piled on and the pit that’s been festering in my stomach has seemingly grown a heartbeat, like I’m pregnant with dread.
I eye the door.
Still time to just leave.
Forfeit the hundred-fifty bucks I paid to book this appointment online.
But intellectually I know that this is not an option.
I started researching two nights ago. Then, this morning, I stood in the middle of Suburban Station thinking very calmly that I should buy my supplies, just in case.
It was a thought that came so naturally. Time to do the shopping for when I kill myself.
Then, I wanted it. I wanted it so badly. To end everything—all of it.
The pain in my legs that kept me up at night; the never-ending headaches that made the little sleep I got unproductive and feverish; the shame and terror that gripped my chest and made it impossible to move from my bed. I hadn’t eaten in days. All I did was drink coffee and chain-smoke spliffs that made my head feel full of fiberglass.
If I could find a way to go, I would finally feel better.
“Nadia Fabiola?”
Too late.
She smiles at me from the doorway, her eyes shining in the dim waiting room light. It’s designed to look like someone’s living room. So much care has gone into shielding me from the truth of the matter. I can’t imagine what it would be like to sit here with the father of my children or the parent who had systematically broken my spirit.
I’d probably never be able to smell a Palo Santo candle ever again.
Suddenly, I am grateful to be completely and totally alone.
I follow the woman into her office. It’s also bleak. The walls are covered in positive affirmations painted brightly over various vistas. A mountain range tells me to brEATHE IN PEACE. The floor is littered with tissues.
“Sorry for the mess. I had to run out to grab lunch and didn’t have time—Oh, let me grab these!” She has on a pair of blue medical gloves. She smiles at me while plucking up some of the tissues. “I know, this is about as medical as we’ll get. I promise. Sit, Nadia, please.”
Without taking off my coat or purse, I perch on the seat. My hair is tucked back under my hood and I am just a big, moon-faced baby with bloodshot eyes and wine breath. I stare out at her from my mass of black fabric.
“Cold out?”
It is, but I can’t bring myself to talk. I clear my throat and run my tongue over my bottom lip. It’s dry and cracked and tastes like blood and nicotine.
“I can make you a tea,” she says brightly, delicate eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. “Earl Grey?”
Everything about her is delicate. Her hands, small and pale, are crossed over a notebook in her lap, the medical gloves tossed along with the tissues. She watches me with kind green eyes, wet and sort of red-rimmed. Maybe she had been crying with her last patient. Maybe she’s allergic to inspirational posters.
My therapist—or this therapist—is my age. How sad for me. She’s wearing a hot-pink cardigan over a flowy top, and I suddenly wonder why I never wear flowy tops. Framed degrees pushed to the back of her messy desk say, Yes, I’m here because it’s my job, but let’s not dwell on that. Let’s talk about you.
She’s watching me, smiling softly. She clicks her pen and opens her notebook.
“You’re Audrey Felton?”
“I am. It’s great to meet you. Thank you for filling in your intake papers so thoroughly.” Was that a dig? Couldn’t be, but it sure felt like one. It sounded like the setup to a joke: How does an unemployed suicidal writer spend their days?
I find my voice, clearing my throat a few times before I speak the longest sentence I’ve spoken to another human in weeks. “I’ve never done this before. I know how that sounds, and I know I should have made an appointment sooner, but I . . . Anyway, I should have come here when I was more . . .” I trail off into silence.
“More what?” she asks gently.
“Willing to . . . be alive.”
Audrey doesn’t move. Heal me, I think. This is so embarrassing. Please, heal me fast.
“You don’t want to be alive?”
I dig into my pocket and pull out the note.
It’s a pathetic mess of a note. I’d written it after drinking all day. I’d been so sick, I wasted four hours just puking up violet, acrid semi-solid mess.
I unfold the paper and hand it to her.
I sort of remember what it says. I’m sorry you never thought this could happen to someone like me . . . I think I’ve done this all well enough. I’m sorry if this seems extreme . . .
A little on the nose. Pathetic for a writer. All clichés. So very hack.
Audrey lips part as she reads it. Then, they come back together in a practiced line.
“Well.” She reaches for the tissue box and hands it to me. “Thank you for changing your mind.”