“What do you miss the most about her,” Ms. Delaney asked, her aged hands readying themselves to write down my thoughts. I stared at her for a moment; her face was fascinating, always picturesque. She was aging gracefully, her sharp facial features more prominent than ever I suppose, her thin skin was only slightly wrinkled, her silver her was in a smooth bun, and her gold-framed glasses were high-end. The only thing I thought was imperfect was her thin, pointed nose; her glasses never seemed to stay on it and all throughout our sessions, she was pushing them up. I never really knew if she really cared about my answers, whether I was just another case of in a never-ending pile, and these “private sessions” were just her going through the same formalities of all her patients. I guess she noticed me staring because she forced a smile and suddenly I felt mandated to give a reply. “I don’t know, I guess just knowing she’s around. She was my biggest support system, when I didn’t have anyone else, I had her.” “Ah,” she mumbled under her breath as she noted. She flipped back a few pages, then returned to today’s page before writing something down. After those few agonizing moments she pushed her glasses up her face before speaking to me, “You know, this is the first time you mentioned her in the past tense. Why exactly?” “To be honest, I haven’t really noticed. I guess even though she was dead, on the inside I didn’t want to accept it. I mean, wouldn’t it be even weirder if I immediately spoke of her in past tense. Like she never even mattered…” I wanted to continue but I figured it didn’t even matter, she got enough information from my response to be satisfied. I folded my arms and slouched in the chair. I didn’t want to be there anymore, irritation suddenly filled me and every little thing got on my nerves. The peaked sun shone through the window making crooked lines in the carpet, the books on her shelves made irregular patterns, her scrunched forehead spoke little to me. I didn’t know what she was writing, and the scratching noise of the ballpoint pen scratching across the coarse notebook paper echoed in my ears like nails against a chalkboard. I was tired. Tired of seeing a therapist, tired of my parents worrying about me, I tired of my classmates and teachers walking on eggshells when it comes to talking to me. Even my friends are putting me on some sympathetic pedestal to make sure I have everything I need. Well, people, no, I don’t have what I need, and I will never have it. The angst that made its way under my skin crept away as Ms. Delaney stared at me from above her glasses. I hated that I could never read her face, she could be thinking I’m just as loony as the person who has me in here in the first place. “Well, aren’t you going to ask me some more questions” I forced out. Anything to break the tense silence. Her annoyingly sympathetic smile that never reached her eyes appeared, and I knew this session was going to be just as bad as the last one.
Therapy always brought the worst out in me, and somehow in the week following a session, I’d ignorantly convinced myself that I was okay. I’d go to work and school, chat with friends and family, pushing back the grief into the hole it was spawned from only for it to be yanked out by the mannerisms of one 50-something owlish psychiatrist. But I was home alone on a Friday afternoon and left to my own devices. I lounged on my bed, CAKE singing about ending friendships in the background. Across from me, a diary, its cover consisting of pressed red poppies, laid beckoning for my touch, and being the tortured soul I am, I went to my desk and grabbed it and a pen before slinking my way back to my warm spot on my bed. I open it to the first entry and flinch at my angrily-written message.
November 12th, 2012
Adrienne Monroe Polk,
You lied to me…
Sincerely,
Donovan Blithe Polk
At Adrienne’s funeral, my grandmother suggested I’d take up writing to help cope with the loss and deal with my emotions. When we returned, my mother and father retired to their room and I mine. By 2:00 am, I realized that I wasn’t going to sleep, so I convinced myself to visit her room. We hadn’t yet decided what were going to do with her stuff, so everything was in the exact same place. Her bed was haphazardly made, her wall collaged with pictures of friends and celebrities, her desk covered in textbooks and her laptop still charging. I looked through all her things as if something among her stuff could answer the multitude of questions when I found her diaries. She could always keep them up, all of them were filled with accounts of her day, dreams, love poems, except for the last one, it was brand new, still covered in plastic. I picked it up with shaking hands and clutched it to my heart, mourning the loss of the memories that she would never get to put to paper and immortalize. I decided that I would fill this diary, but actually doing it is exhausting. I spent the rest of the morning trying to find the words, but eventually, anger and tiredness won over, so I wrote a short letter. It has been over a year and the journal is still not filled, but every day I’ve tried to write some to Adrienne hoping to find a little more peace with each word formed.
I tell her about therapy again, how I feel that as every day passes the mask I created to move on becomes more of me. The lines begin to blur and I realize I’m tearing up, but I keep writing. Sometimes I feel like it is the old times when I’d sneak into her room after bedtime and tell her about school. I’d confess how my crush broke my heart and she’d list all the reasons he was an idiot as she’d braid my hair. Except she can’t respond now, she can’t comfort me and tell me somewhere under all this pain and smiles I’m still here waiting with the grief to be released. I scribble the last of the words and shun the book under my bed. I wipe at the tears on my face, my fingertips are cold and I notice the room is freezing. Taking refuge under my quilt and comforter, I curl into a ball and curse the tears away. I close my eyes and try to imagine what Adrienne would say, but despite desperate efforts, her voice is fading from my memory and it makes me even angrier. My breathing’s heavy, I don’t know if it’s from the suffocation of the heavy blankets or my emotional state, but I try to calm down. I glance at my phone, it’s 4:30. I have an hour and a half before my parents are home. Taking a few deep breaths, I shake off the covers and start thinking about what to do about dinner. Looking in the mirror, my eyes aren’t that red and a smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. It’s as if my face has gotten used to crying. I fix my hair into a ponytail and put on my face, I’ve decided to make mom’s lasagna, it’s always a winner.
My parents are liberal progressives with views of equality that weave into the every facet of their lives, from their choice in supplier in organic foods to the names of my sister and me, choosing unisexual names in case “either of you decide on a sex change, that way you don’t have to pay to get your name changed”. On good days, they could rival even the most intense of Tumblr vegans. I joined them with the salad and Mom had set the table for three, so good days had officially started to outnumber the bad. Kissing them both on the cheek before taking a seat, I sipped my water while waiting for mom to plate some veggie lasagna, dad eyeing the spoon as mom served, preparing myself for the daily dinner discussion.
“So Donnie, how was your meeting with Dr. Delaney today.” Dad probed before taking a huge bite with a smile. I couldn’t judge him, mom’s lasagna was 5-star quality.
“I was anxious most of the time, but apparently I’ve made some sort of progress. I finally mentioned her in the past-tense, and Doc seems to think my heart’s finally accepted what I’ve been trying it. It’s just so repetitive these days, it’s stating the obvious over, but it’s past the point where opening the wound is beneficial. I feel like it’s time to let it heal, and I think she’s dragging things along to get more money out of us.” I dove into my food, needing a break before my mom’s side of inquiry.
“Hmm”, she paused, “well, we’ll see how the next sessions go, and we could discuss your need for continuity. How was school today?”
“Typical. Elridge said he needs me to come in a few hours tomorrow while he does a few interviews. Oh, and I got coffee with Kira during our break.” Kira’s one of my best friends, she didn’t let my grief-stricken decisions affect her perception of me and stuck out until I’ve gotten to how I am today.
“Kira! You two have been hanging out again a lot lately. That’s great.” Dad mumbled in agreeance before continuing mom’s train of thought. “ Ever thought of mentioning the good things in your life, so Dr. D would stop recommending more. My pocketbook believes in your success.”
“Dad, think about it. She’s banking on the inevitability of never getting over it. Death of a relative is how they thrive because no human makes it to the end of their days without thinking of the ones who went before them. Why would she want me to get better when she can get more out of sticking the knife in further. Captitalism, pops, it’s just sickening,” grinning at the thought of Mrs. Delaney dressed as an undertaker banking on the multiple shootouts in an old western town, I watched my parents grin at each other and we focused on eating a bit before they told me about their days. Work was work, Mom met with neighbors, and Dad hung out with Uncle Charles, and all was typical, mundane, and dare I say, perfect, as if nothing happened A little over a year ago, My sister Adrienne killed herself, the incident an echo in caverns of my thoughts. My parents though, they have silenced that voice and managed to find a sense of normalcy day by day. I watched their transition all the while questioning why my own progress was slow and meandering. I saw their returning happiness and passion and it warmed me. Even as I watch them today, mom’s skin and hair has resumed its normal brilliance, while dad’s clothes no longer hang slack on his body, the last thing I want to do is burden them with grief. More grief in the slow, agonizing death of their other daughter. So I smile. I smile as I place dishes in the washing machine and leftovers in the fridge. I smile as I watch the news with them and criticize the media’s methods of garnering views. I do not tell them that when I tell them goodnight and ascend the stairs, it’s a funeral march. That as I’m taking a bath, part of me is being sent down the river. When my head hits the pillow and I succumb to a dreamless sleep, part of me is laid to rest forever. A part of me from a life not to long ago but barely recognizable now gone forever and something else, something manufactured has taken its place. As I’m drifting I realized I haven’t taken my pills for the night, but I don’t get up to find them. I pull the comforter above my head, wondering why Death can’t just take all of me at once. My answer: Death really is an asshole.
Photo by Victoria Bilsborough on Unsplash
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