"Listen, Maggie, I know you really love this international stuff, but there is no way you can complete the research by Tuesday. Forget any hope of finishing the project on time. Besides, if I recall correctly, you are still reading the last assignment that Professor Fullerton dumped on us, and it's due on Monday."
"Forget about Dr. Fullerton. Please, Tom, I really want to do this. Stiles will be blown away. I'll stay up all weekend if I have to. Just say yes, please?
Tom rolled his eyes.
"I'll take that as a yes. Thank you," I said, and hugged him.
"It better be finished on time, Maggie. I can't believe I'm letting you talk me into this. It's academic suicide."
***
Sickened by the memory, I picked up the pen and wrote, "Yes," beside Question #7. Thank goodness it didn't ask me to elaborate, because it was embarrassing to admit that many of my plans and ideas crashed around me. Nor did I want to mention all the innocent people, who fell victim to my whims.
Rolling my head around to loosen my neck muscles and, while stretching it to the left, I read the small sign affixed to the wall beside the door outlining, Dr. Graham's cancellation policy. Maybe I'll extend my hand to him and say, "Hi, I'm Maggie and there's an evil woman who wants me dead living inside my head."
Stretching to the right, I thought, Who knows? Maybe all of his patients hear mean voices in their heads. No, there can't be other people living like this.
As I tried to decide between completing Question #3, or reading a magazine article about Attention Deficit Disorder in adults, a deep male voice startled me.
"Hello, Maggie?" I turned to face the voice, and he reached forward to shake my hand. "I'm Dr. Graham. Please, follow me."
We walked past Linda's desk. Her expression said, "You didn't finish your paperwork."
I looked at her with lowered eyes, a bowed head, and then shrugged my shoulders in an apologetic fashion. She threw me a somewhat appeased smirk. I followed the doctor into a corner office.
Just like his office, he didn't fit my mental image either. My Dr. Graham appeared professorial, complete with suede patches on his jacket elbows. The real doctor resembled a hippy, left over from the sixties. His gray hair, braided into a ponytail, hung about four inches below his collar. A stack of bracelets--turquoise, rawhide, beads, and silver--jingled when he moved his arm and clashed with the traditional wire framed glasses perched at the very tip of his nose. He had a warm face and a nice smile. If I was about thirty-years older, I would describe him as kind of sexy.
"Please, sit down anywhere you feel comfortable," he said, gesturing to a chair and a sofa. His voice matched his office. "I see from your intake questionnaire that you are here because your therapist, Karen, suggested it."
"Yes," I replied.
"Maggie, the goal of this first session is for me to learn about you. I'll gather information about your symptoms, dig a little into your family history and your medical history. It will take multiple sessions for me to gather all the information necessary to make a diagnosis."
"It's not going to take years, is it?" I asked.
"No, it will not be a year. Let's begin. Maggie, your intake form states that you've been on Zoloft for about two and a half years, but I don't see the name of another psychiatrist anywhere on the form. Did I miss something?"
"No, you didn't miss anything. You're my first psychiatrist."
"If you don't have a psychiatrist, how do you get your Zoloft?" he questioned.
"It's easy, when I run out of refills, I tell my regular doctor to call a new prescription into my pharmacy. The first doctor prescribed fifty milligrams, but now I take one hundred milligrams. I told my last doctor to up the dosage."
"You told the doctor the dosage you wanted, and he gave it to you without question?" Dr. Graham asked, with a concerned look on his face.
"Yes, sort of. He asked me a few questions before agreeing to increase the milligrams."
"Where did you get the first prescription, Maggie?" He asked.
Forgetting the first one was impossible...
***
"Yes, this is extremely urgent. I need to see the doctor today. I can't stop crying and shaking. I have an important final this afternoon, and I can't control myself."
"Maybe you should go to the hospital if it's that bad," replied to the obviously dumb woman on the other end of the line.
"I just told you, I have an important test today that I cannot miss. I am not going to a hospital. I am depressed, seriously depressed. Please give me an appointment," I begged.
"I can squeeze you in at 11:15."
"Thank you so much. I'll be there."
I arrived twenty minutes early and sat in the waiting room, watching the other patients go in and out until finally, a chubby lady dressed in scrubs carrying a clipboard called "Maggie Hovis, next."
The nurse escorted me to the examination room. "In here." She gestured toward a door. Before we were even inside, she started her instructions. "Strip down to bra and underwear. You will find a disposable gown in the top drawer. Someone will be in soon."
"Wait, please, I'm not sick. I'm depressed. Can't I keep my clothes on?"
But, she was already out of the room and either didn't hear me or chose to ignore me. Please, let me keep my clothes on. Totally out of my control, my body caved and the horrible thoughts screamed in my head. With no strength left to fight, I gave in. Inconsolable pain racked my body. By the time the doctor walked into the room, I was lying on the exam table facing the wall, shaking and sobbing. I felt a hand on my back and heard the words, "What's wrong?"
"I hate myself."
***
"Maggie, how did you originally get the Zoloft?" Dr. Graham repeated.
"I got my first Zoloft prescription from a regular doctor at the student health center. She gave me a one-year prescription and suggested I make an appointment with the school psychiatrist. I ignored the suggestion. After that prescription ran out, I went to another doctor for a physical, and he gave me a six-month refill. Getting it has been very easy."
"Maggie, diagnosing a mental health issue is like putting information in a funnel. Questions must be answered before a diagnosis can be made. That doctor should have sent you directly to a psychiatric clinic. I will not prescribe anything until I know you. But for now, while we figure things out, please continue to take your Zoloft."
For a few minutes, he completely focused on the clipboard that rested on his lap, as his hand swiftly wrote notes.
As he wrote, I tried to appear occupied and thoughtful. So I let my eyes scan the pictures on the walls. A repeat of the collection hanging in the waiting room--a painted equivalent of a yoga class. Thomas Kincaid prints must have been recommended by the Psych Office Police, because the pictures hung on Karen's walls were the exact same style. Maybe I should mention my discomfort with his artistic choices.
Finally, looking up from the notepad, he asked, "Has anyone in your family ever been diagnosed with a mental problem?"
"My grandma spent some time in a local hospital psych ward."
"Do you know why?" he asked.
Shaking my head, I said, "Not really, I think she hallucinated."
"Anyone else?"
Inhaling and feeling my stomach tighten, I replied, 'My great aunt Ella went into a mental hospital at sixteen and never came home."
"Do you know why she was institutionalized?'
"No, I just learned about her existence a few days ago. No one mentions her name. She's the family secret, and she died when I was a child. According to my other great aunt, Ella went into the hospital after her mother died."
"Sometimes a major life issue can trigger a depressive episode," he explained. "Maggie, have you ever been hospitalized for mental illness?"
"No. But, once during high school, I had a really bad episode. My dad threatened to admit me."
"Why didn't he take you?" he asked, his brows a bit tight.
For a moment, I sat staring through my mind's
eye, at a scene from long ago...
***
"Maggie, open the damn door, or I'll take it off the hinges," my dad yelled through the bathroom door.
"No"
"Maggie, I just want to talk to you. Please, let me in."
"I don't want to talk. I want to be dead," I sobbed.
"What are you doing in there? You're not opening the medicine cabinet, are you? Maggie Louise, stay out of the medicine cabinet."
"What do you care? You hate me. I'm ugly and worthless. Admit it, say it--I embarrass you. You don't want me to be your daughter. When I'm dead, you'll never have to be ashamed again. You can't stand having an ugly, stupid daughter. You hate me. I know you do."
"Maggie, if you don't open this door and talk to me, I'll break it down and drive you to the hospital. You don't want to be put on the floor where Grandma goes, do you?"
My chest heaved as I clenched the pill bottle. My dad continued with his tirade through the door.
"Maggie, I know you have the pills. Put them down now."
***
For the very first time, I looked Dr. Graham straight in the eye. In a clear voice, I said, "I suppose he was afraid I would end up like Ella."
"That would make sense from his point of view," Dr. Graham replied. Before I could add anything, he continued. "Maggie, you keep using the word 'episode.' What do you mean by an episode?"
I told him the same thing I had told Karen, concluding with, "I also need to tell you, I can only describe this experience from the perspective of the third person. I'm not schizophrenic, but during these episodes, I have no control over my own thoughts, therefore, I refuse to own them. So I attribute the bad thoughts to an evil woman residing in my head. I hate her, and she hates me. We both want each other dead. She wants me to be dead, physically and figuratively. I want to kill her.
"I don't actually hear 'voices,' but the thoughts become loud, controlling, and, at times, paralyzing. The real me doesn't want to die. That's why I have to make the distinction."
For a few moments, he scribbled notes onto his yellow legal pad. I focused on a dark stain on the carpet under the window--a dark smudge made by a spilled plant or muddy shoes.
Dr. Graham cleared his throat before he switched the line of questioning to my medical history. After twenty minutes, he announced, "Maggie, I'd like you to come back on Monday. Could you be here at ten?"
"Sure," I replied without hesitation.
CHAPTER 9
Baggage, Chocolate Covered Strawberries, and Nick
For the rest of the week, my concentration flip-flopped like windshield wipers--one minute excited about spending the weekend with Stephanie and the next, angry at my family for abandoning my aunt. Questions about Ella bombarded my thoughts, rendering me incapable of studying or focusing on lecturing professors. I broke down, and dialed my other great aunt, Rose. The phone rang and rang, but Rose didn't pick up, and a recorded voice informed me she never set up voicemail. The situation forced me to accept Aunt Mildred as the only available source of factual information, but talking to her once, in any given week, was more than enough.
***
Steph's plane landed on schedule, and we met at the US Air baggage claim. I spotted her riding down the escalator, engrossed in conversation with a cute blonde guy. Once she spied me, she waved him off and trotted down the moving steps. After hugging and squealing, we walked to the luggage carousel. We rented a cart to haul the bags from the airport to my car. Unfortunately, my apartment building failed to offer baggage schlepping service. Steph pouted and whined as we tugged her humongous suitcase, computer case, and a giant shoulder bag down Fifth Ave.
A few yards away from the building entrance, she dropped the suitcase, popped out her hip, and rolled her eyes. "What, in the hell, is wrong with the men in this city? Hello--two pretty women. If you can't help, at least have the courtesy to stop and apologize," she announced to the oblivious people walking toward campus.
Only my cousin Stephanie could be mad at strangers for not being at her beck and call.
"Buy a suitcase with wheels, like normal people do," I said.
Finally, we made into my apartment, dumped the bags on my living room floor, and collapsed, giggling, on the sofa.
"So," she said. "The asshole moved out. How are you paying the rent on this place? You need a smaller apartment."
"I can't move," I replied with no intention of offering an explanation, because she couldn't understand and wouldn't even try. "Are you thirsty?" I asked, jumping off the couch and heading toward the kitchen--too soon to discuss Sam. Out of her line of sight, I leaned against the refridgerator and closed my eyes...
***
"I don't know, Sam, do you really want to do this? Live together? If you want out, it's not too late."
"Maggie, you spend every night at my apartment now. What difference does it make other than being together without my two disgusting roommates?"
"It is different. Now, when I think you are tired of me being around, I can go back to the dorm. Once we move into the apartment, you're stuck with me. I'll have nowhere else to go."
"I want to be stuck with you." He grabbed my hand and lifted it into the air. "Quick, get the Superglue."
"You say that now, but maybe you'll feel differently in a month or a week. What happens if you get bored with me?"
"Bored? Bored? Maggie, when will you get it? I love you. Everything about you fascinates me. I love watching you comb your hair. I will never, ever be bored with you."
"I'm afraid. What if you meet a beautiful girl in one of your classes? You don't want to be trapped with me."
"I met the girl of my dreams in sixth grade and waited seven years for her to talk to me. Maggie, you have no competition."
"You say that now."
***
"I get it, lease," Stephanie yelled from the living room.
Her voice jerked me back to the kitchen. I grabbed a cup, opened the freezer, dumped in few lumps of ice, and filled it with water. After straightening my posture, I returned to the living room.
"When's it up?" she asked, settling back into the sofa and kicking her left shoe into the air.
"I'm on a month-to-month," I said, hoping my voice conveyed disinterest in the subject. "So how is the guy from Spain?"
"History," she replied while flipping aloft the other shoe. "Then why are you still living here? This place must cost a fortune every month."
I shifted my focus away from her spiked-heeled, peep-toe pumps. "Steph, its Pittsburgh, not Manhattan, and how in the hell do you walk in those things?"
"I know rent here is cheaper than in Manhattan, and what are you talking about? Those are my comfy walking shoes."
"True, money is a bit tight, but if he comes home, the problem will be solved." Oops, I thought as the words slipped out. Damn, big mistake.
She threw her arms back over her head, clasped her fingers behind her neck. "Oh, Maggie, let him go. I'm here to make you understand. Sam is no longer a problem. Get it? He's finito, gonzo, bye-bye. I refuse to let you whine about him all weekend. Let's party it up. We haven't been together in months."
She sprang from the sofa and flounced toward the bathroom. "I have to pee." Midway down the hall, she flipped her hair over her head and looped an elastic band around a thicker than rope, sandy brown pony tail. Without even looking back at me, she asked, "When's Amy getting here?"
"She'll be here around seven o'clock, bearing food and movies. In the meantime, I hate to tell you this, but I have a three o'clock class. Can you entertain yourself for an hour?"
She emerged from the bathroom, sporting a freshly scrubbed face, lipstick, and by the smell of it, my perfume. After wiggling her feet back into the stilts, she hoisted her giant sack over her shoulder. "Sure, I'll walk to campus with you. While you study the books, I'll check out the Pittsburgh guys. Text me when your class is over, and I'll meet you at the Cathedral of Learning. You know me, can't resist a sound architectural structure, with or without
legs."
We met up as planned and proceeded to Starbucks. As we walked, Stephanie rattled off information regarding the architectural styles of the buildings. I nodded a lot, enjoying the sound of her voice and the sensation of sunshine warming my face. Being next to Stephanie buoyed my spirit. But it also highlighted the depressing nature of my life. I pushed those thoughts away.
We sipped our coffee and giggled. "Look at the guy walking toward us--right behind the ugly lady dressed in a Steeler shirt. He has great hair. Definitely, Sam's replacement," she said, ramming her elbow into my arm. "He's getting closer. Smile, Maggie. Flip that wavy movie star hair of yours, and stick out your chest. Make those almost boobs of yours look bigger."
The man approached and smiled.
"Hi," Stephanie replied, flirting demeanor on overdrive. "Say hello," she whispered to me out of the side of her mouth.
"He's a stranger. Didn't your mother teach you not to talk to strangers?" I mumbled back.
***
At promptly seven o'clock, Amy arrived with food. The insulated travel bag slung over her left shoulder contained chocolate, peanut-butter chip cookies; a dozen strawberries dipped in chocolate; and half of her "death by chocolate" cake. The bag in her right hand held our entrée.
Our main course originated at The O, a restaurant more aptly called a feeding trough for poor college students. As far as greasy spoons went, it resided in a class by itself. According to a campus rumor, the French fry oil hadn't been changed since 1996. No one cared--O fries reigned over all others. The grease stained bag in Amy's hand contained two cheeseburgers, an Italian sub for Steph, and a large order of fries--a heart attack in a white paper sack.
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