by Harper Bliss
“Yes.” Cynthia’s question makes me wonder if I’m recalling this correctly, but it’s one of the things that stuck with me, because it didn’t really make sense to me at the time.
“If I did, it was only because the not knowing for sure was driving her mad. Although, in hindsight, I wish that I hadn’t pressed her to get a diagnosis.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe we were doomed either way.”
“I do know that she feels very bad about how things ended between you. Anna knows it’s her fault.”
“Yeah, another thing she can blame herself for.” Cynthia manages a small smile.
“She would hate it if she knew we were sitting here talking about her,” I say.
“She wouldn’t speak to you for days,” Cynthia says. “She takes her aggrieved silences very seriously.”
“You and she never lived together?” I ask.
“No. I pushed for it after we were together for about two years. To me, it just made sense. It was the next logical step. And we stayed over at each other’s houses all the time. And I left more and more of my things at hers, but she always brought them back the next time she came to my house.” She chuckles. “In the end, I accepted that she needed that time for herself, even though she already spends most of the day alone. I think it was more a matter of not being able to accept another person living in her house and messing things up in a way that would annoy her. She likes things just so. It gives her a sense of calm—of much-needed control. Another person’s presence, even if it’s her own partner, is always going to perturb her, I guess. But not living together was not a dealbreaker for me.”
“Before things took a turn for the worst, you and she were happy?” This is beginning to sound as though I need Anna’s ex to talk me into giving Anna another chance.
“I was. But the problem with Anna is that she thinks she’s so hard to love, while she’s exactly the opposite. If she’s feeling good about herself, she’s the most easygoing person I know. With strong opinions, of course.” She smiles again. “One of the good things about not living together was actually that I could watch TV on my own. Watching TV with Anna is a special experience, I’ll tell you that, and not something I was always in the mood for.” She actually chuckles now. “She used to crack me up so much, though.” She follows up with a sigh. “Anna’s at her best when she doesn’t take herself too seriously. When I met her, she didn’t. But once the ASD got into her head, she started taking everything so seriously. And she hardly ever shouted at the TV again. She lost her sense of self, her perception of who she was, after she got the diagnosis. I had been hoping for the opposite effect. I truly believed it would show her who she was more, help her understand herself better, and make her see that the things she went through happened for a reason other than her thinking she was a nut case.” She exhales deeply again. “I thought she was doing better with all of that now, but maybe being with someone brought it all back. Our breakup was hard for her as well, I know that much. Jamie told me once when we had a late night at Lenny’s. I think she’s afraid of the possible pain that opening up to someone else might cause her.” She sits up a bit. “I can talk to her, you know. Make her see some sense. Tell her to not take it all so seriously. Remind her that there’s fun to be had and she’s just as capable of having it as the rest of us.”
“She would just love that.” I chuckle.
“Hey, if she can’t stand it when people talk about her, she shouldn’t behave the way she does.” Cynthia clears her throat. “But it’s one of the things that get worse when she feels like things are quickly spiraling out of her control. She believes that everyone is against her then.”
I shake my head. “God, to live like that. Has she never tried to get some professional help?”
“Not really,” Cynthia says. “I tried to get her some. I made an actual appointment with a counselor for her once, but she had a million excuses not to show up. We had a big row about that. I figured she’d finally get to it when she felt ready, or when things got really bad.”
“But through all of that, you loved her?” I ask.
“Yes,” Cynthia says emphatically. “Of course, because I saw her for who she really is. And it wasn’t a case of you-can’t-choose-who-you-love, because I happen to believe that we’re all very capable of choosing who we love. Which is why, at the end of our relationship, I decided to leave. Because the person she had become was not someone I wanted to love anymore, even though it caused me a great deal of pain, because I knew it wasn’t the real her. But I’d had enough and I had to realize that the only person who could fix Anna, was Anna.”
“That’s why you warned me that day that I shouldn’t try to fix her.”
Cynthia nods. “You should talk to Jamie, Zoe. He knows her better than anyone.”
“I will.” I smile warmly at Cynthia. “Thank you for sharing all of this with me.”
“I’m glad to have this conversation, too. I’m over Anna now and I’ve moved on, but there’s nothing I want more than for her to be happy. That’s why I was so hopeful when you and she started dating, because I knew she wouldn’t take that step if she hadn’t started accepting herself more.”
“Yes, well, I can be very persuasive when it comes to certain matters.” I grin at Cynthia.
“I can see how Anna might have found you hard to resist.”
If I didn’t know any better, I would have taken that as flirting. “I think I see in Anna what you saw in her.”
Cynthia nods. “Good. That does mean she’s getting back to her old self.” She grins at me. “If you want to test her, you should watch The L Word with her.”
“The L Word? Why?” I’m intrigued.
“I can’t explain it. It’s something you have to experience. But if you’re not crying with laughter at the end of an episode, it means she’s not there yet.”
“That’s one of the strangest pieces of advice anyone has ever given me.”
“Come talk to me after,” Cynthia says.
“So what you’re actually saying is that I should give Anna another chance.”
“Maybe that is what I’m saying.” She finds my gaze. “Maybe you should.”
Maybe I will, I think.
14
Anna
I’m not entirely sure how I ended up in the passenger seat of Jamie’s car, on my way to speak with a therapist, mere days after I mildly suggested I might see someone. Jamie has taken my suggestion to heart—much more than I have. But if it had been left up to me, I would not be on my way to see a woman called April Jenkins right now. I’d still be googling reasons not to see a therapist, even if the thoughts inside your own head can cause such anxiety that you’re barely able to function. And the scary part is that I would have found those reasons—I would have stayed up night after night, scouring the internet, to find an obscure, unvetted piece of research to support my claim, and I would have believed it.
I’m too tense to carry on a conversation in the car so we listen to the radio while I read April Jenkins’ website on my phone. Even though it’s too late to cancel the appointment now, my anxiety is so extreme that it will grasp onto anything. A spelling mistake on her website could be enough right now for me to demand that Jamie turn the car around and take me home. If that happened, the fact that I even made it into the car, with the actual intention of seeing a therapist, would be enough to give me back a sense of control for a while.
I would have tried. I found a reason that was valid to my mind. It didn’t work out. It’s an endlessly repeatable cycle that never solves anything. But I still read the text on her website again and again, even though I’ve already gone over it a dozen times. And I know there are no typos. And I don’t even really want Jamie to turn the car around, because he had to go out of his way to set this up for me. He called April and made the appointment, and now he’s driving me there. He will wait for me until I’m done, and then he will drive me back home, after which he will say, “It’s no bother, coz I’m your brother.” But
of course it’s a bother. Who wants to be driving around their autistic sister who was always afraid to learn how to drive and who can’t make her own appointments and, basically, is too afraid to live? Oh fuck, I’m spiraling again, but there’s no way out of it. I can try a couple of deep breaths, but the only way this anxiety spiral is going to pass is after I’ve seen the therapist I’m so afraid to see.
“Zoe called me yesterday,” Jamie says, out of the blue.
I’m too numb to give him much reaction, even though, behind the stiff mask of my face, my brain is going into ultra-overdrive.
“She wanted to talk about you,” he says.
“And did you?”
He shakes his head. “I told her to talk to you directly, but to wait until after today.”
“You think one session with the shrink is going to fix me,” I joke.
“God no, Anna. That will take years.” He turns to grin at me. “Hell, you may never be fixable, then again, who is?”
“How did she sound? Zoe?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t really pick up something like that from a phone call.” The car starts slowing down. “We’re here.”
“Already?” Oh Christ. Is it too late to get out of this? Maybe Mrs. Jenkins has had an emergency and she’ll need to cancel our session at the last minute.
“Yup.” He parks the car and starts getting out, not even asking if he should come in with me, because he knows it’s hard for me to say yes.
“It’ll be all right, Anna. I swear to you.”
I’m still clutching my phone in my hand. If I hold it any tighter, I fear I might crush it with the very force of my fear.
April Jenkins lives in a house with a lot of curb appeal. Jamie rings the bell, says our names, and we’re buzzed in, just like that. My anxiety reaches peak level while we wait, and time seems to speed up and slow down all at once. And then a woman emerges from a door and she’s tall and smiley and her lips are a little crooked, making her look like she’s grinning at something all the time. She ushers me in and leaves Jamie outside and then I’m sitting across from what could quite possibly become my long-term therapist.
I know Jamie got her number off Cynthia, who found this therapist for me years ago, but I refused to go. I had barely recovered from the sensory overload of the Autism Spectrum Disorder assessment. Because I know the text on her website by heart by now, I know that Mrs. Jenkins specializes in helping adults with Autism, with a further specialization in Pathological Demand Avoidance.
I wanted to prepare for this—in fact, that was one of the reasons I gave Jamie for not being able to get myself together so quickly after I’d mentioned that I might want to see someone. I needed more time to prepare.
“You’ve prepared for this for years,” he said, and that was that.
As soon as I knew I had the appointment—and Jamie was going to make me keep it—I tried to write down all the things I would say to a therapist, but I froze. A classic symptom of Pathological Demand Avoidance if ever there was one. So it looks like I have at least come to the right place.
“I know this is hard for you, Anna,” April says. “But I’m glad you made it here today.”
“What did my brother tell you about me?”
“That you could benefit from talking to someone like me.” She turns her crooked grin into a smile. “Would you like me to tell you a bit more about myself?”
“I’ve read your website,” I say.
“Okay. Would you like to tell me a bit about yourself then?”
I don’t know why I’ve always dreaded this question so much, but I do. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll start talking and won’t be able to shut up until all the things I’ve ever felt in my life have been expressed. Or maybe I’m afraid that instead of words, I will only have tears, and I’ll start crying for all the times I’ve felt inadequate, or too different, or too unsuited for this life.
“I’m not very… verbal,” I mumble. And I’m still getting over the shame of having my brother walk me in, as though he’s my dad and I’m twelve. “Which is why I never thought therapy could be very helpful for me. Because I don’t really express myself that way.”
“How do you prefer to express yourself?” April’s voice is very soft and calm. I wonder if she has to try very hard to look this composed. I mostly wonder how she listens to people like me all day long and doesn’t go insane.
“I paint,” I say.
“What do you paint?”
“Mostly people I like. My dog. And my house. It’s all very self-centered, I’m afraid.”
“They’re your paintings, Anna. They can be whatever you like. That doesn’t make them self-centered.”
“Yeah.” I wish I was in my painting studio, being self-centered, right now instead of here.
“May I ask you…” April leans forward a bit. “What are you hoping to get out of this and any possible future sessions with me?”
“Well…” I briefly manage to look her in the eye. “I guess I’m sick and tired of being afraid of everything all the time.”
April nods, but doesn’t say anything in response.
“I guess I’m looking for some coping mechanisms for my bottomless anxiety.”
“You’ve also been diagnosed with PDA.” How does April know all this? Jamie must have told her much more than she’s letting on.
“Yeah.” The most fun of all neuro-strands, I think.
April nods. “How’s your anxiety right now?”
I have to laugh. It’s the only way I can break the tension that coils inside of me. “Through the roof,” I say, after I’m done giggling nervously.
“That’s okay. We’ll work on that. You’ve come to the right place, Anna.” She smiles at me again, and it’s a little reassuring. At least I haven’t cried yet. And she seems likable enough at first glance. “If you’ve read my website, you know that I have two daughters who were diagnosed with PDA when they were young adults.”
I nod. Must be fun living in your house, I think.
“I’m telling you so you know that there are ways to deal with this. It doesn’t have to be doom and gloom all the time. Most of the time, my girls cope well, because they know what it is they’re dealing with. Knowing who you are can be a real gift.” She pauses and gives me a meaningful look—although I’m not sure what it means. “Most people try to figure out why they are the way they are all their lives, and a lot of people never figure it out. To know the root cause of your behavior is a great piece of knowledge to have.”
“I’ve known for years,” I say. “And what it got me was one completely ruined relationship and one…” I don’t really know how to describe my thing with Zoe.
April doesn’t say anything. She must be used to people trying to find their words.
“I met this woman a few months ago. Her name’s Zoe. And it feels like what happened between Cynthia and me two years ago, when we broke up because I couldn’t deal with having ASD, is happening all over again, but much faster. It’s like my subconscious has the need to show Zoe what I’m really like, underneath all the masking and the pretending that I’m normal, so that she knows to stay away from me.” I hadn’t expected to even talk about Zoe. Her walking out on me last weekend might be the direct cause for me being here today, but I have so many other issues to address.
“Tell me about Zoe,” April says. “What is she like?”
I arch up my eyebrows. “What is Zoe like?”
“Yes.” She gives me a therapist nod, which functions as a nudge for me to carry on talking.
“Zoe is…” I pause. “She’s a force of nature. She has the kind of smile that would melt all the remaining snow in the tristate area.” What am I saying? Have I well and truly lost my mind now? “Let’s just say that Zoe has been the subject of many a painting since we met.”
“And what happened? Are you still together?”
“No, I made sure of that.”
“Do you want to give me some more details?”
I mi
ght as well. If I’d known April could help me understand how I fucked up with Zoe, I wouldn’t have resisted coming here so fiercely. So I give her the broad strokes of what went down between Zoe and me, and I try to draw some parallels with the demise of my relationship with Cynthia, so she knows I’m not too stupid to realize that I’m sabotaging myself.
“And why is it so hard for you to accept yourself?” April asks.
“Because…” I shake my head. “When I see someone like Zoe, as much as I like her and want to be with her, in the back of my head, there will always be a nagging little voice telling me that someone like me shouldn’t be with someone like her.”
“When you say ‘someone like me,’ do you mean someone with your neurotype, or someone who hasn’t accepted her neurotype?”
“Both.” I shrug. “It’s basically the same thing. Well, it is for me.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” April puts her pen down. She hasn’t used it too much yet. “It’s not because you’re different that you can’t thrive, Anna. Or that you can’t be with the woman of your dreams.” She fixes her gaze on me. Her eyes are brown, like Zoe’s, but not as pretty and sparkly. “I like to say that difference is a teacher.”
I want to arch up my eyebrows again, but I don’t. I feel like I need to give April the benefit of the doubt.
“Do you know that song, If Everybody Looked the Same?” She clears her throat. “We’d be tired of looking at each other.” She actually sings the last bit. “It’s the same for neurotype. I’m not going to lie, ASD and PDA still suffer from quite a bad rap, but that will change over time.”
“It will always be a disability, as in not having the same abilities as neurotypical people.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have other qualities and skills that neurotypical people can only dream of.”
“That may be the case for some people with ASD, but I’m not one of the savants. I’m just plain old disabled.”
