Dr. Khan’s round, friendly face usually made me smile, but not today. I was sad, deep down in a dark hole where nobody could follow.
“Hello,” he said softly when he entered the bedroom. “Jillian tells me you’re not doing well. What’s happening?”
I turned my back to him and stared at the wall. It had worked at the hospital and…Yes! Score! It worked again. Eventually, he left and told my aunt he’d come back another day. I had a feeling I could no longer convince him I’d be fine with just my meds, as I had when I’d seen him last month at his office. I sensed that a therapist was in my future.
I heard Dr. Khan give Aunt Jillian some sleeping pills (for me, not for her, though I can’t imagine she was getting much rest, between my caterwauling and the sheer worry she must have felt) and tell her to keep an eye on me. Since I’d already proven that I was capable of taking an overdose, Jillian kept track of my meds and doled them out to me as prescribed. The new sleeping pills knocked me out for hours at a time. From what I remember, I didn’t think about anything much in between bouts of sleep. I mostly lay around feeling wretched, feeling a sharp, inner agony that I couldn’t touch or see but which was nonetheless like a gaping wound somewhere inside of me. I did want to die; that I remember. Death was the only thing I felt would stop the pain of my existence. Like turning out a light. Snap. Done.
* * *
—
Akilah called again when I was awake one time. I picked up.
“Oh my God, I’ve been so worried! Are you okay?” Akilah’s panic showed on her face and in her voice. She was frantic. “You didn’t go and do anything to hurt yourself—?”
I groaned an apology to her. Tears trembled in my eyes. “I’m alive. But I can’t talk, okay? I’m sorry.” And I hung up on my very best and only friend. Which made me feel so bad I started to panic again. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just be normal?
Tears, snat, anguish. Lather, rinse, repeat.
* * *
—
Julie and Jillian took turns sitting with me practically around the clock. I would fall asleep with my head in Julie’s lap and wake up in Jillian’s arms, hardly knowing one hour from another. I had never felt so wretched.
* * *
—
When Dr. Khan returned, I grumbled that house calls cost a fortune, and he said he didn’t usually make house calls at all. “I know what it’s like to be a new immigrant. It can be really scary. Everything’s big and strange. And it all moves so fast.” He added, “I don’t make this exception for everybody, though. Jillian and I go way back. You’re important to her and I want to help her support you. She didn’t want you to go back to a hospital so soon after your recent stay.”
First: Immigrant? Whaaaat? But I brushed that aside. I’d obsess about it later, I was sure. For now there were other details to unpick. Until he’d mentioned it, I hadn’t even thought about a house call as a big deal. And hospital? It never crossed my addled mind once. Then it hit me like a full-on Cobra Kai roundhouse kick how terrified Jillian and Julie must have been that I would have tried to kill myself again. It was true, though, I had had a Classic Nervous Breakdown. Again. This time I actually felt relieved I hadn’t died, as much as I had wanted to be dead when the dreaded canyon yawned in my belly. I was alive and I was…happy to be alive? Maybe not quite happy to be alive, but at least sort of happy I wasn’t dead. It was a lot to process. I wouldn’t let Jillian leave, gripping her hand like I did in the bathroom during the Tacos and Tequila Incident. Stay, please, I begged with my eyes. She smiled and squeezed my fingers to let me know she understood, and that she would stay. Julie leaned against the doorframe, looking elegant despite the fretful look on her face.
“What do you think led to this panic attack?” Dr. Khan asked baldly. He’d been so careful when we last met. I realized he’d decided to try another tactic.
“Was it…because of the boy?” Julie nervously prompted.
This whole episode wasn’t really anything to do with Josh or his dad. Yes, it was the awfully uncomfortable dinner that proved to be the tipping point, but honestly, it could have been anything pushing me over the edge. That afternoon, I should have known that something was up. I knew I was feeling sadder and more hopeless and scared than I had been since coming to Edmonton, and the awkward dinner somehow, in my tangled reasoning, seemed to be all my fault.
Dr. Khan smiled at me hopefully, waiting for me to say some of those things out loud. At first, I couldn’t. Though I had been under Dr. Khan’s care since I had been in Edmonton, he had never seen me crash. In our first long appointment he asked me stuff I recognized from sessions I’d had with the doctor in Trinidad. Usually Dr. Khan didn’t push me. He talked more than I did, because I didn’t say much in our sessions. This time he asked a lot of questions. Like, a lot. And he refused to let me avoid them.
I kept glancing over at Jillian and Julie. My mother had responded very coldly to this part of everything when I was in hospital, making me feel as though my whole existence was inadequate and that I was only making things harder for her as a single mom. But Jillian and Julie didn’t react like that. They looked worried while the doctor asked the first few questions—not worried I’d say something to embarrass them, but worried that I was so unwell. It was all new to me. I wanted to see how they would react to my answers. Dr. Khan finally asked me, “Do you want them to stay or are you going to work with me today, really work?”
I sighed. It was scary. But if the alternative was that disgusting hell of the last couple of days, then…“Okay. They can leave. Thanks, Aunties.”
They both said you’re welcome at the same time. They grinned a little and ducked out of the room to give us some privacy, holding each other’s hands on the way.
“Tell me what’s been going on,” Dr. Khan said. He was not as formal as my first psychiatrist at the hospital in Trinidad, and talked to me like I figured a big brother would, if I had one. “Are you taking the meds I prescribed?”
I nodded. I finally talked, in a low, shaky voice. “I do everything you said to do, Doctor. I take the medicine. I exercise. I try not to worry about things I can’t control. But I don’t know. Sometimes I just feel…You ever spin around really fast with a water balloon and then let it go? I feel like that.”
“Like the person spinning?”
“No. Like the balloon. I’m so scared. And when I get scared I get mad. And then I get sad because I’m so scared and mad and I can’t do anything about any of it. It makes me…” I slumped forward, dropping my chin to my chest, and wrapped my arms around my middle to hold back some of the pain that threatened to surge.
“Oh.” He sighed. “Antidepressants don’t work overnight,” Dr. Khan said, telling me what I already knew. “They take weeks to be absorbed into your system.” In my case, he explained, the medication I had been on since my troubles began took about three weeks to take effect, and as long as two months to really work. “You feel the meds have been helping? Do you feel better or worse now than when you came to Edmonton?”
“Kind of better? They help me not feel so sad. Sometimes.” Sometimes I still felt like I had the Grand Canyon in my belly, but to be honest those times had been getting further and further apart until the Classic Nervous Breakdown.
“Your going out, walking, swimming, and going to the gym also help,” he said. “Jillian told me all about your busy days.”
I had no idea they knew or cared what I did every day. I told them about my activities, but neither of them made a big deal out of it. They just let me be. “I read that it’s good for you to try to do stuff when you’re depressed.”
“Yup,” Dr. Khan said. “Depression and its close buddy anxiety are mental illnesses, but they have physical aspects as well. Most people don’t realize how much exercise can help.”
After I left the hospital, I’d done a lot of Googling of depres
sion and anxiety. I learned that plenty of teens and even some little kids suffered with depression, even though adults might question what they could be depressed about. I knew that part of the cause of my problem was my brain chemistry. People who have depression don’t make enough of this brain chemical called serotonin, which scientists think helps make you happy. The most popular kind of antidepressant helps your brain build up more serotonin so you feel happier. But your brain also makes serotonin (and other feel-good chemicals) when you exercise and avoid stress, when you’re hugged, and from sunshine. I can’t honestly say if I had been feeling better because of the medication or because I was out of my horrible school and away from my judgy mother. I was walking and swimming in that weak-ass Canadian sunshine, and getting plenty of hugs from Jillian and Julie. And still, for the past few days the paralyzing pain and self-hatred had come back as strong as ever.
For as long as I could remember, my anxiety kept me up at night. I would worry about failing at school, every stupid thing I had ever said, global warming, my mother, the father I never knew. Fear would steal my dreams, gnawing at my guts and closing up my throat. Akilah told me that I worried for nothing, but her words meant little to me and certainly didn’t help me sleep when I was staring up at the ceiling in the middle of the night. When they first gave me the medication for my anxiety it made me doze, which was great for my sleeplessness. As the weeks went on, though, it was less and less effective. This meant my nightly vigil over all the bad things, real or imagined, had started up again about two weeks before the Tacos and Tequila Incident.
“Kiddo, you worry too much,” Dr. Khan said. “Really. Remind yourself that worrying won’t change anything. Do what you can do, and the rest is out of your hands, and that’s okay.”
“I’m so dumb,” I muttered.
“And please,” he begged, looking me straight in the eye, “remember what I told you about being gentle with yourself. Give yourself a break. You’re a good, valuable person. And you’re not dumb.”
Dr. Khan and I talked for about twenty-five minutes, with him doing most of the talking. He wrapped up when Jillian came back to the doorway trying not to look concerned.
“We’re done for today, but are you writing in your journal?”
I nodded.
“But you know,” he said to me in a gentle voice, “you have to see a therapist. I don’t usually do this type of talk therapy, I told you.”
“But—” I tried to resist, but both he and Jillian gave me such stern looks that my protestations crumbled. I guessed I would have to consider talk therapy with someone else after all. Soon, I promised them. Yeah, right.
He talked to Julie and Jillian in the corridor outside my room for another few minutes about what to expect. I could hear him. “She’ll be very quiet, probably, and might take some time to get back on her feet. Don’t push her to do too much, but don’t baby her either. She’s sick but not physically helpless. Try to coax her out of bed and even out of the house. She should not be on her own for a little while, until the suicidal thoughts subside. Encourage her to exercise. Once someone’s with her, she should be fine. And make that appointment ASAP.”
“I’m on it,” Julie chirped. “Booked an appointment in three weeks….”
My stomach heaved. I’d have to do that stupid questionnaire with another doctor? Dig up all that crap about my mom? Tell yet another person what a waste of space I felt I was? Yuck, yuck, yuck.
“What about having people over? We were going to have a barbecue next weekend,” Jillian said. “We were going to cancel it.”
“Nah,” Dr. Khan said. My heart dropped. I’d have to see people? Why, oh why? “She has to find ways to cope with her condition within a family. If she finds it gets to be too much, she can retreat to her room. Don’t force her. Encourage her to remember that other people can be fun to be around. You might want to tell your friends to give her a lot of space. Just say she’s a moody teenager; they’ll give her a wide berth.”
Jillian walked him to the front door. Julie came to me and sat on my bed, holding my hand. I was able to have a conversation for the first time in days. Talking to Dr. Khan had helped, in the end. But I felt so embarrassed about the way I had cried, the way I had felt, and the trouble I’d caused over the past few days.
“I’m really sorry about this,” I muttered to her.
“Oh, muffin,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. We knew this might happen. We’re here to support you. Whatever you need.”
“Yeah. But it’s so…” I didn’t know what to say. I felt ashamed of how I had behaved, even though I knew that I really didn’t have any choice about it. Clinical depression and anxiety disorders have minds of their own.
“Hey. Don’t worry about it,” repeated Julie with a firmness I seldom heard in her sweetly musical voice. “What do you want for dinner?”
I shrugged. While talking to Dr. Khan had helped, making decisions still felt like one of the hardest things.
“Curry?”
“Uh. Yeah,” I said. Julie’s chicken curry was amazing. And she made it with basmati rice and about six different side vegetables, each served in a little silver bowl. My favorite was dal, warm yellow split peas made into a puree. All that cooking should have taken hours and hours, but Julie somehow did it in two. Jillian returned and Julie slipped out to start dinner. In moments I smelled the wonderful aromas of frying garlic and geera, or to Canadian Aunty Julie, cumin.
Jillian was looking at me with a little half-smile.
“Chickie! You had us really scared for a while.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I’m too much trouble.”
“Nonsense! We love you. And we knew you were dealing with this when we invited you to stay here,” she said, echoing what Julie had said. I think they had worked out a spiel in advance.
“Want to go outside?”
I shook my head. I had no idea what day it was or what time it was but I knew that it had been quite some time since my last bath. I felt sticky and dirty and could feel a layer of grit on my teeth. I smelled like old, wet dog. “Think I’ll take a shower.”
She smiled encouragingly, helped me up, and led me to the bathroom. She sat on the edge of the bathtub while I reached into the medicine cabinet for toothpaste. The floss and mouthwash looked lonely on the now barren shelves. There wasn’t a single razor or bottle of pills in sight. I felt a little contempt for myself. What kind of person puts their family through this? Why shouldn’t they hate me? I am useless. But then I saw Jillian’s dark eyes looking back at mine in the mirror. There was no hate in them. There was only love. She seemed glad to sit there and keep me company.
I brushed my teeth. My aunt moved to lean on the sink while I had a shower. My back hurt from lying in bed so long. I washed my hair and body slowly, with shaking hands. I dried off with the towel Jillian held out for me.
In my room I pulled on some clean clothes and sat on the edge of my bed for a while next to Jillian, both of us silent. By then the house was full of the pungent smell of curry and the aromatic scent of basmati rice.
I suddenly realized that my last meal had been the barely eaten chicken at Tacos and Tequila. Remembering that reminded me that I had had my freak-out session in the presence of the Cute Boy, the best-looking boy I had ever seen in my entire life, who miraculously seemed to be interested in me! I groaned and hid my face in a pillow. Jillian put her hand on my shoulder and rubbed it lightly, no doubt gearing up to deal with another meltdown.
“Don’t worry,” I said, my voice muffled by the pillow. “I’m not going to trip off. I was just remembering how I messed up in front of—”
I gulped my last words down. “What?” Jillian asked.
“Nothing,” I lied, and then got up and we went outside to the deck. The tubs of summer flowers in the backyard seemed way too bright after my seeing nothing but blank wa
lls and bed linen for days. There was a light breeze blowing. The flowers bobbed their heads in the rustic-looking planters. A few leaves blew off the neighbor’s maple tree, falling on the neat, green lawn. I picked up a rake and went to gather the stray leaves. When I’d pulled them into a little pile, Jillian and I sat on the patio chairs and just watched the dancing flowers. My hands were still shaking.
After a while, Julie joined us. “Dinner’s almost done,” she said, wiping her hands on a paper towel. Dropping an absentminded kiss on the top of Jillian’s head, she took a seat next to us. “What do you want to do tomorrow?” she asked me.
“Dunno,” I said.
“Swimming or gym?” Jillian said, mindful of the doctor’s words about exercise.
“Gym, I guess,” I said after a minute, thinking of my comfy new sneakers.
“We should take turns taking her around,” Julie suggested to Jillian. “I’ll take her tomorrow, you could do the next day.”
“Don’t you think I should take her out first?” Jillian responded.
“Um, hello?” I said. “I am sitting right here.” Julie looked abashed, but only a little bit. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be okay with either one of you.” People fighting over me wasn’t something I was accustomed to, but I could get used to it.
Julie beamed at me. I didn’t say it out loud, but what I meant was that she was equally as important to me as Jillian—who looked at me with a big grin when she caught on.
“Well, look at us,” Jillian said. “One big happy.”
Maybe not happy, not yet. But one big something, for sure.
Jillian and I were in the kitchen when the phone rang. Since hardly anybody ever called other than Cynthia, we knew what that ring-ring sound probably meant.
“Hello, yeah?” I said when I picked up.
“ ‘Hello, yeah?’ Is that how you answer the phone?” Her voice was sharp. My mother was irritated at my lack of whatever, blah, blah, blah. As usual. You suck, kid. I wish you were a better daughter.
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