Matt Jenkins has been my psychotherapist since I was ten years old. I could call him or schedule video sessions even when I lived in Seattle. He works in the same medical office as my father, Daniel. They’re not friends, but they have a strong professional respect for each other.
My father could never deal with my clinical situation, so he referred me to his colleague. When I was ten, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder, and we found out I suffer from panic attacks. That’s why I’ve been on anti-anxiety medication since childhood.
When I was eleven, we also learned I suffer from persistent depressive disorder, and since then, both medication and therapy have been trying to help me cope.
Medication is supposed to stabilize my mood, limit agitation and sadness. And though it helps, I can’t feel happy. He fucked my head up, and I’ll never forgive him for taking away from me the chance to be a normal person. No matter how many times I’m told that I’m normal, I don’t believe it.
My mind is fucked up, and my mind is so terrifying that I’m scared to be alone with my thoughts for too long.
I’m ashamed of it, even though I’m constantly reminded it’s not my fault that I’m so sick. That there’s nothing wrong with needing professional help. That no matter how dark my thoughts are, I’m not to blame.
Everyone tells me it’s not my fault that I’m too tired to shower or make my bed. They say I’m not crazy. But I don’t believe them.
Dr. Jenkins gives me an encouraging smile and goes back to writing in his notebook while I force myself to leave the skin around my fingers alone.
I pull out a crayon and start tracing shapes on the blank paper in front of me.
Today’s exercise was supposed to help me write down what I’ve been thinking these last few weeks. Maybe it would get me to open up, at least on paper. But I couldn’t. I tried for over an hour, and nothing came.
Dr. Jenkins is a kind, middle-aged man. His green shirt contrasts with his black skin and coal-dark eyes. He never forces me to speak, and after each failed session, he always finds some new approach.
“Okay, Vincent. Shall we try to talk?” he asks after a few minutes of silence.
I wish I could say no. I hate talking—but I know I have to.
“I asked her if she was angry with me. Do you think that’s normal? I don’t understand what the fuck is wrong with me. It’s Nova. I can’t ask her if she’s mad at me.”
Dr. Jenkins nods and keeps writing. He knows I don’t like being stared at. “The point we need to focus on,” he says, “is why you asked her that. It’s okay to make mistakes—everyone does. But why does it matter so much to you whether she’s angry? What does her anger mean to you?”
I shrug and reach for another sheet of paper, this time choosing a purple crayon. It reminds me of her.
I start drawing without knowing what to make. Maybe because my brain blanks when I think of her. I can barely remember my own name when I think of her voice—or the little purple stars tattooed beneath her breasts.
I sigh. “It makes me think she really cares about me.”
He keeps writing. “You’ve known Nova for many years, right?”
I nod but don’t look at him.
“From what you’ve told me,” he continues, “she’s afraid of people who respond with anger. So why would you want her to be angry at you? Don’t you think people can show they care in gentler ways? With love, maybe. Like your parents do. Or Nova herself. Or your best friend—Steven, right?”
“How do I deserve kindness when I treated her like she was nothing? I deserve a punch. She should tell me I’m a shitty friend, that I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
The sound of his pen stops, and I feel his gaze on me.
“Vincent...”
“What? I’m right. I don’t deserve her forgiveness—least of all her love.”
“You didn’t leave to hurt her,” he says gently, “but because at that moment, it was the decision you thought was best. Everyonemakes mistakes. The only one who can judge your choice is you. Do you regret leaving for Seattle?”
Yes. “No.”
“Are you sure? You don’t have to answer me out loud. You can just answer yourself,” he reassures me, rummaging in his desk drawer.
I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Talking about her always overwhelms me. Of course I regret it. I never should’ve left. I should’ve asked her to come with me to Seattle, to start a new life together, away from everyone. I could’ve protected her from her mother once and for all.
I should have told her how I really felt—that her laugh took my breath away every time. That I’d do anything to make her laugh just once because of me. That she gave me the strength to keep fighting for my life and my sanity.
