“I think I should.” I can’t explain why.
“If that’s what you want. Can I walk you in, at least?”
“Sure.”
We go in. The receptionist isn’t there. There’s an Out for Lunch, Back After One sign on the desk. My heart drops. I had hoped she’d be here. I could see that person who has her life together, who came out the other side.
I guess my mom is that person, and I never realized it.
Mom leaves. I sit, alone. All of a sudden, I feel like scum for making her wait out in the car. Even though it’s a beautiful day outside, and she’s given no indication she’s upset, I have done something unforgivable. She’s spent all this time with me to make sure I’m okay, and I send her away.
I do my best to cry quietly, but when Anna emerges from her office, saying goodbye to another client, I can tell they’ve heard me.
“Come on inside, Evie,” Anna says.
She offers me a tissue box and lets me cry until I get myself under control again.
“Sorry,” I say. “I can’t stop crying.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” she says. “Is this why you didn’t want your mom to stay in the office with you?”
I blow my nose again. “She’s going to get sick of me if I keep crying like this. But I can’t... can’t get it under control.”
“I don’t think that’s true. Have you told her you feel like that? Heard what she has to say about it?”
I shake my head. I’m too scared.
“I bet she’ll surprise you.” Anna smiles; it’s not mean. “A lot of people cry when they come in here. You’re not alone. Many people try to hide it too. But crying is one of your body’s ways of releasing emotion. It’s good for you.”
“Cryingsucks.”
“It can definitely suck when you’re doing it all the time, and you feel out of control.”
“It doesn’t feel like it’ll s-s-stop.”
“It will.”
“I feel like I’m in a long dark tunnel and I’m going to walk into a brick wall at the end. There won’t be any light. I barely kept myself from doing something really bad, and I don’t know if I can stop myself again. I don’t know what todo.” It comes out like a whine, high and sad, and I hear my own desperation in it. That scares me more than anything.
Anna listens, expression open, not judging. “When the situation is serious like this, it might be a good idea to bring your mom into our conversations. She’s your main support right now.
“What’s most important to know right now is that you arenotalone, and this feeling, like there’s no hope, is a lie. It doesn’t feel like one, I know. It feels like the absolute truth. When we feel that way, we’re not capable of telling ourselves there’s anything else.
“There’s not one single answer as to what you should do. You have to find what works for you. Medication can help. So can therapy, so keep coming here. Or to a different therapist, if you want to change. If you have supports, like your mom, they can help you remember that things can be okay again.”
“She shouldn’t have to do that, though,” I say. “She’s already doing so much.”
“Don’t worry about that. She’ll do it because she loves you. She doesn’t mind.”
I blow my nose again. My whole face is starting to feel like one big swollen sore. The wad of tissues takes two hands to hold. I take a deep breath.
“It’s extraordinarily hard to lose someone close to you,” Anna says. “I think we do our children a disservice by not explaining that, but it’s so hard to explain because we all try to forget it, or bury it. The grief never really goes away. You learn to live with it, though, and it gets easier to bear. Then maybe you get the chance to help someone else bear theirs.
“In case no one else has said it to you yet, Evie, I’ll say it again: I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry that you have to feel this way, that you lost your friend, and that there’s no miracle I can perform to take this grief away. What I can do is listen to whatever you need to say, however you need to say it. I can help you find more help. Do you think you can stick with me through this? And I want the honest answer—not the answer you think you’re supposed to give.”
That last part makes me pause. I take a moment. Lean over and drop the wad of tissues into the trash can, then reach for a fresh one.
“Yeah,” I say. “I can.”
