Page 27 of Laced in Longing

Usually, I stop at one of the small food vendors underground, picking up something cheap and filling for dinner, but tonight my stomach feels too tight for food. The thought of sitting across from Dr. Voss—even virtually—while trying to extract information without revealing too much makes my insides twist into complex knots. I’d rather not vomit during our session, so my stomach will just have to deal with the emptiness.

After some time, I finally rush through my apartment door, shedding the winter layers before hopping onto my bed to set my phone upright on the small table. There’s still time before my appointment, but I need to be prepared.

How do I ask about hallucinations without admitting I’m having them? Will she be suspicious if I inquire about the kinds of dreams I’m having? No, vivid dreams are a side effect of my meds…maybe I’ve just developed a random side effect after years of not experiencing it?

Ugh, this is dumb. She won’t fall for that.

I pace the length of my apartment, five steps in one direction, spin on my heel, five steps back.

Before I realize how long it’s been, my phone buzzes with a two minute warning. I drop onto the bed and pull up the video call application we use on occasion. My reflection stares back at me from the blank screen—prominent dark circles, hair limp against my forehead, and pale skin. I look like a fucking a crazy person. Or a vampire.

Fantastic.

At precisely six, the application chimes with an incoming call. I suck in a deep breath, plaster on what I hope passes for a neutral expression, and accept it.

Helena appears on my screen, her office the same barf-neutral it’s always been. Even the abstract painting behind her is unremarkable. She sits perfectly straight in an ergonomic chair, her blond hair pulled back in a sleek bun. Wire-rimmed glasses perch on a nose that looks like it’s never had something as frivolous as a pimple.

“Maven,” she greets with a single nod. “How are you this evening?” The standard opening that begins this dance every week.

“Fine,” I respond with my usual lie. “Nothing new.”

An eyebrow lifts, the only indication she doesn’t believe me. “How was your week?”

“The usual. Work, sleep, repeat.” I shrug, aiming for casual disinterest.

“Any difficulties sleeping? Changes in appetite?” Helena has a legal pad beside her, pen poised to record my response. She’s always writing things down, cataloging my dysfunction.

“No more than usual.” Half-truth. The dreams have intensified, yes, but I’ve always had trouble sleeping. And my appetite is what it always is—something I attend to when my body demands it, not out of any particular enjoyment.

“And work? How are you settling into your position?” She scribbles something on her pad. I resist the urge to lean forward, to try to decipher her notes through the screen.

“It’s fine. Boring. Just numbers and spreadsheets.”

“Have you connected with any colleagues?”

I think of the awkward and terrible interactions from the last couple weeks before answering. “Not really. You know I prefer keeping to myself.”

She hums before making another note. “Social isolation can exacerbate depressive symptoms, Maven. We’ve discussed this.”

It takes great effort to not roll my eyes. “I’m not isolated. I live in a city of two million people, which means I’m surrounded by humans constantly.”

“Being physically near others is not the same as meaningful connection. I would feel much better if these appointments included descriptions of outings with friends.”

My jaw clenches. We’ve had this conversation a thousand times. She pushes for connection, I explain that connection hurts more than isolation, she suggests that’s the depression talking, I remind her that depression has been my companion longer than any human. Round and round we go. People like her never understand what it is to have your mind and body retaliate against you at every step. To them, energy, happiness, motivation, and all the other things are just a given and not something they’ve ever had taken from them.

They wouldn’t last a day in a body like mine.

“Let’s move on,” she says, recognizing the futility of this particular battle. “Have you been taking your medication as prescribed?”

“Yes.” Another half-truth. I take them most days, when I remember, or when the hollow feeling in my chest becomes so vast I fear I might disappear into it entirely.

“Any thoughts of self-harm?”

“No.” Actual truth, for once. Since the faceless man appeared, those particular urges have receded. I’m too curious about what’s happening to consider checking out early.

Dr. Voss continues her standard checklist of questions, and I provide the expected answers. It’s a script we both know by heart, a ritual that satisfies her professional obligation without requiring me to meaningfully engage.

But today, I need something from her. Guidance, or even some framework to understand what’s happening to me.