Sans Doute (Maybe)

He took a lot longer than a normal person would to read the whole thing. I have to admit, the image wasn’t, as I had once expected, that of an uncomfortably cold and mind-numbing therapy session, with painfully white walls and plain white furniture and those weird half-sofa, half-bed things patients lay on.

Instead, my head hadn’t registered any numbing so far, the walls were painted a mild pastel yellow, the furniture was brownish and looked ordered out of an IKEA catalog, which meant it was modern, sleek, but surprisingly ergonomic. And instead of laying down, I was sitting in one of the two comfy bege couches in front of doctor Pedro’s desk.

Thankfully, doctor Pedro was as unstereotypical as his attending room, which meant he wasn’t old and creepy, but in his late twenties and not entirely displeasing to look at.
Not that I went to these sessions to look at the man, but his appearance did make the experience more bearable, if not enjoyable. Basic biology. People like people with good genes.

He looked funny too, sitting in his tall, spinny doctor’s chair, holding my slightly torn at the edges Keroppi notebook page with both hands, and reading it very intently with his brows furrowed. I considered telling him he didn’t need to kill himself reading between the lines, but it for once it struck me as kind of rude. I hated that piece of paper with all my heart and I wanted it to be nothing but a memory as soon as possible.

He finally put the paper down and looked at me expectantly.

“What?” More often than not, I didn’t know what to say.

“It’s a nice piece of writing.” He said, and he was smiling too, the way a parent smiles when their kid says his first word or something else worthy of pride. Was that it? Was he proud?

“Are you proud?”

“Are you?”

Maybe he wasn’t that unstereotypical after all.

“Not really.” I figured his silence was my cue to keep talking. “Do you mind if I put my feet on the couch?”

“Yes.” My cue to get serious.

“I don’t like writing.”

“Why not?”

“It’s hard.”

“Why?”

“Because…different reasons…” As expected of a decent psychologist, he kept quiet, leaning back on his chair as if saying “Go on.”

“It’s hard because I have to think about it a lot. I can have lots and lots of ideas, all kinds of ideas, but I have no idea where to put them, or how to put them. Don’t know the best way to get my point across, I think that’s it. To make a regular person understand.” I shrugged so he’d take it as a conclusion.

“And how do you write in school? In tests, for example?”

“Uhm…it depends on the subject. But my parents spoke to my teachers before I started high school, so most of my tests are oral.”

He nodded. “So, apart from this assignment, you don’t write as a habit.”

“No. I mean, if I have to I will, like written homework and such. But it’s always hard. And do you know why?”

I’m not usually this interactive, but I actually liked talking to the doctor. It was much easier than talking to people, since he spoke very little, and when he did, it was either a question, or short and to the point. No figures of speech, no opinions, no metaphors, not even facial expressions for the most part. He didn’t answer, but nodded for me to keep going.

“Because writing is much worse than talking. When you’re talking to someone, you can at least pretend you understand, or that you’re interested or whatever. You can fake it, with your body language and noncommital stuff, like mhmm-ing. When you’re writing, it’s black on white. You’re not a part of those words. Your face, your attitude isn’t on that piece of paper. You can’t fake anything.”

He nodded again, and I noticed that he had, since the beginning, been writing on a clipboard.

“Is that what you’ll be sending my parents?”
“Yes.”

“Can I read it?”

“When we’re done. I thought you said you liked to read.”

“And I do.”

“But you don’t like to write.”

“Can we keep this a one-topic only session?” I said. I even tried to pull off a childish girly smile, head to the side and teeth showing. “I really want to read that report.”

He smiled simply and got up from the spinny chair, with his blue plastic clipboard on his hand. “Just so you know, this isn’t standart procedure, but since you’re almost of age and your parents are bound to show you this anyway…” He flippped some pages over the clip and read aloud. “Laura Barreiros, 17. Diagnosed with mild AS. Is at ease and communicative. Has no distinguishing outward symptoms. Has difficulties with language use, not imparing in spoken communication but severely imparing in written communication.”

He flipped the pages and sat back down. I didn’t get to see what he had written, but I thought there would be a lot more. This was already our fifth session.

“Is that all?”

“For now, yes. These are just notes, not the actual report.”

“Okay.” I looked over at the window; it was still sunny outside. Sessions were usually over once the sun started to go down.

“Why did you have me write this?”

“I ask it of every patient of mine with a related condition.”

“Is it always about life and death?”

“Yes. It’s a vague topic they can explore freely.”

“Was mine the best?” Smiling again, trying to be friendly.

“Ah, so you are in fact proud.”

“Well…I hate the amount of work I had to put into it. But I guess it’s the only remotely understandable thing I have written, ever.”

He nodded and got up, and when he did for no apparent reason, it usually meant the session was over. Apparently, the sun wasn’t an accurate clock.

“It’s a shame you don’t like to write. I find it an excellent creative outlet, that’s why I do this with every patient.”

I got up, picked up my jacket and bag. “Not every patient is the same, I guess.”

“You’re right.” I extended my hand to shake his. “Most of my patients prefer writing to talking.” He went on to say something about everyone being unique, but I didn’t register. We said goodbye, and after I went to his secretary to confirm my attendance, I was out the door.

The doctor’s office wasn’t downtown but was on a busy, central avenue. It was around six in the afternoon, and the streets were filled with people, enough to still have breathing space, too many to not brush shoulders with someone every five seconds. I walked to the subway as quickly as I could. Despite the orangey sunlight, the streets were mostly grey: grey pavement, grey buildings, grey-looking people.

Already inside the subway train, I fished out an mp3 player from my bag and listened to something randomly. To pass the time, I scanned the train for someone interesting. Most people seemed to be doing the same.

I looked at books, magazines, hairstyles and dresses until I came to my stop. I still had to catch a bus to get home. I missed it, stood at the stop waiting for the next one, said hi to someone from school, and looked at the clouds. This was something I enjoyed doing, no matter where I was. They were pretty, and free, and flowing. They always gave me the sense that no matter what happens, everything is left basically the same. There will always be a blue sky with white fluffy clouds, unless something drastic happens, in which case there will be bigger things to worry about besides freedom, choices, life and death.

I was finally home, and my parents, its only inhabitants excluding yours truly, weren’t there. I read some notes for an upcoming test, and spent the rest of my day watching random American sitcoms.

The truth is that, as bad as fiction can be, there is always something to be learned about human nature, even if it’s just how easily people can be mislead. Old reruns of Seinfeld, for example, as bland as they are, are actually very educational on social norms and nuances. Which is useful for those of us less acquainted with the right things to do at the right time.
I like being at home. I don’t have to think, or prove myself, or try too hard to do anything, really. The only people I have to deal with are my parents, and we get along pretty well. This doesn’t mean I dislike the outdoors, or people in general. But being with people is like writing to me; it’s not spontaneous, not natural. I have to think about what I say, or do, or show, just so for one day, I can feel less out. At home, I’m in.

Hours went by, my parents got home, we had dinner, and after a few more hours, it was time for bed. Every night, I carefully chose clothes from my wardrobe and set them on my desk, to wear the next day. I like mixing and matching clothes, looking different everyday is like a physical reminder of how the days go by. I’ll just look in the mirror, and I’ll remember that today isn’t yesterday or tomorrow.