Status: Currently on Hiatus
The Breakdown of Natalie Whitman
Dr. Jennifer Phillips
In high school, running to the bathroom meant of two things: you felt ill or your period had paid you a surprise visit. One time, in junior year, the second option happened to me: the curse of blood. Since fate is so cruel, it just so happened I was wearing white pants. Blood pooled on my pants and to my horror, the cutest boy in school saw me. Check that, everyone in the cafeteria saw me. Needless to say, it was one of the most embarrassing moments of my high school career. The laughs while I ran still replay in my memory every so often.
Now, Daphne Torres, a full grown woman had the same frantic look on her face as she ran to the bathroom, those looks of terror, fear and humiliation. With her purse tossed over her shoulder and her eyes wide with fear, she ran to the ladies’ room. I called out her name a couple of times, but there was no response. As a good friend should do, I wanted make sure she was alright. Making my way around the small deli, I quickly arrived at the door of the ladies’ room. Knocking, I received no response; my instinct told me I should go in. Pushing the large door, a ghastly image appeared. My mouth wide open and my brain disconnected from my tongue, I had no choice.
“What the Hell are you doing, shooting up heroin?” Coming out of my mouth, it sounded so stupid, like a seven year old, but of course, I had to assume the worst. I knew she was not shooting up heroin. People who use heroin use their arms, not their thighs, but alas, it escaped from my mouth. There was a wince as she pressed down on the syringe and then she took out the needle, and then carefully sterilized it, all with an upset face. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean that it was just…surprising to find you, with a needle in your thigh.” A snort escaped as she washed her hands and stared at the mirror and then she turned to me as she shook her hands free of water.
“Well, I’m not a druggie…I’m a diabetic. So, don’t worry about me shooting up drugs. Believe me; I’ve never touched the stuff.” Mrs. Daphne Torres, the one who seemed to have it all, the husband, the children, the beauty and the charm was a diabetic. The mask is a marvelous thing, evil and conniving. Being a diabetic was not the end of the world, but apparently to her, it was. Trying to comfort her, I told her how my grandmother was a diabetic and that it happens to certain people. Leaning against the sink, she shook her head. “Your grandmother probably has Type II diabetes, I have Type I, and: I did it to myself.” At the moment, I was in shock and disbelief. How can you give yourself diabetes? Then, as if she read my mind, she told me to promise never to repeat anything that went on in that bathroom. “When I was twenty, I tried to commit suicide. All I ended up doing was basically destroying my pancreas.” The mask always held some sort of secret, some dirty lie or some dark past. A woman, living the perfect teacher life, holds the secret to her past not in her memories or in her heart, but in her own body. She was branded permanently with her mistake. With that revelation, she took a breath of relief and smiled. It was a signal: let’s forget about it. I was willing to follow suit.
After paying for our lunch, we drove back to the school just in time for the next period. With a small smile on her face, she thanked me for the lunch and together we walked back inside, forgetting all about the bathroom incident. While she headed back to her classroom, I had to go back to my little quaint office. To my surprise, I found a very interesting person by my door: Natalie Whitman. With her arms crossed and a scowl on her face, she looked like an impatient mini lawyer.
“I need to talk to you…now. Please, Dr. Phillips…I really do.” There was a sense of both angry and begging in the teen’s voice. With a smile, I opened the door and let her in. Quickly, she scurried into the room and cuddled on the large leather chair, like my office was a safe haven. Closing the door behind me, I felt like I created an even safer environment for the troubling teen. Finally I asked what was going on. “So many things, Dr. Phillips, I cried in Mrs. Torres’ classroom today and…and…you were wrong! My paper will not be a bleep on the radar.” Natalie Whitman then proceeded to break down crying hysterically. “I hate my mother!” Now, we were getting somewhere. So, it was her mother she worried about.
“So, your mother is who you fear. Do you want to talk more about your mother?” Natalie hesitated to respond and then finally she nodded whilst wiping her nose with a tissue. “Let’s start simple, what is your mother’s name and what does she do?” Her name was Meredith and her occupation was a prosecutor were the answers the crying teen gave me. “How about a little history about your mother, would you like to share?” A whimper came out, just a tiny one, but a whimper nonetheless and it was in the tone of no, back to square one. Then, the comment that Daphne shared with me in the deli prior to the incident bloomed in my head and I figured it would be time to ask Natalie. “Natalie, I heard about your little…mishap on Friday.” With that comment, she immediately shot a look that could possible kill me.
“I should have figured that eventually Mrs. Torres would have told you, after you two are such good buddies and all. Yeah, I wasn’t paying attention…so what?” So what, so what would have happened if you would have gotten…then it hit me, what if she did? Shifting in my seat a little bit, I began to ask her the question that I did have on my mind: Did you want to get hit…on purpose. “What a stupid question, why on Earth would I want to hurt myself? Draw worthless attention to myself, that’s ridiculous.” And then, it hit me, kind of like Daphne’s car to Natalie’s leg as corny as that may sound. Perhaps this is what Daphne was getting to before at the deli, maybe that’s why she remembered about her insulin, just at that moment.
“Natalie, is the reason why you walked on to the road…was it to avoid your mother. Is this what this is all about? Natalie, what does your mother do to you? Is that why you walked in the road?” It was a crazy bet, but that was my job, to help people open up. People were like Christmas presents, in a way. A strange analogy, it is, but it has some sense. On Christmas morning, a small child sees beautiful wrapped gifts, in red and green. A psychologist sees a person, sometimes looking normal and other times looking like they definitely needed help. The child rips the paper to reveal their present, while my job was to help people rip their wrapping paper to reveal what was inside. Most of the time, for the child, what ever was behind the paper was a good thing, maybe a desired toy. Unfortunately for me, sometimes what was under the paper was a terrible secret. Under those masks, you could say, under the façade.
“What…what do you mean? Why on Earth would I want to…that’s ridiculous! My mother…just doesn’t like bad grades. She yells at me and I’m very sensitive so I don’t want to get yelled at. I mean she might ground me, I would not want that. I bet you hated to get in trouble, no one likes to get in trouble.” That was logical, but there was something deeper, something that was hidden and that stained Natalie’s heart.
“Let me tell you a story…in high school, I had a friend who was just like you. She wanted to get the best grades and go to the best college. Her parents were immigrants, came here from Switzerland and they wanted her to be the best and make a name for herself in this country. My friend succeeded in that goal: she was valedictorian and received a scholarship to Princeton. However, within two months of that goal: she snapped, had a nervous breakdown and was sent to a mental hospital. Today, she’s a shadow of her former self. Granted, not every super over-achiever will snap, but remember this Natalie, your mother will one day pass away and then you are left alone. Are you going to work hard for yourself? Or do you need someone to be on your back constantly?” To this, Natalie cocked her head a bit and turned to the floor.
“Your friend…what happen to your friend won’t happen to me. I mean…sure, I was upset that time, but not to have a nervous breakdown, I mean…that’s a bit over the top, don’t you think?” True, it was over the top, it was a worst case scenario, but it was possible. “Hey, can I ask you a question…was high school for you, this difficult?” Isn’t it for everyone? With a small chuckle, I began to answer the simple question.
“Yeah…it was. It was an awkward, I mean for three years, I was undeveloped, and my period didn’t start until I was sixteen so I was like the ugly duckling. On top of everything, my period came when I was wearing white pants. Yeah…high school was…bad, however you need to look at the positive rather than the negative. Look at it this way, you are intelligent and you have your whole life ahead of you. Trust me, it will get better. Soon, you’ll get use to junior year, maybe meet a guy. I’m confident that your life will change.” A sigh, and then a moan as Natalie played with a loose lock of hair.
“Meet a guy…I scare away the boys, they don’t want to date a girl who is smarter than them. I don’t blame them…and besides, guys are…strange.” Yeah, especially high school guys. They seemed like they were empty in the head, as if you could stick a rod in one eye and it would come out the other side. In their defense, some boys weren’t terrible and in fact, kind of sweet. “Hey, can I ask you another question…what’s your opinion on homosexuality?” Boy that was a big question. I guess I supported it, I mean it wasn’t for me. Although I did hold a small senseless grudge at the gay community for something they had no fault in.
“Well, since nothing in this room will leave this room, I’ll tell you. Personally, I’ve had a bad experience with gay people. My fiancé was gay and he came out of the closet…on our wedding day, with the best man…it hurt, a lot. I was shocked, horrified and embarrassed and…well, that was that. However, as a whole…I don’t think badly of them, I mean…my fiancé; he’s a lot happier I guess. I mean, they need love too. Why do you ask?” A gaping mouth: that was Natalie’s response to my story. A simple stare, it made me feel uncomfortable for a second and I even regretted telling her the tale.
“Wow, that…that would suck, badly. I mean…if that ever happened to me…I mean, I would cry, which I bet you did. Nah, I just wanted to know…I mean, I think…it’s wrong. My mother absolutely thinks it’s wrong.” How peculiar that Natalie would bring up that topic when we were talking about boys, it made me wonder and after all, I was suppose to be there for her and help her feel more comfortable.
“Natalie…are you…questioning? You know if you need someone to talk to, I’m always here and even though I had a bad experience, I will never judge you.” Natalie shot me a glance that if looks could kill, I would be close to decomposition. Her brown eyes burned into my flesh and she scrunched up her face. Her knuckles were as white as a ghost as she clenched the plushy arms of the chair.
“No, of course not, I mean that’s preposterous. I, questioning…yeah, right…homosexuality is a sin, an evil path of life that drifters of the Lord take. Just remember what your fiancé did to you…that sinner.” And once again, Natalie snapped into her mother mode, just as I felt we were making some progress. Her mother’s programming was like a virus and to override that virus was a difficult process, one that would take a long time. “You’re just like Mrs. Torres, you know?” I was? I didn’t really consider myself to be like Daphne. I thought we were actually kind of the opposite, but according to Natalie, we were rather the same. “Both of you accuse me of something I’m not.”
“Natalie…I’m not accusing you! All I’m doing you is asking you about something. Now, if I’m making you uncomfortable, I’m sorry…let’s move onto something else.” However, the damage was already done as Natalie began to grab all over her books and stomp out to the door. Holding the doorknob in her hand, she turned to me.
“I’m not questioning anything because I don’t have anything to question. I’m not gay!” With a slam, the pictures on my wall swayed back and force. I was left, alone and confused. A confusing reaction that I was sure meant something deeper, much deeper.
Now, Daphne Torres, a full grown woman had the same frantic look on her face as she ran to the bathroom, those looks of terror, fear and humiliation. With her purse tossed over her shoulder and her eyes wide with fear, she ran to the ladies’ room. I called out her name a couple of times, but there was no response. As a good friend should do, I wanted make sure she was alright. Making my way around the small deli, I quickly arrived at the door of the ladies’ room. Knocking, I received no response; my instinct told me I should go in. Pushing the large door, a ghastly image appeared. My mouth wide open and my brain disconnected from my tongue, I had no choice.
“What the Hell are you doing, shooting up heroin?” Coming out of my mouth, it sounded so stupid, like a seven year old, but of course, I had to assume the worst. I knew she was not shooting up heroin. People who use heroin use their arms, not their thighs, but alas, it escaped from my mouth. There was a wince as she pressed down on the syringe and then she took out the needle, and then carefully sterilized it, all with an upset face. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean that it was just…surprising to find you, with a needle in your thigh.” A snort escaped as she washed her hands and stared at the mirror and then she turned to me as she shook her hands free of water.
“Well, I’m not a druggie…I’m a diabetic. So, don’t worry about me shooting up drugs. Believe me; I’ve never touched the stuff.” Mrs. Daphne Torres, the one who seemed to have it all, the husband, the children, the beauty and the charm was a diabetic. The mask is a marvelous thing, evil and conniving. Being a diabetic was not the end of the world, but apparently to her, it was. Trying to comfort her, I told her how my grandmother was a diabetic and that it happens to certain people. Leaning against the sink, she shook her head. “Your grandmother probably has Type II diabetes, I have Type I, and: I did it to myself.” At the moment, I was in shock and disbelief. How can you give yourself diabetes? Then, as if she read my mind, she told me to promise never to repeat anything that went on in that bathroom. “When I was twenty, I tried to commit suicide. All I ended up doing was basically destroying my pancreas.” The mask always held some sort of secret, some dirty lie or some dark past. A woman, living the perfect teacher life, holds the secret to her past not in her memories or in her heart, but in her own body. She was branded permanently with her mistake. With that revelation, she took a breath of relief and smiled. It was a signal: let’s forget about it. I was willing to follow suit.
After paying for our lunch, we drove back to the school just in time for the next period. With a small smile on her face, she thanked me for the lunch and together we walked back inside, forgetting all about the bathroom incident. While she headed back to her classroom, I had to go back to my little quaint office. To my surprise, I found a very interesting person by my door: Natalie Whitman. With her arms crossed and a scowl on her face, she looked like an impatient mini lawyer.
“I need to talk to you…now. Please, Dr. Phillips…I really do.” There was a sense of both angry and begging in the teen’s voice. With a smile, I opened the door and let her in. Quickly, she scurried into the room and cuddled on the large leather chair, like my office was a safe haven. Closing the door behind me, I felt like I created an even safer environment for the troubling teen. Finally I asked what was going on. “So many things, Dr. Phillips, I cried in Mrs. Torres’ classroom today and…and…you were wrong! My paper will not be a bleep on the radar.” Natalie Whitman then proceeded to break down crying hysterically. “I hate my mother!” Now, we were getting somewhere. So, it was her mother she worried about.
“So, your mother is who you fear. Do you want to talk more about your mother?” Natalie hesitated to respond and then finally she nodded whilst wiping her nose with a tissue. “Let’s start simple, what is your mother’s name and what does she do?” Her name was Meredith and her occupation was a prosecutor were the answers the crying teen gave me. “How about a little history about your mother, would you like to share?” A whimper came out, just a tiny one, but a whimper nonetheless and it was in the tone of no, back to square one. Then, the comment that Daphne shared with me in the deli prior to the incident bloomed in my head and I figured it would be time to ask Natalie. “Natalie, I heard about your little…mishap on Friday.” With that comment, she immediately shot a look that could possible kill me.
“I should have figured that eventually Mrs. Torres would have told you, after you two are such good buddies and all. Yeah, I wasn’t paying attention…so what?” So what, so what would have happened if you would have gotten…then it hit me, what if she did? Shifting in my seat a little bit, I began to ask her the question that I did have on my mind: Did you want to get hit…on purpose. “What a stupid question, why on Earth would I want to hurt myself? Draw worthless attention to myself, that’s ridiculous.” And then, it hit me, kind of like Daphne’s car to Natalie’s leg as corny as that may sound. Perhaps this is what Daphne was getting to before at the deli, maybe that’s why she remembered about her insulin, just at that moment.
“Natalie, is the reason why you walked on to the road…was it to avoid your mother. Is this what this is all about? Natalie, what does your mother do to you? Is that why you walked in the road?” It was a crazy bet, but that was my job, to help people open up. People were like Christmas presents, in a way. A strange analogy, it is, but it has some sense. On Christmas morning, a small child sees beautiful wrapped gifts, in red and green. A psychologist sees a person, sometimes looking normal and other times looking like they definitely needed help. The child rips the paper to reveal their present, while my job was to help people rip their wrapping paper to reveal what was inside. Most of the time, for the child, what ever was behind the paper was a good thing, maybe a desired toy. Unfortunately for me, sometimes what was under the paper was a terrible secret. Under those masks, you could say, under the façade.
“What…what do you mean? Why on Earth would I want to…that’s ridiculous! My mother…just doesn’t like bad grades. She yells at me and I’m very sensitive so I don’t want to get yelled at. I mean she might ground me, I would not want that. I bet you hated to get in trouble, no one likes to get in trouble.” That was logical, but there was something deeper, something that was hidden and that stained Natalie’s heart.
“Let me tell you a story…in high school, I had a friend who was just like you. She wanted to get the best grades and go to the best college. Her parents were immigrants, came here from Switzerland and they wanted her to be the best and make a name for herself in this country. My friend succeeded in that goal: she was valedictorian and received a scholarship to Princeton. However, within two months of that goal: she snapped, had a nervous breakdown and was sent to a mental hospital. Today, she’s a shadow of her former self. Granted, not every super over-achiever will snap, but remember this Natalie, your mother will one day pass away and then you are left alone. Are you going to work hard for yourself? Or do you need someone to be on your back constantly?” To this, Natalie cocked her head a bit and turned to the floor.
“Your friend…what happen to your friend won’t happen to me. I mean…sure, I was upset that time, but not to have a nervous breakdown, I mean…that’s a bit over the top, don’t you think?” True, it was over the top, it was a worst case scenario, but it was possible. “Hey, can I ask you a question…was high school for you, this difficult?” Isn’t it for everyone? With a small chuckle, I began to answer the simple question.
“Yeah…it was. It was an awkward, I mean for three years, I was undeveloped, and my period didn’t start until I was sixteen so I was like the ugly duckling. On top of everything, my period came when I was wearing white pants. Yeah…high school was…bad, however you need to look at the positive rather than the negative. Look at it this way, you are intelligent and you have your whole life ahead of you. Trust me, it will get better. Soon, you’ll get use to junior year, maybe meet a guy. I’m confident that your life will change.” A sigh, and then a moan as Natalie played with a loose lock of hair.
“Meet a guy…I scare away the boys, they don’t want to date a girl who is smarter than them. I don’t blame them…and besides, guys are…strange.” Yeah, especially high school guys. They seemed like they were empty in the head, as if you could stick a rod in one eye and it would come out the other side. In their defense, some boys weren’t terrible and in fact, kind of sweet. “Hey, can I ask you another question…what’s your opinion on homosexuality?” Boy that was a big question. I guess I supported it, I mean it wasn’t for me. Although I did hold a small senseless grudge at the gay community for something they had no fault in.
“Well, since nothing in this room will leave this room, I’ll tell you. Personally, I’ve had a bad experience with gay people. My fiancé was gay and he came out of the closet…on our wedding day, with the best man…it hurt, a lot. I was shocked, horrified and embarrassed and…well, that was that. However, as a whole…I don’t think badly of them, I mean…my fiancé; he’s a lot happier I guess. I mean, they need love too. Why do you ask?” A gaping mouth: that was Natalie’s response to my story. A simple stare, it made me feel uncomfortable for a second and I even regretted telling her the tale.
“Wow, that…that would suck, badly. I mean…if that ever happened to me…I mean, I would cry, which I bet you did. Nah, I just wanted to know…I mean, I think…it’s wrong. My mother absolutely thinks it’s wrong.” How peculiar that Natalie would bring up that topic when we were talking about boys, it made me wonder and after all, I was suppose to be there for her and help her feel more comfortable.
“Natalie…are you…questioning? You know if you need someone to talk to, I’m always here and even though I had a bad experience, I will never judge you.” Natalie shot me a glance that if looks could kill, I would be close to decomposition. Her brown eyes burned into my flesh and she scrunched up her face. Her knuckles were as white as a ghost as she clenched the plushy arms of the chair.
“No, of course not, I mean that’s preposterous. I, questioning…yeah, right…homosexuality is a sin, an evil path of life that drifters of the Lord take. Just remember what your fiancé did to you…that sinner.” And once again, Natalie snapped into her mother mode, just as I felt we were making some progress. Her mother’s programming was like a virus and to override that virus was a difficult process, one that would take a long time. “You’re just like Mrs. Torres, you know?” I was? I didn’t really consider myself to be like Daphne. I thought we were actually kind of the opposite, but according to Natalie, we were rather the same. “Both of you accuse me of something I’m not.”
“Natalie…I’m not accusing you! All I’m doing you is asking you about something. Now, if I’m making you uncomfortable, I’m sorry…let’s move onto something else.” However, the damage was already done as Natalie began to grab all over her books and stomp out to the door. Holding the doorknob in her hand, she turned to me.
“I’m not questioning anything because I don’t have anything to question. I’m not gay!” With a slam, the pictures on my wall swayed back and force. I was left, alone and confused. A confusing reaction that I was sure meant something deeper, much deeper.