Institutionalized

Trinity stood up abruptly, ending her argument with Mikhail.

“We’ll discuss this at lunch,” she snapped at him. “Lilly and I are going back to our room to prepare her for today.” She grabbed both of our trays and marched over to the trash cans, then returned, grabbed my hand, and led me away.

Mikhail, satisfied that he had won the argument, waved a little bit as she walked away. “Have fun with that,” he called.

Once we were outside the cafeteria and inside the elevator, Trinity turned to face me.

“I can’t tell you how proud I am of you, dearie,” she gushed, clapping her hands together. “Your debut was a smashing success. Everyone seemed to like you, even Mikhail, and he hates everyone!”

“That’s…good,” I responded. To be honest, Trinity’s declaration was a bit of a serendipity. I was happy that people liked me, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted them to. “I wouldn’t say Mikhail hates everyone, though. He seems to like Kevin a lot.”

Trinity rolled her eyes. “Of course he does. But ever since ‘The Affair’, as Rachelle and I call it, he’ll never admit it publicly.” I was about to ask what, exactly, had happened during ‘The Affair’, but the elevator made a ‘ding’ noise, signifying that we had arrived at our stop.

Once we were behind the closed door of our room, Trinity gave me a quick briefing on how things would go—an aide would come and escort me to Dr. Woodson’s office, we would talk, and then the aide would take me to my next therapy session. After her hurried (though it was admittedly thorough) explanation, we continued to idly chat about one thing or another until a soft tapping came at the door. I answered to reveal a pretty nurse who smiled and told me that she was here to escort us both to our respective therapy sessions.

We rode on the elevator down to the first floor. Since I was new to Shady Acres and ‘wanted to get the most out of my therapy session’, I was escorted to my session first. When we arrived at Dr. Woodson’s office, the nurse urged me to just knock and go in. Trinity gave me an encouraging smile and mouthed ‘see you at lunch’ as the nurse led her away.

I took a deep breath and tapped at Dr. Woodson’s door. No answer. I tapped louder, thinking maybe he hadn’t heard me. Once again, nobody answered.

After the third knock, a tallish man in his early thirties answered. He looked at me quizzically.

“Can I…help you?” he asked. The quizzical look disappeared and was replaced by one that, to put it bluntly, scared the shit out of me.

I swallowed. “My name is Lilly. Finnegan? I’m here for a private therapy session.”

The creepy expression softened into an odd smile. “Aah, yes, I’ve been expecting you. Please, come in,” he said. He opened the door to his office wider and ushered me in.
I sat down in a plush brown chair in front of his desk and took a look around. His office was clean to the point of being sterile. There was a place for everything, and everything was in its place. There were a few personal touches—little trinkets here and there—but for the most part, the office was almost barren, as if the inhabitant was a robot and not someone who was supposed to be caring for mentally ill teenagers. I noticed that he had a picture of a stern-looking woman on his desk. Was that his wife? His sister? She didn’t look like the type of person anyone would want sitting in a picture frame in their office, that was for sure.

Dr. Woodson sat down at his desk and observed me quietly. After a few moments of silence, he spoke. “So, Lilly, what brings you to this fine institution?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m depressed. I tried to kill myself.” After saying it to Dr. Lowenstein, and then to Trinity, I was more comfortable with admitting it. Not completely comfortable, mind you, but I could say it without almost bursting into tears.

He nodded. “When did this depression begin?”

“It started about a year ago. That’s when my parents started fighting.” I stared down at my lap.

He mumbled something I couldn’t make out and wrote something down in a notepad. “Is that the only cause or just the main one?”

“Well, things at school aren’t so great.” I sank a little lower into my chair. “My grades are kind of shitty at the moment. And I don’t have many friends.”

“And why don’t you have many friends?” he inquired.

Just a note to any aspiring psychiatrists out there—if you’re handling a depressed patient whose self esteem is clearly low, do not ask the question ‘why don’t you have friends?’. That will make them wonder ‘gee, I don’t know, why don’t I have friends?’. And then, after asking themselves that question, they will begin thinking about the negative qualities they’re already convinced that they have, which will leave them with a massive lump in their throat.

At least, that’s what it made me do.

Dr. Woodson was completely oblivious to my reaction to his question. He just kept staring at me blithely, waiting for an answer. Eventually, I managed to say something.

“Because I’m a downer. Because I can never have any fun. Because I’m an overly-emotional basket case who can’t do anything without screwing it up. I couldn’t even kill myself. How pathetic is that, huh?” I choked out a laugh at the last part, but it sounded strangled, probably because of the lump in my throat.

Woodson set his pen and notepad down and sighed. “Now now, Lilly, none of that is true. That’s your depression talking.”

When he said that, I almost did laugh. He had met me five minutes prior. I didn’t even say that much to him. He didn’t know anything about me. Trinity was right—this guy was bad at his job.

But I was polite. I bit my tongue and held my laughter in as best as I could. “Uh. Thanks, Dr. Woodson. That’s, um, really encouraging.” It was a lame response, but it was the best I could muster up.

He smiled dully at me. “Good. That’s the spirit.” He rested his chin on his hands. “Now, tell me a little more about you.”

I shifted in my chair. Plush as it was, it wasn’t very comfortable. “OK. I’m a junior in high school.”

“What’s your family like? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I have one brother. His name’s Phillip. We play video games together. He plays baseball.” My insides lurched when I mentioned my little brother. I missed him and it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours yet.

Dr. Woodson nodded. “What do you like to do in your free time?”

I shifted again. “I read a lot.”

“What kind of books?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll read whatever’s lying around. I’m not picky.”

“What types of music do you listen to?”

I was almost going to regale him with all the bands I loved—Nirvana, The Stones, AC/DC, Queen, Motley Crue—but instead I replied with “I really like the violin.” Dr. Woodson looked confused and glanced at my Crue shirt with a puzzled expression.

I didn’t blame him. I would’ve done the same thing.