Psyche

Jamie sort of feels bad for his therapist’s parents. When they named her they probably thought she’d grow up to be an actress, a singer, a socialite, or end up marrying in wealth or someone of royalty. Instead she’s Jamie’s therapist. What kind of name is Emilia Rosa for a therapist?

So much potential for someone with that name.

He sits cross-legged on the familiar blue, worn coach in her office. Emilia sits across from him in her plush chair. She’s cut her orange hair since Jamie last saw her. It makes her look like an old lady trying to lap up the last few drops of her youth before it goes away permanently.

“So how are you today? It’s been a while,” she says, sitting down her cup of sugar plum tea on the coffee table. Jamie hasn’t touched his yet.

“Okay, I guess,” he answers. “You?”

She’s been his therapist since he was about ten or eleven. In some sort of detached way, Jamie considers her part of his little family. She thinks they’re close. She thinks she knows everything about him. He wonders how she’d act if she knew there were still some things he’s failed to tell her.

“I’ve been good, too, I suppose. Life’s been well.”

“Cool.”

“Girlie told me you’ve made some friends?” she goes on.

Jamie picks at the cut-out hole on his skinny jeans; the ones that don’t make him nearly as skinny as he would like. “Yeah, Alexandria’s this new girl at school. She’s neat. I like her. . .”

Jamie can tell her all there is to know about Alexandria. How trippy and zany she is. How she’s an actual good friend. And then there’s Jean. Jamie guesses they’re “friends” now. He wants to keep Jean to himself -- je can’t talk about him without feeling invaded or like an idiot.

“And this guy, Jean,” he decides to says, staring at his tea. It’s probably cold and too sugary now. “He’s cool.”

“Is something wrong Jamie?”

“What?”

“You’re distant.” She peers at him as if she can see the inside of his brain and know, like when he was younger and she could tell what was bothering him. “Something you want to say?”

Something he wants to say?

There are a million things to say and not say.

Jamie is wrong. His whole life is wrong. His body is wrong. Alexandria thinks she knows everything. Zack knows about Jean. Zack’s starting to mess with Jamie again. Maybe it would be best if Jean went back to not acknowledging him. Girlie never notices anything. Jamie can never stop complaining and he’s annoying.

Does she really want to know all that?

“I—I want to have my dosage on my meds lowered,” he stumbles.

“Why?”

“It’s been like that since forever and it doesn’t need to be. I’m ready. I’ve gotten better.”

“Have you?”

Jamie hesitates. Her comment is equivalent to her stabbing him and then spitting on his corpse. He blinks, unconfident, and averts his sight to the floor. “I think so.”

“This is something we’ll have to discuss in-depth, and with your aunt too,” she says in a voice so tired, like he’s annoying her. Jamie sinks into the couch. He wishes it was liquid so he could drown in it.

“But, Jamie, the way I see it, I don’t think it’s time,” she finishes.

Her simple sentence sends Jamie down bitterly, irritation scratching at his organs.

“It is time! My attitude’s changed. I don’t need to take so much of any of that stuff anymore. I hate it. It makes me feel worse. I feel like I’m bipolar half the time with it. There’s no point to it.” With each word he grips his knees tighter till he’s sure the skin underneath the jeans is a shade of purple.

What does she know?

It’s his body. His head.

No one knows anything.

“Jamie --”

“Stop saying my name so much.”

“Your attitude’s gotten worse. I believe there are some things going on and you’re not telling anyone about them.” She leans forward in her seat, thin eyebrows furrowed to show concern.

He can’t look at her. “So what? You want me to confess something?” he eggs, daring her to want to know the truth. Emilia sighs and sits up straight in her chair. She clasps her hands in her lap and lets the sadness overfill her eyes.

Jamie feels like a bastard now.

“I don’t think you even want to admit it to yourself,” she declares.

He stands up and tells her he wants to leave.

Jamie’s brain is a watery paste and he won’t be surprised if brain matter starts leaking from his ears and nose. He keeps quiet and lets Girlie talk the whole drive back home.

He’s been taking all this medication since he was ten. First it was for the hormones, then for anxiety, and by the time he was thirteen depression, nightmares, and panic attacks were included. He hasn’t have nightmares in three months. He can’t remember his last really bad anxiety attack, so it must’ve been long ago. He’s not as depressed as he is just sad nowadays.

He doesn’t need so much junk in his body, traveling through his veins and attacking his brain.