They Called it a Break

A light tapping at my door wakes me, but I don't move to get up. A couple of knocks and a moment later, the door barely cracks open.

"Alex?" Rick calls quietly into my room. "Is it alright if I come inside?" I sit up in bed slightly confused, but when I glance at my clock I see that it's 7:50 in the morning, which means its time for my antidepressant.

"Yeah, come in. Sorry for not waking up," I reply groggily. I know I should be responsible enough to take care of these things. I know I'm fortunate enough for Mark and Ricky to take me in, especially on such short notice, and I shouldn't add any kind of extra burden the the one the already have to bear by caring for me. I'm seventeen now, and not waking on time to take my antidepressant is ridiculous. What do you expect? You can't do anything right.

"Nonsense," Ricky says as he enters my room, and for a moment I think he's talking to Will before I remember my voiced apology. "You don't need to apologize for anything. It's summer so there's no reason for you to worry about waking up early for anything. I just wanted to get you back on schedule, you can go to sleep again after you take your medication if you want."

He hands me two little pills, one for anxiety and one for depression. After I take them both, he gives me a small glass of water. I've done this so many times that swallowing pills is nothing for me. I've been taking antidepressants since I was twelve, after the first time I tried to kill myself. I thought it would be easy. I read a lot online and decided the best way to do it would be hanging myself with a belt. I wasn't expecting, however, to wake up in the hospital not much later because my belt was so shitty it broke.

After I woke up I was made to speak to several different people who decided - get this - that I was depressed. As if trying to kill myself wasn't enough of a pointer, I had to answer hundreds of questions over a three day time period before the conclusion was made and I was put on antidepressants. From the hospital I went to a new foster home, but not before hearing two of my caseworkers whispering how I just kept becoming more and more difficult to put up with. You're always too difficult. Too much.

"Thank you," I tell Ricky after swallowing my daily dose of fight against being sad and dealing with Will. "I'm sorry again, I should be able to know myself when to tell you its time for me to take them. I didn't mean to put that on you. It's irresponsible of me." It was just you being you, making things harder on everyone else. I hang my head, embarrassed and regretful. I've liked it here so far, but this is the third day in a row Ricky has had to wake me up to take my medication. I don't want to screw this up.

Ricky sighs quietly, and I'm afraid he's mad at me, but when I look up he's just sadly shaking his head. "Alex," he says as he places a hand gently on my shoulder, "You don't have to be sorry. Don't worry about it, honestly. I know things here are different than what you're used to, but listen: Mark and I care about you. We hardly know you, true, but that doesn't keep us from wanting what's best for you. I don't want you to feel like you're a burden to us. You're only seventeen and you don't have to do everything on your own. That's why we're here. We're here for you." Before I can respond he takes the now empty cup from my hand and turns to leave.

When he gets to the door he turns to me again. "Really, you can go back to sleep. Your appointment with Dr. Parks is at 1:30 so as long as you're up and ready to leave by around 1:00 everything is perfectly okay." Ricky leaves and closes the door behind him, but I don't go back to sleep.

Instead of laying back down I get up and walk around my room. Today is Monday, making this the fourth full day I've been with Mark and Ricky, but I'm still hesitant when it comes to touching things around my room. It's not like I haven't had any of this stuff before. I've had a bed and a dresser and a desk and everything, I just haven't had it this nice. Even when I thought I was going to be adopted the first time my bed was a twin size, my dresser was smaller, and I definitely didn't have a laptop.

With a sigh I lean against the windowsill that overlooks the backyard and look down at myself. I'm not much to look at. While I have been eating more since I got here, I'm notoriously bad about not eating, simply because I don't have an appetite most of the time. As a direct result of my lack of food intake, I am very thin.

At one time I considered taking up lifting and working out so I would be strong and could defend myself, but its hard to keep up a consistent workout regime when absolutely nothing in your life is constant. Or when you're too lazy and weak to do absolutely anything for yourself.

I shake my head trying to shake Will out, and my gaze lands on my pale forearms that are laced with white scars, all the time I lost battles. Which is every time something comes up, because you're too weak to deal with the slightest problem. It's been a while since I last cut. The last time was before I went to live with Lynda and Greg, and even with everything being hell the past few weeks I have no fresh cuts on my body.

Admittedly, a large part isn't that I wanted to stop, but that I haven't had access to any sharp objects because of said cutting. I haven't been allowed to shave without supervision for the past year, much less use knives or be given a pencil sharpener. God, its like everyone that has been in my life expects me to off myself at any minute, which is not true.

There was a time, and a long time, that I would have taken any chance I had for an out. Hell, I tried quite a few times. Things are different now though. I'm not sure exactly what, because things aren't that great; things are shitty enough in my life that most people would probably say their goodbyes as quickly as possible and float away to whatever happens after we die. The thing is, while things aren't really good, I've had them much, much worse. This? This is nothing. This life I'm living right now is like I'm on an island in a sea of despair.

Yeah, my island may just be a tiny rock floating in a bed of lava, but its a hell of a lot better up here than in the magma.

My clock says 8:30 now, which means I have exactly five hours until my appointment with Dr. Parks starts. If there's one thing I hate more than moving to a new foster home it would have to be having a new set of psychologist/psychiatrists. Since my suicide attempt when I was twelve, it's been a constant stream of once weekly psychologist appointments, and biweekly psychiatrist appointments. Before that I was in a once a month group therapy for foster kids, which was a joke.

Now don't get me wrong, there's a lot of foster kids I encountered at those meetings that are what shrinks like to call "well adjusted," but there were also a lot, like me, that weren't. You? Well adjusted? Not in the slightest bit. I've learned over time some things that happen when you're young cut too deep for anything to heal, especially a once a month meeting when hardly anybody talks and the silence is painful. It's no wonder foster kids are four times more likely to try to kill themselves than other kids. I'm part of that statistic, I know, and I completely understand all the others too.

Sometimes I look at the cuts inside my mind and think there's nothing that will make them heal over, no matter how many appointments I go to. Dr. Parks is different than most psychiatrists I've been to. While there is a psychologist that also practices in her office, I will only be seeing Dr. Parks. From what Ricky told me she studied and practices much more talk therapy than most psychiatrists, eliminating my need for two separate appointments.

While the whole concept of a talk therapy heavy psychiatrist kind of intrigues me, it doesn't take away the feeling of not wanting to go. By now Dr. Parks will have received my files full of everything they know about the seventeen years of my existence. She'll know about all my homes, about the suicide attempts, the cutting, and Will. She'll think she knows me before I even come in, before she even meets me.

I start looking through the clothes Mark and Ricky bought for me, trying to locate a long sleeve shirt. Yeah, she'll know that I have a history of cutting, but I don't feel like having her eyes rake my arms in judgement. I finally find one at the back of my closet, but when I pull it on I realize that I don't live in Michigan any more. The five minutes I was outside on Saturday I almost died. It's in the upper nineties here, and humid as fuck. There's no way I'll be able to survive in a long sleeve shirt. You can't hide your failure, it shows on your face if it doesn't show on your wrists.

I finally settle on a thin grey and white striped short sleeve shirt that feels like it will be comfortable. I feel like a different person after I put on black cargo shorts and grey slip on shoes. I had pretty nice clothes when I stayed with Lynda and Greg, but these just feel expensive, and every shirt seems to have at least one pair of matching shoes.

After neatly making my bed I collapse back on top of it, staring at the ceiling until my stomach growls and prompts me to go downstairs. I really don't want to go to see Dr. Parks.

*****

Getting Sophia into the car turned out to be a bit of a struggle that only ended when I told Ricky to not worry about it, I would sit in the backseat with her. Me in the backseat seemed to be exactly what she wanted, because the moment I buckled myself in her cries stopped and she smiled. I've never been fond of young children before, but Sophia is an exception.

Dr. Park's office is nothing spectacular from the outside and I'm honestly contemplating refusing to go inside, but Ricky's already out of the car and unbuckling Sophia from her car seat, so I don't have much of a choice. I sigh heavily as I lift myself from the car and Ricky pats me on the shoulder when he makes his way around the car.

"Don't worry Alex, everyone I know that goes to Dr. Parks loves her," He tells me. Everyone? How many people does he know that has to go to a psychiatrist? Ricky? Probably a thousand, the disgusting faggot. "And plus, Mark stopped by the other day and filled out the paperwork beforehand so we wouldn't have to wait extra long. Sophia can get to be a bit of a handful if we try to make her sit still for too long."

"Where is Mark?" I ask as we walk through the parking lot. "Is he teaching right now?"

"Oh no," Ricky lightly laughs. "He's at in service right now, a kind of teacher's training type thing. We can't start school here in Texas until the fourth Monday in August at the earliest. I'll explain more at dinner when Mark gets home." I nod my head in agreement as Ricky opens the door for me, welcoming me to the place I'll visit once a week for as long as I'm in Lakeway. Ready to meet all the other crazies?

The walls are a pale lethargic green. Go figure. This time I'm able to keep my sigh inaudible, but really? A light green shrink's office? Never seen that one before.

Ricky follows me in and I let him walk ahead, trailing ever so slightly behind him as he makes his way to the large reception desk to sign me in. To my surprise a boy about my age sits behind the desk. His hair is somewhat shaggy and dark - almost jet black, so it must be dyed. He's slight and probably a little shorter than me, but I can't tell because he's sitting down. The expression on his face betrays his obvious distaste for what he's doing, but the most startling aspect of this boy's appearance is his eyes. A shocking pristine blue in color, they have a look in them that's almost mischievous and tells me there's a lot more to him than meets the eye.

To my embarrassment he catches my gaze as we reach the desk and I quickly look away, not wanting to start a conversation with him. Seeing someone else my age behind the desk of an office like this is odd. I wonder if Dr. Parks is his mom? He's well dressed, in a pair of black slacks and a red button up shirt, both of which appear to be name brand; He's obviously a rich kid. Maybe he's grounded and working here as his punishment? That would explain the look of not wanting to be here. Or maybe he's just another wacko that's learning to behave normally.

"Alex?" The boy asks, and I look back at him, trying to figure out how he knew my name. However, when my eyes find the boy again I notice Ricky affirming his questions and the boy marking that I'm here. "You can wait over there," he says tiredly, pointing to a waiting area with brown couches and chairs. "And there's an area for kids to play too."

Ricky thanks the boy and we take our seats, waiting for Dr. Parks to be ready for me. I wonder what Ricky and I look like to everyone else. He's young, too young to be my father, so everybody probably thinks he's my older brother. Isn't that nice? An 30 something guy with a kid taking his teenage brother to the shrink. I'm sure the sight of us just emanates 'happy family'.

I catch the boy behind the desk looking at the three of us, probably trying to figure out for himself, but when he sees he's been caught he looks away, trying to appear busy on a computer.

The door with the "Dr. Parks" tag on it opens and a young woman in a pantsuit that appears to be around Ricky and Mark's age steps out of the room. Her red-brown hair is tied back in a loose bun and she smiles as she calls my name, beckoning me into her office. Ricky smiles at me encouragingly and I get up to follow her for my first session.

I'm surprised when I step into the room. The lobby is shrink's-office-green, but the shrink's actual office is painted a honey color that goes well with the dark wood desk and bookshelves in the room. From where we enter I can see another open door that houses the play therapy room and I'm reminded of my earlier days in therapy. After I was removed from my first foster home I was taken to a total of four sessions. After I refused to talk to the counselor at the first session I was taken to a play therapy room and all I did was play with toys until the counselor or my foster parents decided I didn't need to go anymore; they weren't getting anywhere with me. Things like that happen when you're such a fuckup, even as a kid.

"You can sit if you like," the lady says, and I sit on a small love seat that is surprisingly comfortable. It's odd, I think, that she said I could sit if I wanted instead of telling me to sit. Usually I'm just told what to do. And yet you still can't do it. "I'm Doctor Parks," she tells me. "But you can call me Sydney if you'd like. I hear your name is Alex, tell me about yourself."

"Don't you, I mean, didn't you get all my files?" I'm slightly confused, because Mrs. B told us the day we finished paperwork that a file of my history was with the state of Texas and would be immediately faxed to whichever office Ricky and Mark thought I should go to. I know Doctor Parks, Sydney, whatever, has everything she needs to know. "There's not much for me to tell you. Half the time things happen and I don't even know, notes are put into my files without me seeing them, so you probably know more about me than I do.

"Those? I read everything, I know all of that. But I'm not asking about what you've been diagnosed with or what you're on. I want to know about you. Tell me about Alex." I stare at her blankly, dumbfounded. In all the years I've been going to a counselor, every therapist or psychologist or psychiatrist I've had since I was twelve, and nobody has ever asked me that before. The silence stretches on, and I've no idea how to answer the question before me.

"Alex," She tells me, "Let me tell you something important. When I was thirteen I was diagnosed with major depression. My dad was air force so we lived like a military family, moving from place to place and consequently making me move from doctor to doctor. The years between me being thirteen and fifteen were littered with me trying to kill myself. Nothing was making me feel better and it seemed like nothing would.

"They tried everything, even electroshock, but all to no avail. Sometime around my sixteenth birthday my family found ourselves in the Netherlands. I went to meet yet another psychologist, and when he asked me to tell him about my self I started with 'I was diagnosed with..' but he cut me off. My depression, he told me, was my diagnosis, not who I am.

"I don't know what it was about that man, but by the time I turned seventeen everything that had happened to me seemed like just a bad nightmare. I hadn't realized until that day I had allowed myself to become my depression, but I was so much more than that.

"Alex, I've read your file. I know your past hasn't been pretty. I mean, it's been hell, and I am so sorry for that. It took me forever to realize I was not my disorder, and I know it will take you awhile, especially with your dissociative identity, but you have to realize that too.

"You are not your past. You are not your abuse. You are not your depression. You are not Will. You are Alex. Those things all might be a part of you, but they are not you. Once you convince yourself that, once you become you and not your disorders, you can heal.

"So, tell me about yourself. Let me know Alex."

For a moment, I don't know what to say. All I know is my first twenty minutes with Doctor Parks has shown me more than five years of therapy put together.