Dakota South

Hangovers make me want to kill whoever first discovered alcohol. On a related note, I also want to kill whoever came up with the idea of therapy sessions. Hangovers and psychiatrists: the greatest evils known to earth. I’m sitting in the waiting room. My mom ran across town to this grocery store she really likes. She likes to pretend the grocery store is the reason we travel an hour both ways three times a week. She likes to pretend I’m okay.

“Dakota? Dakota…South?”

“My parents think they’re clever,” is my automatic response to the confusion in the voice that is calling me.

Then I take a second to consider who is calling me. I’m not familiar with their voice. This is not Dr. White. This new person is a woman. And she’s not even black.

“Who are you?”

“Are you Dakota?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. White had to leave, I’m his replacement.”

Dr. White left? Why didn’t anyone tell me? And why the fuck am I still sitting in the waiting room of this mental ward if he’s not even here? Here’s a question: If your psychiatrist leaves without any warning, does that mean you should give up on life? Here’s an answer: Yes.

I momentarily contemplate leaving. I could walk to the grocery store and find my mom and tell her to take me home. Does she know Dr. White left? Probably. She doesn’t like to tell me things. She thinks changes are bad for me. This new psychiatrist is staring at me. Her evaluation has already begun. I can tell. I’m already failing. I can tell.

“Do you want to come with me?”

She’s asking like I have a choice.

“Not really,” I say.

But I get up and follow her anyway. We walk to Dr. White’s office. I half expect it to be completely different. It’s not. The fake pictures are still hanging from every wall. Happiness doesn’t count if it’s fake. And the blinds are open. Jesus, why are the fucking blinds always open?

“Have a seat,” she says. I still don’t know her name.

I sit.

She sits.

We stare.

“My name is Dr. Green.”

Now I know her name.

“Is it a requirement that your name be a color to work here? Because that could be counted as discrimination, I don’t think that’s a lawsuit you want to have to fight.”

“Dr. White told me you were clever.”

She already doesn’t like me. I’m failing this evaluation. I can tell.

“Where is he?”

“He had a family emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of a personal question?”

Dr. Green raises her eyebrow at me. Bitch.

“Why are you allowed to ask me personal questions then?”

“I don’t think I’ve asked you any.”

“But you’re going to.”

“It’s part of the job.”

We stare at each other. She has brown eyes, but the pretty kind not the shitty kind. It would’ve been kind of funny if she had green eyes. I think she’s asking me a question now, but I’m not listening. I don’t like her.

She’s staring at me. Am I supposed to be saying something?

“Would you like to ask me questions?”

This feels suspiciously like a trap.

“And then next session we can go back to the normal routine, but for this session we could switch roles,” Dr. Green says. “If you want.”

I consider this.

“What’s your first name?”

“Samantha. No nicknames, just Samantha.”

“I don’t have any other questions.”

I’m ready to go home. My head is pounding.



“Maybe you should call a friend,” my mother suggests. “You might feel better if you go out and do something.”

I’m lying in bed, I have been all morning. Actually, afternoon would be more accurate; it’s already almost two o’clock.

“Call who, exactly?” I mutter as I bury my face into my pillow.

“I don’t know,” my mother says slowly. “What about Marie? You two were always so close.”

“I’d rather eat shit.”

Thankfully, my pillow muffles my words. My mother does not appreciate foul language; it is one of the only unbreakable rules in my house. However, she still understands the intent – Marie is out of the question.

“Alright,” she says uncertainly. “Well, I’m going food shopping in about ten minutes if you’d like to join me.”

“I thought you went to the grocery store yesterday?”

“I didn’t get to finish.”

Oh, I had interrupted her yesterday when I called to leave Dr. Green’s office. I feel kind of guilty, but the last thing I want to do - other than call Marie – is go food shopping with my mom.

“I’ll pass,” I shrug.

“Alright,” mom says, unperturbed. “But it’s time for you to get up. Mark’s home if you need anything.”

I know she means Mark’s home to keep an eye on me. I’m still on probation. She pats me on the leg and pulls back my comforter before exiting my room, the curtain billowing out into the hall behind her. I wonder when I’ll get my door back. I wonder if I’ll ever be off probation.

I feel like absolute shit. I want nothing more than to lie in bed for the rest of the day and wallow in my own misery. But, that counts as suspicious behavior. Pretending to be okay is becoming exhausting, to be completely honest. Even with clueless parents, keeping up the ruse takes everything I have. I wonder how long I’ll be able to keep it up, or how long I’ll even have to keep it up. Maybe things will be better. Maybe I’ll die.

Mark’s in the kitchen, cooking something that smells pretty good. I plant myself on the couch in the living room and stare at the television without turning it on. I stay this way for maybe ten minutes, not really thinking about anything at all, just listening to the sounds of Mark in the kitchen.

Suddenly my phone is vibrating on the coffee table. I stare it is for a moment. I don’t remember the last time my phone has gone off. Someone is calling me. It can’t be my mom; she would call the house phone if she wanted to reach me. Anyway, she usually forgets her cell phone at home; she likes to not be attached to it. I conclude it must be a wrong number and I should just let it go to voicemail. They’ll figure out that they called the wrong person and the world will go on. But even as I tell myself this, I lean forward to take a peak at the number lighting up the screen. My jaw drops.

It’s Jack.