Do Not Resuscitate

“You haven’t drawn anything.”

Holy hell, you are a fucking genius. No wonder you have all those fancy degrees on the wall. I bet you can pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time, too.

Dad’s mind-blowing, miracle-working, some other M adjective that evokes awe psychologist stares at me, expectant, open, faux friendly. She keeps doing this thing where she attempts to engage me in conversation because someone failed to tell her I’m not going to open my mouth, spill my heart, cry on her shoulder, and have a miraculous breakthrough. Apparently, sprawling out half-dead on the couch—my life revolves around sprawling out half-dead on couches lately, how bizarre—keeping my eyes trained on the wall—beige, the wall is beige, it hasn’t stopped being beige in the past seventeen minutes of keeping vigilant watch—and refusing to open my mouth isn’t hint enough.

But she can see I haven’t drawn anything.

Fucking genius.

One minute passes, she crosses her mile long legs. The leather chair creaks. Her sensible black heel pops up in down in time with the clock ticking. Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, and…

“Why haven’t you drawn anything?”

Two minutes. She waits exactly two minutes for me to speak. Every time. Amazing. This is probably a symptom of a deeper illness. She should talk to someone about that.

She rests her elbows on her knee and her chin on a fist. Strands have fallen out of her perfect blonde bun. Her smile is made up of unmarred lips, pearly whites, blushed cheeks, and shining blue eyes. She’s a living, breathing Barbie.

Except without the unrealistic chest.

“The exercise seems silly, doesn’t it?”

I’m not five, Dr. Psychologist Barbie, don’t take that tone with me.

For that matter, take the crayons away. I’m not Brooklyn. I don’t draw, and I’m not embarrassing myself to show you the things that are important to me. What a crock of shit. Conserving my energy is important to me, you know, since I’m not eating, and getting up to draw a dumbass picture for you isn’t going to help that.

Moving hurts like hell.

“I want to get to know you. I want to know what you like.” She tilts her head, her nose crinkles, I think she’s attempting to pull off the conspiratorial smile, but she’s too… perfectly wholesome. “Or what you don’t like. You can tell me—or draw or write—anything. This is a safe space. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t judge you.”

Ah, but suicidal ideation is cause for sounding alarms. You’ll tell my parents, you’ll tell the doctors, you’ll lock me up to fix me when I don’t need fixing. I’m well-versed in your games. I don’t live in a bubble. I’ve been on the internet. I’ve read books. I’ve heard gossip-fueled stories in the school hallways, so-and-so getting put in blank psychiatric hospital for being honest about their feelings.

Find another desperate teen. I’m not playing.

“This is our first session,” she says, “It’s going to take more for you to trust me and for us to delve into what you’re feeling. Recovery takes time. But I’m here, and you’re here, and we’re going to take it one step at a time. Starting with me trying to get to know you and you getting to know me.”

Cute.

What is in that jar on your bookshelf? The one on the far wall. The jar of brightly colored something sandwiched between a set of books and wood. Is that candy? Do you have candy in your office? Is that legal? Can I have it? What kind—

She’s blocking my fucking view.

She’s leaned over, purposefully put herself in my line of vision, blocked the candy jar I’m trying to ogle.

Move out of the way, I need to exercise my weak eyes muscles by identifying the candies in your jar. This is for my health. You care about my health. Let me see. I won’t daydream about swallowing the contents and watching Technicolor vomit splatter in the toilet. I wouldn’t do that. Though they’d be delicious going down. Sweet and sticky and fake fruity goodness, because bright colored packaging screams fruit candy. Are you a hard candy kind of person or a chewy candy? Who am I kidding? It doesn’t matter. They both hurt coming up, but they taste so good going down.

I’m hungry.

I’m always hungry.

And tired and hurting and lightheaded and cold and shaking and perpetually in a state of death just out of reach and let me see what’s in the damn jar. I swear I will throw the biggest tantrum you have ever seen. I’ve seen Brooklyn freak out in grocery stores over plastic princess tiaras. I can pull that level hell spawn off.

She doesn’t believe me.

Dr. Psychologist Barbie is still blocking my view, leaned forward to appear approachable, and talking. Doctor told me not moving you can’t not moving serious not moving I want not moving What are you…? moving.

Wait, she’s moving. She actually gets up, out of her seat, out of my way. I can see the candy jar in all its brightly colored glory. How beautiful.

Why is she grabbing the jar?

What is she doing?

Dr. Psychologist Barbie, last I checked, it’s not snack time. But she’s bringing the jar over, the most beautiful thing in the room coming closer, closer, until I make out each one. Starbursts, Warheads, jellybeans, gummy bears, Sour Patch kids, Tootsie Roll Pops, candies that should never be mixed together.

I’m salivating.

“Want one?”

Huh?

I meet her eyes, a fluke caused by a mix of distraction and disbelief that she’s trying to engage me while I have candy in my face. She’s smiling. Surprise, surprise. Barbie sparkles decorate her eyes. Which should make her seem pleasant or send me into some imagined flashback about playing with unrealistic dolls and a breakthrough of epic proportions involving the pressure of playing with Barbies skewing my perception and causing my make-believe eating disorder. But it doesn’t. Because I didn’t play with Barbies. Because I don’t have an eating disorder. Because I’m onto her.

She’s testing me.

Guess what, Dr. Psychologist Barbie, my report card might consist of straight Fs, but this is a test I can pass.

I grab a Tootsie Roll Pop right off the top. No hesitation. No scoping out my options to decide on the most calorie efficient. No breakdown over being offered the candy I’d been ogling. No salivating on the couch. I just blindly pluck one from the jar, the very image of well-adjusted child. Ignoring the whole “walking skeleton” thing.

And the candy goes straight into my pocket.

Right. The Tootsie Roll Pop pressed against my outer thigh feels right. It belongs there, in my pocket, unopened, in my space, a nice weight. I want to pat it and trace the shape and bury my hand in my pocket to touch the crinkled wrapping, but Dr. Psychologist Barbie is watching me, testing me, and I won’t fail.

I’m keeping it, my Tootsie Roll Pop. I’ll put in the empty drawer of my bedside table. Towards the back. No. In the front. In the corner farthest from my bed. Forever. Because I can.

“Good choice.” She puts the candy jar on her desk and plops back in her seat. “Raspberry’s my favorite.”

I passed your test. Let me leave. Immediately.

Except… The Barbie sparkles have dimmed. Her smile is sagging at the edges. She’s watching me too intently, deciphering words I didn’t say, thinking, empathizing.

No. No. Fuck. No.

What did I even do? I took the sucker. I restrained my urge to molest it. I didn’t cry about it. I held it together. I was pulling it off. To a tee. That’s candy test passing material. And I failed.

Fuck.

“It must be hard. Holding it in all the time.”

Her voice has taken a strange edge of seriousness. I don’t like it. I want to leave.

“Feeling it eating at you constantly. Letting it swallow you until you don’t know who you are anymore. On the verge of combusting at any moment. Swallowing the urge to spew to the first person who will listen. Being afraid no one will understand or care about your feelings.”

Shut up.

“But here’s the thing, Dannilynn. We do care.”

No one gives a shit. I don’t matter. I’m not here because my parents care about me. Nothing they do is about me. It’s about the idea of having a daughter. It’s about saving what they imagine I am, all those vague words Dad throws around: beautiful, talented, smart.

But I’m not those things. I’ve never been those things. I’m a huge disappointment. I’m a failure. I can’t do anything. I don’t matter.

Until I’m dying.

I’m touching the Tootsie Roll Pop.

I’m patting it and tracing it and patting it and tracing it, and Dr. Psychologist Barbie is watching my movements, and I can’t stop. I keep patting and tracing and patting and tracing. I’m crazy.

“Did something I say make you anxious?”

Yes. No. I don’t know.

“Tell me about that. Tell me what’s going on inside you right now. Tell me what’s upset you. Don’t keep it inside.”

She waits. I pat and trace the candy. We’re at a standoff. Big, ugly sobs seep through the door from another room. Someone has had a breakthrough. Someone is working through their problems. Someone is recognizing their self-worth. Someone is realizing there’s a future for them. Someone is beginning to accept that they don’t have to be defined by their past, their trauma, their self-destructive thoughts and actions. Someone is that much closer to shedding whatever brought them here and becoming a functioning person.

What is that like?

“Think about it, okay?”

I don’t want to.

“I’ll see you again on Thursday, and I want you to at least consider speaking to me. Even if it’s to tell me I’m full of shit.”

No. No, I don’t want to come back this week. I’m done with this. I’m done with you. I’m done. I quit.

I can’t stop touching the lollipop.

“I’d like us to have a family session on Thursday, too. After your session.”

Do a what?

“Don’t worry, family sessions are a completely normal phase of treatment. It’s meant to help me help you.”

Help me want to jump off the nearest bridge, maybe.

I need to leave.

“I’d like to see your family dynamic in action, find out what your parents think is happening, and try to give them some tools to help us beat this.”

My parents are clueless. They’re better off that way.

“Most teens are put off by the idea of having their families come in to talk, but it can do a world of good.”

The Tootsie Roll Pop is going to combust, melt from all the friction, shatter into a million pieces, wear down until there’s nothing left.

Stop. Touching.

“Would that be okay?”

The crying-filled silence is choking me. Remnants of her voice ring in my ears, the sound, the cadence, no words. Her stare is worming its way under my skin. And the clock on the wall ticks, ticks, ticks, time up.

Our session is over. Let me leave.

“Why don’t we see if your dad is in the waiting room, and we can run it by him?”

Right on time.

She stands, steps around the coffee table with the blank sheet of paper and unused box of tissues to me. She’s heading towards me. Because I’m not moving. God damn it. If I could pry my hand away from the Tootsie Roll Pop.

Just one more touch. One more. Another. Okay, this is that one. No, this one is. This one.

“Dannilynn?”

She’s kneeling in front of me. I’m being weird. I need to move. I need. To move. But my legs and brain aren’t in sync. The communication’s been severed. Why is this happening?
“Here, let’s try—Oh.”

Standing. Success.

And the world goes black.

My head fills with helium or a rush of blood or bursting heat or some kind of incredible lightening agent. I’m dizzy. Teetering. Falling. Arms flailing—

“Easy.”

I’m back on the couch.

How did I get back on the couch?

Dr. Psychologist Barbie is standing over me, holding my bony wrist between her fingers, eyes boring into my face. One second. Two. Three. She heaves a relieved sigh. Her smile is forced. A strange crack in her face. Painted on.

“It’s okay. You blacked out. You’re alright.”

I don’t feel alright.

“Breathe.” She inhales. On the exhale, she says, “Slowly.”

She does it again, demonstrates the deep breathing, inhales and exhales on the perpetual tempo inside her head, her hand motioning slowly up and down in physical instruction. Like I don’t know how to take deep breaths.

But I mimic her. I can’t stop myself. I hold her gaze and breathe with her, and we sit there, breathing together. Until I’m at my version of normal. Which is a foot away from death’s door instead of waiting on the doorstep with a basket of goodies, a note around my neck, and a hopeful smile.

“That’s good. Keep breathing.”

We do. I do. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In.

“I’d like to get you on the wait list for an inpatient program.”