"She-uh." I try to form the sentence. It was so easy to say to Noah. Perhaps the glass of wine in front of my face made it easier.
"She killed herself," I finally say.
The moment of hesitation does not go unlooked by his busy pen. I assume my file is going to look like thirty toddler went ham on a piece of notebook paper.
"When was this?" He goes into business mode. He has to remain unattached from the patients. He can't feel sympathy. This works for me. I don't want pity. I simply want understanding. Now that I am out of my deep hole on Grove Street, I can feel my mind refreshed the longer I stay away.
"When I was 17," I say, I swallow my consonants down my dry throat.
"How was that?" He asks.
I have no idea what he means. Does he want me to tell him how the suicide was, how it made me feel or how it happened?
"Uh," I stammer yet again.
He writes again.
There is a sinking feel that surfaces when you say something and the doctor writes on his notepad. You know you have fucked up.
"It made me feel alone." I fast track my interpretation of his question, "she abandoned me."
"But you still have your father," he says. He picks the pen off of the clipboard and waves it as he talks. He continues to babble but my eyes glue to it. The shiny metal tip with a black dot in the middle. The plastic white body with blue writing on it. It is tucked securely under his thumb and on top of his index finger. This minute thing has so much power over me. Whatever it traces is what becomes of my brain. What I am perceived as. I am insane. He may as well scribble that on his pad. He click the top of the pen and the metal tip is retracted.
"Are you listening?" He asks. He could see my eyes fixated on the pen and clicks it again.
His wrists flex as he brings the pen down the paper. The pen swiftly follows his movement. Each tiny muscle that is stretched makes huge movements from the utensil. He gleams up at me while writing.
"Are you ok?" He clicks the pen closed again. This time he puts it in the pocket of his white button up.
"Um, yeah." I ask, pulling myself out of the zone I had entered.
"If you still had your father, why did you feel alone and abandoned?" The doctor resumes our discussion.
"Because my father never cared much for me," I say. This is hard to say. I don't like admitting this because this is the equivalent of admitting defeat in my eyes.
His elbow flexes and his fingers reach for the white pen, yet again. My eyes center on it. I don't want him to write anymore.
He sees my expression and stops trying to get it. Instead, he reaches over to his desk and grabs a different pen. He thinks that I am just obsessed with that specific pen but in all honesty, I just want him to stop writing on the pad all together. He scribbles down something on the clipboard with the new pen. I sigh and sit back farther into the fluffy cotton couch.
"Why do you assume that your father didn't care?" He asks.
"He was never really around," I say, "sure, he was present but he always seemed to be in a far off world, ignoring all of us."
"Has your father been to a health care professional?"
I shake my head.
"Not that I know of," I say timidly, "why?"
"Well, if we know what your dad is suffering from, we can more correctly diagnose you."
This makes me slightly angry. He is assuming a lot of things.
"How would you know that my father has a mental illness?" I spit. Now my annoyance is starting to blossom. It must be his incessant writing.
"Genetically speaking," Dr. Simmons says calmly, "most mental disorders come from parents or grandparents."
I look at him. How would he know? He doesn't know my family. He doesn't know my father. Then I remember. That one goddamn phrase won't leave my mind. 'It runs in the family.' I always assumed that he was referring to my mother but could he have been talking about himself. This is all confusing me. My confusion from before was cleared up but now new confusion eats away at my head.
"It could have been from my mother," I tell him.
"True." Yet again, he scribbles on his notepad. Goddamnit.
"What are you writing?" I ask as I attempt to peer over the clipboard.
"Just your evaluation." He pulls the notepad closer to him so that I can't see anything, even if I tried just a little harder.
"Everything looks good?" I ask.
"Everything looks good." He replies staunchly.
Somehow, I don't believe him the slightest bit.
"What's wrong with me?" I ask, "why am I here?"
He puts the clipboard down on his knee and looks at me. He glare worries me. It isn't one of anger or mistrust. It is one of sympathy.
"Tell me, do you have mood swings?" He inquires, "like highs and lows?"
He moves his hand like a rocking boat trying to help me visualize exactly what mood swings are. I know what they are and I am starting to think he is moron. I don't think he wants me to think that of him.
"Doesn't everybody?" I ask.
"No," he says, "some people have more extreme highs and lows than others."
"Ok?"
"Have you ever been very low and sad?"
"Yes." I say. I would be dithered to release that information but it spills out of my mouth. I guess my brain has been waiting to tell someone for longer than I realized.
"Have you ever been very excited and emotional?"
"Occasionally?" These questions are bemusing me, "Why are you asking all of this?"
"Well," the doctor says as he places his clipboard next to him, "I'm trying to react a diagnosis here."
"For me?" I ask. "I thought I was just in here for the suicide."
"You are," he says matter of factly, "but there may be some underlying problems."
"I presumed that you were going to discover the reason why I tried and then let me sulk for 72 hours." I say.
"It's not that simple, I'm afraid." He sighs. "The reason tried could be a long term illness that has to be treated just like a physical illness."
I am baffled. They think I'm sick? I am perfectly healthy. I just tried something once and I hear voices that I have begun to control. This doesn't mean I'm permanently damaged.
"So you are just going to pump me full of medication so that I don't go burning down buildings?" I project back at him. The fire is starting to flicker in my stomach.
"That's not what I said." The doctor puts his hands up. I can't tell if he is surrendering, seeking to calm me or both.
"I'm afraid you are most likely schizophrenic." He says in the most commiserative expression.
I am taken aback. All of the times that I have heard these words, they are associated with serial killers and rancid celebrities. I can't be part of that group. I am not part of that group.
"I'm a murderer." I say strictly.
"Ana, only about twenty percent of schizophrenic individuals are in jail," he says, his eyes growing wide at my retort, "and as is, violence is not a symptom of this illness."
I look at him perplexed.
"All of those people who were violent in public had many more issues than just schizophrenia," he says, "don't let society tell you wrong facts."
I nod my head slowly. I think I understand what he is saying but it simply makes me more mad that people in this world are so ignorant like that. I can't believe that they would just assume who is and who isn't going to be a terror to society. But I'm also mad at myself for being driven by those stereotypes. I am also mad at myself for being like this. I am mental incapacitated. Now, it is on record too.
"So are you going to put me on some drugs?" I ask, annoyed.