Young Writers Society

Doctor Chamberlin, my new doctor, gestures for me to sit down in the chair in front of his desk. Reluctantly, I slump down into the seat and cross my arms in defiance. As if he doesn't already know how angry I am to exist still.

I'm taken aback when he smiles. Since my arrival four days ago, smiling has been anything but commonplace. It's almost like all of the doctors and nurses are afraid to smile at me. God knows I wouldn't do it back. Unfortunately, the last couple of days have been a cycle of eating, sleeping. and resenting everyone around me. I'm positive the nurses were glad to see me move from their wing of the hospital to the mental health wing.

I suddenly realize that I've lost myself in my thoughts. Doctor Chamberlin looks at me expectantly, but I say nothing still.

"How are you?" he asks, folding his hands underneath his chin.

It becomes painfully apparent that this is without a doubt a mental health evaluation to see what loony bin I'll be shoved into. Shit.

"Peachy."

I see a look of disbelief glimmer in his eyes briefly, but he simply continues with his interrogation. "Tell me about yourself," he says casually, like we're just friends getting to know each other better. I hear a drawer slide open, and Doctor Chamberlin retrieves a notepad and pen. "What do you like to do?"

"Nothing."

The smile twists into a frown. "Certainly not," he says. "You've got to have something you like to do. Something that brings you joy?"

I pause to think before answering. You sort of lose touch with the things that make you happy when you try to kill yourself. Sometimes on purpose.

"I used to play volleyball," I say finally. Admittedly, it's a weak example considering I haven't played volleyball in over two years, and I never really liked it in the first place. "I don't anymore."

"Fair enough," he says, "but what do you do now?"

"Can we come back to that question?"

He nods. "Tell me about your family. Your mother? Siblings? Grandparents?"

"I'm an only child," I answer. "My mom hasn't been around lately, and my grandparents both died a long time ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

I sigh, "Don't be."

"Friends?"

"I'm not good at that," I answer stupidly. "Being friendly was never my forte."

He takes note of something quickly and looks back up with a smile. "Some people are certainly more apt to make friends than others," he reassures me. "C'est La Vie." He exhales slowly, like he's pining over some lost love or something. "Anyway, can we return to our former question?"

"Sure."

"Excellent," he says. "What is it that you like to do?"

"Wait," falls out of my mouth too quickly. Before I can stop myself, I add, "I wait for things to improve, but they haven't yet."

You idiot, AJ! That's the kind of sappy shit that gets people psychiatrists and therapy and medication for the rest of their life.

His eyebrows raise, and he scribbles something else on his paper. "Well, that's enough, then. We'll return to that in future sessions."

For what seems like an eternity, an awkward silence ensues. Finally, I demand, "Is that all?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "I already asked, but this time I don't want sarcasm," he says, setting his notepad down. "AJ, how are you?"

"I already told you, doc; I'm just peachy."

He purses his lips. "AJ," he sighs, "please be honest. I'm only trying to help."

"Fine! I'm awful then," I say resolutely, rolling my eyes so far back I'm almost certain they touch my brain. "Is that better, doc?"

"If it's honest," he answers with a shrug. "I want only the truth."

I bite the inside of my lip. "What else?"

"How are you feeling?" he asks, leaning back and crossing one leg over his other knee. "Physically, mentally, emotionally, maybe even spiritually. Who knows?" He chuckles. "Anyway, what's going on?"

"I feel like they should've told you."

"From a medical perspective, they did," he says, jotting something down quickly. "But I'm not so interested in that. I want to see it from your perspective."

I focus my eyes on the bookshelf behind him, especially fascinated by a large book entitled The Politics at God's Funeral. No one told me God died. It would make sense though, considering how many times I screamed for his help and found deafness.

"AJ?" asks the doctor, regaining my attention.

"Oh, right," I say. "My perspective? I'll tell you my perspective, and I'll let you decide if it's worth anything to you."

He nods. "Please do. It's always worth something."

"I'm pissed," I admit. "I wanted to be dead and you assholes wouldn't let that happen. I have nothing. I am nothing. I want nothing out of life. For some reason, you decided to try to help me. Like you can just tape me up and fix me to an extent and call it a life. But it won't be one, doc. I can tell you that."

"AJ, we didn't want you to die," he says, like it makes perfect sense, and I'm just missing the point. "You have things to offer this world that no one else can. Can you fault us for desiring to preserve the gifts that are within you?"

The formality of his speech irks me.

"Everyone wants to be a hero, right?" I challenge. "You do, the doctor before did, the nurses did, and my father tried. But not everyone needs saving. Some of us don't want it."

He shrugs. "Is it a desire to be heroic or a desire to do something significant?" he poses.

"Whatever."

"To be a hero implies recognition or accolades," he continues, despite my overly apparent lack of interest. "Doing something significant suggests a desire to do good, to help people. Not everyone wants to be a hero, AJ, but who doesn't want to leave their mark on this world in one way or another?"

I shut him down immediately, saying, "Me," curtly. I won't let him have the satisfaction of proving me wrong.

He scribbles something else onto the paper in his hand. "I do believe I've observed enough."

"It's been like ten minutes!" I protest. "How can you judge someone based on less than ten minutes of conversation?"

He smiles tensely. "AJ, you aren't difficult to understand," he replies. "In fact, I think you're quite reasonable. You saw no chance of improvement, so you wanted to end things before they got worse. My hope for you is this: I want you to see that improvement can happen."

"So?"

"So, I have no choice but to admit you to a mental health facility," he says matter-of-factly. "With extensive therapy over time, I think that you will see more good in this world than you realize the potential for." He returns to his former position, his hands folded underneath his chin. "Anything you want to ask me?"

"Nope," I answer sharply. "I think we're done here." Angrily, I shove my way out of the chair and walk to the door. "Thanks for all your help."