My Head Hurts

My Head Hurts

I sit inside the room and wait for Dr. Nielsen to arrive. She is six minutes late.

February 5, 1986:  I am 8 years old. I stare at the water as it pulls the sand from the shore. The crabs around my feet recede into the sand at even my slightest movement. I lunge at them but each time come up empty handed. After countless attempts, I find a crab cupped between my hands. Its legs grate against my palm as it moves. I look at it closely, examining its intricacies; its small unblinking black eyes gaze at me unnervingly. I rip off one of its legs and bring it towards my face. Only when I bring the leg right in front of my eyes do I notice the tiny yellow spots against its dark grey coloring.

I look up at our beach house. The decaying wood and faded white paint standout against the pristine neighboring homes. My dad couldn’t get away from work, so it's just my mom and me. She is inside with Julian, a man she met on the beach earlier that day. Looking through the upstairs window, I see them drinking wine and laughing.

Dr. Nielsen arrives at 4:38. She is wearing a black pant suit with a darker black undershirt.

January 23, 1990: I hate waiting to get picked up from school. My mom is always late. I sit in the courtyard pretending to concentrate on the homework in front of me, as my classmates laugh and talk with one another. Bryan comes over asking to copy my homework. I ignore him and continue working. He grabs a tuft of my hair and pulls downward, demanding I give him my work. Without hesitation, I pull his arm toward my mouth. I bite down and hear him yell out first in surprise then in pain. I feel his blood slide into my mouth.

“I’m sorry I’m late Henry. I know how you value punctuality.”

“It’s okay, Patty” I lie. I was supposed to call her by her first name in order to foster intimacy between us. I found the informality distasteful.

“What do you want to talk about today?”

March 10, 2004:  I am in a nightclub—The Thirsty Turtle. It smells. A wall of people fill the dance floor. I navigate through the cracks while surveying my surroundings. A woman glances around the club, searching for someone. I can tell from her movements that she’s drunk.  I approach her from behind and begin to dance. Her friend stares at me, then looks at the woman. She shakes her head back and forth. The woman and her friend quickly move to a different part of the dance floor, stumbling as they walk. I attempt to dance with three other women before heading home.

“I quit my job” I lie. I had been working as the manager of a Best Buy for the past two years.

“What happened Henry?” She looks me in the eyes when she asks. I tell her about the fight with my boss and the unfair working hours. She nods agreeing with my points, laughing whenever I make a joke.

August 24, 2012: I have started getting headaches nearly every day. It began eight days ago, and they have become progressively worse. Everything becomes irrelevant when my headaches hit. I have missed four straight days of work.

Dr. Nielsen asks if I have been looking for work. I have barely left my apartment since I was fired.

My head throbs. The medication hasn’t been working.

December 21, 2012: I am making coffee when the worst of my headaches hit. I collapse with the pot still in my hand. The liquid fills the edges of the tile floor. My fish on the kitchen counter glance at me with disinterest. The pain is excruciating. I close my eyes and drift into unconsciousness.

I wake up and find myself on my couch. The coffee covers the kitchen stone. My fish lay on the floor, browned by the coffee. Their bowl lay in pieces around them.

I use a lull in our conversation to examine her face. Her mascara accentuates the sharpness of her eyes; her porcelain skin contrasts with her heavy pink blush.

Her citrus perfume surrounds me. I know she doesn’t wear this much for other patients.

“You look wonderful today Patty.” She pauses before responding.

“Thank you, Henry. That means a lot.” My headache sharpens.

July 10, 2013: I am going to start seeing a psychologist. The medicine that the doctor gave me has stopped the headaches, but with the absence of any physical abnormality he demanded that I start therapy.

The pain pulses against my skull. I stare out the window, searching for a distraction. I focus on the nearby Best Buy.

“Henry how are you feeling?” I feel her soft hand rubbing against my shoulder. The chill from her breathe slides over the back of my neck. Her perfume is intoxicating. I concentrate on the sound of her voice and feel the pain begin to subside. I let out a groan as I grab her hand. She continues rubbing my shoulder.

September 15, 2014: After my last therapy session, I finally decide to take Dr. Nielsen’s advice. After the three hour drive, I arrive at my mother’s house. It is a pretty, small white house with a garden in the front. As I approach the house, my head starts to hurt. It worsens as I tread down the walkway. I approach the door and stare at its ugly green coloring. The smell of pesticides flows through the air and brings me to the point of inebriation. I quickly walk back to my car and drive away.

Dr. Nielsen is on the phone, she says something about a headache and sounds nervous. The pain has become unbearable since she left my side. I walk over to her.

“Henry, are you feeling any better?” she asks caringly. I don’t answer. We lock eyes before I put my hands around her waist.

“Henry, sit down. Let me get you some more water.” She moves away from me, but I know she want this. The pain has become constant to the point that I have almost gotten used to it.

I put my hands on her waist again. “Henry stop” she pleads unconvincingly. As I advance towards her she pushes me away. The pain sharply increases.

September 17, 2014: I tell Dr. Nielsen what happened with my mother. She listens intently, jotting notes occasionally. She tells me she is proud that I tried, that I can always go another time. She was on time for therapy today.

When I wake up, there are three paramedics in the office. I am lying down, handcuffed in a stretcher. The paramedics are on the floor, working franticly. I look down and see them by Dr. Nielsen. She is unconscious. Her nose has been broken. A small towel is placed on top of her chest but her shirt has clearly been ripped open. I rub my fingers together and feel dried blood caked on my fingertips.

I stare up at the ceiling. My head no longer hurts.