On the same page.
Jamie had a violent spasm, knocking over a cup of water on his bathroom counter, and swore loudly. He ripped a towel off the rack and pressed it into the wet rug with his foot.
“Jamie!” Mrs. Patterson yelled again, as she pounded on the door with a fist. “What are you doing in there?”
Jamie spat a foamy dollop of used toothpaste into the sink and gripped the edge of the counter, trying to calm his heartbeat. He’d grown conditioned to feel anxious at the sound of his mother’s voice as a result of years of these outbursts. He wondered if he was developing a premature form of heart disease from all of these sudden noises.
“Get your ass out here right now! Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing!” she screamed.
Jamie gritted his teeth. Only one side of his mouth tasted minty; the other side was questionable. Outside, his mother paused for a minute and cautiously edged toward the door to press her ear against it. She listened intently, but when she realized she couldn’t hear anything, she resumed yelling.
“You be out here in thirty seconds or I’m calling the police!” she demanded. “Get to school! And don’t forget you have an appointment with Ms. Thomas this afternoon!”
Mrs. Patterson gave the doorknob one last aggressive jiggle and walked away. On the other side of the door, Jamie watched the water pool around the items on the counter. When the water stopped moving, he rinsed off his toothbrush.
-----
She even looked like a therapist. Her mouth wrinkled when she got frustrated and a few dry ribbons of hair escaped her bun. Before, she used to sit erect in her chair, tapping her pencil on the clipboard that she peered over. Now, she reclined in her armrest with her fingertips laced like small scissors.
“How are we today, Jamie? Any news? Any updates? Anything?”
“No ma’am, nothing.”
Before continuing, she slid her feet out of her shoes and wiggled her toes under the heavy Persian rug to keep them warm.
“Now, ‘nothing’ is not a healthy response, Jamie.”
Unfazed by Jamie’s composure, she plowed on.
“Your mother tells me you were in the bathroom for hours this morning. You want to tell me anything about that?”
Ms. Thomas cocked her head to the side, daring him to react. He didn’t.
“Your mother expressed her concerns strongly, Jamie. Are you using drugs?” she asked.
“I was brushing my teeth,” he responded.
“Jamie, you need to tell me what you were doing. I can’t help you if I don’t know. I need to know something.”
Jamie sighed. Ms. Thomas did this every day they met. Ms. Thomas noted his sigh as an encouraging sign, however, and placed the clipboard on the glossy coffee table to her side and leaned forward, preparing herself to tactfully pry him apart. She had a phD in clinical psychology and learned to take the slightest motions as signs the patient wanted to talk about his or her problems.
“Jamie, you want to know what I think?” she asked, leaning forward and tapping her knee a few times with the pen.
“No,” he said.
“I think you’re experiencing a form of repression,” she asserted. She flicked a wisp of dead hair off the frame of her glasses, looking proud that she’d figured him out. “This is normal. You are suppressing feelings of anger and loneliness. That’s why you turn to drugs,”
“No, I’m not. I haven’t.”
“Jamie,” Ms. Thomas said. She raised one eyebrow at him, making the surrounding skin wrinkle. “You are lonely. You are using.”
Mrs. Thomas rolled her lips inward and bit them, observing Jamie’s expressionless face. She was so still her skin resembled a leaf. After a full minute, she leaned back in her chair again.
“Okay,” She stated.
Another silence followed. The minute hand rolled its way around the clock four times behind Ms. Thomas’s head. She scribbled on her clipboard, ‘lack of responsive movement.’ After the minute hand made four more laps, she heaved a dramatic sigh that made her dry bangs shiver on her dry forehead. Finally, the hands crawled to 4:30 p.m. and a bell chimed. Ms. Thomas fumbled through some meaningless papers with an air of importance as Jamie stood to leave.
“Consider chat rooms, Jamie.”
-------
“Well?” Mrs. Patterson demanded.
“‘Well’ what?” Jamie asked from behind his European history textbook, which was propped up against a dish of mints on the kitchen counter.
“Did Ms. Thomas figure out what’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t think so, Mom.”
Mrs. Patterson stared at him for a few more seconds. Then, she snapped her gaze down to the cutting board again, seized a fistful of chives and began slicing them aggressively with an enormous knife. After a few minutes, she laid the knife down on the table with a marble counter with a knock and glared at him.
“What were you doing this morning?” she asked forcefully.
“Brushing my teeth,” Jamie responded.
“Don’t you lie to me. No one spends that long brushing their teeth,”
“I floss, too.”
Mrs. Patterson stared at her son again, baffled, as he copied a set of borrowed notes. Then flicking around, she dipped her hand into the sink to retrieve another fistful of chives. Jamie sighed as she slapped them onto the cutting board.
“Those chives aren’t me, Mom.”
-----
“Jamie, I think your silence reflects some serious underlying issues. If you don’t bring these issues to light, the repression will begin to affect your every day life. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jamie replied obediently.
Ms. Thomas frantically jotted some notes on her clipboard. Jamie followed the tip of her pen as it fluttered across the yellow paper like a panicky butterfly, trying to predict what profound interpretation she exacted out of two words. After she finished, she placed the pen under the clamp and scissored her fingers together, staring at him.
“I would really like to get to know you, Jamie.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I think you’re a very angry individual.”
“All right.”
“You’re a very angry individual, Jamie.”
“Could you stop saying my name so often, please?”
One of Ms. Thomas’s eyebrows arched at the hint of frustration in Jamie’s tone. She continued scratching his diagnosis on the clipboard. He wondered if she was literally just scribbling.
“Jamie, I’m sensing some resentment in your tone. Do you know why this is?”
“Yes. It’s because-”
“It’s because you are suffering from repression. Repression is a subconscious defense mechanism. It’s perfectly normal for lonely individuals. Especially when substance abuse is involved.”
“Right.”
“Do you have any friends, Jamie?”
“Yes, I-”
“It’s perfectly normal, Jamie. Many angry teenagers who abuse drugs often find themselves lost and without a friend.”
“I didn’t-”
Ms. Thomas, in what she perceived as an empathetic gesture, placed the clipboard on the mahogany coffee table to her side and leaned forward as if she were sharing a secret with her patient.
“I would like to get to know you, Jamie. People would like to get to know you. It’s that you refuse to open yourself up. You are a victim of repression, Jamie. You are angry. You are lonely. Your problem-”
Jamie sat up in his armchair and accidentally kicked the table between them. It slid a few inches so that the rug created waves on the therapist’s side.
“Fine.” he said. “Okay. You want to know what I was doing in the bathroom, right?”
Ms. Thomas started. She readjusted her glasses and retrieved the clipboard so quickly he thought she had summoned it. She sat staring at him expectantly, her pen poised, hovering over the yellow paper.
“I was brushing my teeth,” he finished lamely.
Ms. Thomas rolled her lips inward so that they disappeared and her mouth was just another line in her face. She put the clipboard down again.
“Jamie,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I don’t have time for these little jokes,” she said.
“All right,” he responded.
“Let’s try again, now, Jamie.”
The minute hand ran its circuit over and over again, slowly, as they stared at one another. Finally, Jamie broke the silence.
“Do you want me to say I’m unhappy?”
“Jamie, I want you to admit that you’re unhappy.”
Jamie looked away. They sat in silence again.
“Fine, then,” he finished quietly. “‘I’m unhappy.’ Can we stop now?”
Ms. Thomas ignored his question as she scribbled on her pad: ‘patient admits to depressive tendencies. Needs resources.’
-----
‘What did she say?’ Mrs. Patterson called from her supine position on the living room couch. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the squabbling of soap opera characters in the background.
“She wants to diagnose me as manic-depressive and send me to an in-patient facility for people with drug problems,” Jamie responded, trudging up the stairs, lugging his bookbag after him.
“What?” Mrs. Patterson yelled. He continued, ignoring her in turn. When she realized he was heading toward his room, she sat up, abandoning the attractive couple now kissing on the television.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing in there!” she screamed up the stairs. “You keep that damn door open!”
Jamie dropped his textbooks on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Downstairs, his mother sat erect on the couch, perfectly still, straining to hear what he was doing.
-----
Ms. Thomas pushed her hair out of her face and readjusted in her seat, crossing her legs. Then, she removed her glasses and sat staring at him.
“How are we today, Jamie?” she asked.
“I want to be committed,” he said.
Ms. Thomas stared at him briefly before she jolted back to attention, turning to the glossy coffee table to her side. One dry hand felt around the pile of papers for the packet and its accompanying forms. She retrieved them shortly and slid them across the table toward Jamie. As Jamie closed his fingers around the edges of the papers, she sat back in her chair again, folding her fingers like small scissors.
“Good,” she said. “I’m glad we’re finally on the same page.”
“Jamie!” Mrs. Patterson yelled again, as she pounded on the door with a fist. “What are you doing in there?”
Jamie spat a foamy dollop of used toothpaste into the sink and gripped the edge of the counter, trying to calm his heartbeat. He’d grown conditioned to feel anxious at the sound of his mother’s voice as a result of years of these outbursts. He wondered if he was developing a premature form of heart disease from all of these sudden noises.
“Get your ass out here right now! Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing!” she screamed.
Jamie gritted his teeth. Only one side of his mouth tasted minty; the other side was questionable. Outside, his mother paused for a minute and cautiously edged toward the door to press her ear against it. She listened intently, but when she realized she couldn’t hear anything, she resumed yelling.
“You be out here in thirty seconds or I’m calling the police!” she demanded. “Get to school! And don’t forget you have an appointment with Ms. Thomas this afternoon!”
Mrs. Patterson gave the doorknob one last aggressive jiggle and walked away. On the other side of the door, Jamie watched the water pool around the items on the counter. When the water stopped moving, he rinsed off his toothbrush.
-----
She even looked like a therapist. Her mouth wrinkled when she got frustrated and a few dry ribbons of hair escaped her bun. Before, she used to sit erect in her chair, tapping her pencil on the clipboard that she peered over. Now, she reclined in her armrest with her fingertips laced like small scissors.
“How are we today, Jamie? Any news? Any updates? Anything?”
“No ma’am, nothing.”
Before continuing, she slid her feet out of her shoes and wiggled her toes under the heavy Persian rug to keep them warm.
“Now, ‘nothing’ is not a healthy response, Jamie.”
Unfazed by Jamie’s composure, she plowed on.
“Your mother tells me you were in the bathroom for hours this morning. You want to tell me anything about that?”
Ms. Thomas cocked her head to the side, daring him to react. He didn’t.
“Your mother expressed her concerns strongly, Jamie. Are you using drugs?” she asked.
“I was brushing my teeth,” he responded.
“Jamie, you need to tell me what you were doing. I can’t help you if I don’t know. I need to know something.”
Jamie sighed. Ms. Thomas did this every day they met. Ms. Thomas noted his sigh as an encouraging sign, however, and placed the clipboard on the glossy coffee table to her side and leaned forward, preparing herself to tactfully pry him apart. She had a phD in clinical psychology and learned to take the slightest motions as signs the patient wanted to talk about his or her problems.
“Jamie, you want to know what I think?” she asked, leaning forward and tapping her knee a few times with the pen.
“No,” he said.
“I think you’re experiencing a form of repression,” she asserted. She flicked a wisp of dead hair off the frame of her glasses, looking proud that she’d figured him out. “This is normal. You are suppressing feelings of anger and loneliness. That’s why you turn to drugs,”
“No, I’m not. I haven’t.”
“Jamie,” Ms. Thomas said. She raised one eyebrow at him, making the surrounding skin wrinkle. “You are lonely. You are using.”
Mrs. Thomas rolled her lips inward and bit them, observing Jamie’s expressionless face. She was so still her skin resembled a leaf. After a full minute, she leaned back in her chair again.
“Okay,” She stated.
Another silence followed. The minute hand rolled its way around the clock four times behind Ms. Thomas’s head. She scribbled on her clipboard, ‘lack of responsive movement.’ After the minute hand made four more laps, she heaved a dramatic sigh that made her dry bangs shiver on her dry forehead. Finally, the hands crawled to 4:30 p.m. and a bell chimed. Ms. Thomas fumbled through some meaningless papers with an air of importance as Jamie stood to leave.
“Consider chat rooms, Jamie.”
-------
“Well?” Mrs. Patterson demanded.
“‘Well’ what?” Jamie asked from behind his European history textbook, which was propped up against a dish of mints on the kitchen counter.
“Did Ms. Thomas figure out what’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t think so, Mom.”
Mrs. Patterson stared at him for a few more seconds. Then, she snapped her gaze down to the cutting board again, seized a fistful of chives and began slicing them aggressively with an enormous knife. After a few minutes, she laid the knife down on the table with a marble counter with a knock and glared at him.
“What were you doing this morning?” she asked forcefully.
“Brushing my teeth,” Jamie responded.
“Don’t you lie to me. No one spends that long brushing their teeth,”
“I floss, too.”
Mrs. Patterson stared at her son again, baffled, as he copied a set of borrowed notes. Then flicking around, she dipped her hand into the sink to retrieve another fistful of chives. Jamie sighed as she slapped them onto the cutting board.
“Those chives aren’t me, Mom.”
-----
“Jamie, I think your silence reflects some serious underlying issues. If you don’t bring these issues to light, the repression will begin to affect your every day life. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jamie replied obediently.
Ms. Thomas frantically jotted some notes on her clipboard. Jamie followed the tip of her pen as it fluttered across the yellow paper like a panicky butterfly, trying to predict what profound interpretation she exacted out of two words. After she finished, she placed the pen under the clamp and scissored her fingers together, staring at him.
“I would really like to get to know you, Jamie.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I think you’re a very angry individual.”
“All right.”
“You’re a very angry individual, Jamie.”
“Could you stop saying my name so often, please?”
One of Ms. Thomas’s eyebrows arched at the hint of frustration in Jamie’s tone. She continued scratching his diagnosis on the clipboard. He wondered if she was literally just scribbling.
“Jamie, I’m sensing some resentment in your tone. Do you know why this is?”
“Yes. It’s because-”
“It’s because you are suffering from repression. Repression is a subconscious defense mechanism. It’s perfectly normal for lonely individuals. Especially when substance abuse is involved.”
“Right.”
“Do you have any friends, Jamie?”
“Yes, I-”
“It’s perfectly normal, Jamie. Many angry teenagers who abuse drugs often find themselves lost and without a friend.”
“I didn’t-”
Ms. Thomas, in what she perceived as an empathetic gesture, placed the clipboard on the mahogany coffee table to her side and leaned forward as if she were sharing a secret with her patient.
“I would like to get to know you, Jamie. People would like to get to know you. It’s that you refuse to open yourself up. You are a victim of repression, Jamie. You are angry. You are lonely. Your problem-”
Jamie sat up in his armchair and accidentally kicked the table between them. It slid a few inches so that the rug created waves on the therapist’s side.
“Fine.” he said. “Okay. You want to know what I was doing in the bathroom, right?”
Ms. Thomas started. She readjusted her glasses and retrieved the clipboard so quickly he thought she had summoned it. She sat staring at him expectantly, her pen poised, hovering over the yellow paper.
“I was brushing my teeth,” he finished lamely.
Ms. Thomas rolled her lips inward so that they disappeared and her mouth was just another line in her face. She put the clipboard down again.
“Jamie,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I don’t have time for these little jokes,” she said.
“All right,” he responded.
“Let’s try again, now, Jamie.”
The minute hand ran its circuit over and over again, slowly, as they stared at one another. Finally, Jamie broke the silence.
“Do you want me to say I’m unhappy?”
“Jamie, I want you to admit that you’re unhappy.”
Jamie looked away. They sat in silence again.
“Fine, then,” he finished quietly. “‘I’m unhappy.’ Can we stop now?”
Ms. Thomas ignored his question as she scribbled on her pad: ‘patient admits to depressive tendencies. Needs resources.’
-----
‘What did she say?’ Mrs. Patterson called from her supine position on the living room couch. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the squabbling of soap opera characters in the background.
“She wants to diagnose me as manic-depressive and send me to an in-patient facility for people with drug problems,” Jamie responded, trudging up the stairs, lugging his bookbag after him.
“What?” Mrs. Patterson yelled. He continued, ignoring her in turn. When she realized he was heading toward his room, she sat up, abandoning the attractive couple now kissing on the television.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing in there!” she screamed up the stairs. “You keep that damn door open!”
Jamie dropped his textbooks on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Downstairs, his mother sat erect on the couch, perfectly still, straining to hear what he was doing.
-----
Ms. Thomas pushed her hair out of her face and readjusted in her seat, crossing her legs. Then, she removed her glasses and sat staring at him.
“How are we today, Jamie?” she asked.
“I want to be committed,” he said.
Ms. Thomas stared at him briefly before she jolted back to attention, turning to the glossy coffee table to her side. One dry hand felt around the pile of papers for the packet and its accompanying forms. She retrieved them shortly and slid them across the table toward Jamie. As Jamie closed his fingers around the edges of the papers, she sat back in her chair again, folding her fingers like small scissors.
“Good,” she said. “I’m glad we’re finally on the same page.”