Dismantling Evan (10 page)

Hot tears spring from the corners of my eyes and I wipe them away with the sleeve of my t-shirt and try to pull myself together before going down stairs to watch the movie with my parents. They laugh out loud at all the funny parts. I don’t. I want to; I just can’t get it to come to the surface.

It’s the medication. It’s making me numb. It’s supposed to make me feel better and all I feel is nothing. Everything is just out of my grasp - emotional nothingness.

We reach the scene when Ferris Bueller tries to help his buddy Cameron Frye turn back the odometer on his father’s Ferrari, and Cameron reaches his breaking point. I have watched it so many times, but tonight it means more. Maybe it means more because of what I am going through and what I saw Gavin go through earlier tonight. I’m worried about him and Brody. I hope they are outside later.

After the movie ends, I start heading upstairs when Mom asks if I need something to help me sleep. I don’t bite her head off; my steam is gone. I tell her I don’t before saying good night.

It’s a lie.

I’m not tired and I probably do need something to get me to sleep, but I already feel numb and I don’t want to take something that will make me even number.

My thoughts race. What does Dr. Larson look like? Does she have kids? Are Mom and Dad happy they have me or am I a disappointment? I’m flawed. I’m sure I have disappointed them. Do the Fergusons go through this shit too? Does Gavin’s mom act like mine? Do I act like Gavin? What is Gavin’s “condition”? Is it like mine or completely different?

I snicker under my breath realizing I just called this mental crap a “condition” without going ape shit.

I look out the small window and wonder if they are out there now. I rise and brush the drape aside to peer at the house next door. The blinds on Brody’s window are drawn and there is no light behind them. I look into their backyard, but see only the blue-green glow the moon is casting on the Fergusons’ grass; no Brody and no circle walking Gavin. I’m a little deflated, but scanning both their backyard, part of mine and the trees, and seeing how the moon’s phosphorescence changes everything it touches, inspires me to take night shots with my camera.

The snoring between Mom and Dad is profound. I creep out of my room, down the stairs, and out the back door stealthily, convinced once again my sneaking out will go undetected.

The soggy and stiflingly warm air settles on my bare arms and legs as I step off our back porch into the yard where the sound of crickets battle with the warblings of night birds from beyond our yard, in the heavy brush. I wonder if there is a trail beyond the brush or if it is marshy; maybe a spring or something. I make note to venture out beyond the yard during the day and look up into the weaving tree branches above me. The moon’s glow peeks through just right and I raise my camera to snap a picture just as a voice breaks the silence.

“Was wondering if you would be out tonight.”

Startled, I jump. “Whoa! Shit!”

Brody is leaning against a column that holds up his slanted porch. He is in a simple white t-shirt, black wind shorts and no shoes. His hands are buried deep in his pockets and he has a casual slouch. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I stand frozen just looking at him longer than I should; he is really nice to look at. “Oh, it’s all right. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out here.” 

Brody steps off the porch and walks toward the fence separating us, his eyes leaving mine only to nod at my camera. “Are you taking pictures?” he asks, like it is the oddest thing to do at night.

His arrogant tone makes me tense and I prepare for a typical asshole-type judgment to follow.

“No. I mean yes, I was going to until you interrupted me.” My voice is small, but annoyed like it normally is when I am confronted.

Brody stops a few inches from my fence and smiles softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” It isn’t just a casual, not-really-meaning-it sorry. It is a real, heart felt sorry. A sorry I wouldn’t expect from a guy like Brody. “How does that work exactly?”

His curiosity seems genuine, so I move closer and speak nervously, but coherently (thank God).

“Just like day shots, except softer, more mysterious. I was about to take a shot of the moon through the branches when you spoke.”

“Oh,” he says, barely nodding his head and keeping his eyes trained on me.

Heat rushes over my face first, then through my body. I look down at the camera cradled in my hands to keep from looking at Brody. I try to think of something to say. “Where is Gavin?”

“Sleeping,” he says.

“Why aren’t you?”

Brody leans his head back, looking up into the tree branches above him and inhales. “I just couldn’t fall asleep.”

I watch as he revels in the moonlight; the lines and planes of his forehead, his nose, his jaw all set aglow by the moon’s light. He is the most beautiful guy I have ever seen. Couldn’t sleep doesn’t sound like the only reason though. I want to ask if it has anything to do with Gavin’s blowup out front earlier. Would I be over stepping boundaries if I did?

“Is it because of what happened earlier?”
Crap! I want to take it back as soon as I say it.

“What do you mean?” he asks, casually, still looking up at the sky.

Hoping the blanket of darkness around us will keep me invincible or something, I continue to probe. “In the front yard. Gavin, you, your mom.”

Brody closes his eyes and his jaw tenses. “Nothing happened.”

Feeling the weight of guilt for bringing it up, I quickly apologize. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It is none of my business. I just saw...”

“You didn’t see anything,” he says sharply, looking down at me now. “You don’t know anything, all right,” he adds in a tone of disgust.

“I’m sorry...I shouldn’t have assumed...”

Without letting me finish, he turns around and walks into the house, leaving me alone and wondering how I could have expected someone like Brody to talk to me or give me the time of day, or night in this case.
Who the hell am I to think I can get involved in his business? Who am I to him, period? Nobody. Just the nosy neighbor poking around where she shouldn’t.
I forget about taking night shots and creep back into my room for a sleepless and miserable night.

JUST AS THE SUN IS coming up, I slip into a light sleep. Mom knocks on my door in what seems only seconds later. “Evan, your appointment is in an hour,” she says softly as she enters my room.

My eyes are heavy and I don’t attempt opening them. My heart starts to race as I react to the words “doctor’s appointment”. The sound of the blinds being opened and the sensation of the sun’s heat pouring down on me makes me pull the covers over my head, seeking shelter.

“Evan?” she calls more firmly. “We need to leave in thirty minutes.”

My lack of acknowledging her demand gets another call, “Evan?”

“Okay. I’m awake,” I respond gruffly, irritated and wanting her to leave.

“I’ll make you something to eat,” she says.

I’m too tired to tell her I don’t want to eat, hear her tell me I am going to eat, and then argue back that I’m not again. My door shuts and I continue to lie there thinking about how this appointment with the she-shrink will turn out.

I did eat something before we left, but it wasn’t what my mom had made for me. It was a simple banana. That is all I could stomach. Oh, and the bottle of water I wash my medication down with. I don’t think the medicine has anything to do with the nausea I am feeling or my not wanting to eat this morning. I still feel as terrible as I did last night that I said anything to Brody about what I saw, or thought I saw.

We ride in silence as Mom drives. I look out the window at the heavy clouds.

“It looks like it might rain today,” she says in an attempt to make conversation.

It doesn’t work.

We drive for thirty minutes or so. “Where is this doctor’s office?” I ask.

“We have to head into Austin for the appointment. We are almost there,” she says.

“Couldn’t we have seen a doctor closer to home?”

“There are only a handful of psychiatrists that see children and adolescents, Evan. The others were just as far. Plus, Dr. Larson came highly recommended.”

I want to ask by whom. Dr. Middleton aka Dr. Know it all? Hah! If that is the case, then I don’t have high expectations for this appointment.

Dr. Larson pokes her head out into the waiting room and calls both Mom and me. She addresses me first as we walk. “Evan, I’m Dr. Larson,” she says, shaking my hand lightly.

“Hi.”

My mood reflects my low expectations immediately upon entering Dr. Larson’s office. It looks just like Dr. Middleton’s office with the heavy wooden desk and the wooden shelves that hold numerous books and a few exotic looking statues. One in particular is eye catching having the shape of Mayan calendar with stained glasswork placed throughout the piece.

“Will Mr. Phillips be joining us?” Dr. Larson’s asks

I didn’t think about it, but now that she has asked I wonder why Dad isn’t here.

“He couldn’t break away this morning due to work,” Mom says to her with a light smile.

Dr. Larson doesn’t resemble what I expected. She has salt-and-pepper colored hair that sits at her shoulders. She wears dress pants and a white button long sleeve shirt with a pair a flats that suit her tall and thin frame. I guess I expected the doctor to be old and crappy; more like Dr. Middleton. It’s funny how you get ideas of what a person should look like, act like, based off something like a name or what they do as a profession.

She explains that she would like to talk to both of us together first, then break up to speak with me alone. Mom is a little apprehensive about this but she takes it in her stride as Dr. Larson mentions this type of communication has been successful with patients in the past.

Mom already knows what she wants to say and ask. Dr. Larson takes notes on a yellow legal notepad and periodically glances across at me, smiling as Mom divulges all the symptoms and events that have occurred over the past few months, from my “condition” to our appointment with Dr. Middleton, then the move to Braxton Springs. Dr. Larson asks a few questions about my childhood, my behavior, making friends, grades, and any problems with discipline. As Mom speaks, she takes notes.

I feel a little like a third wheel, sitting there listening to both of them speak about me. I know my time is coming for her to question me and I’m dreading it.

“And, now that we have settled in, I wanted to get Evan in to talk with someone who specializes in children’s psychiatry to see what condition we are dealing with here,” says Mom, confidently. I hold my tongue as the word “condition” slips from her lips, AGAIN.

“It isn’t a condition we are dealing with Mrs. Phillips.” Dr. Larson says.

YES! THANK YOU DR. LARSON!

“Oh,” Mom says, blushing but animated, having been put in her place.

“We are dealing with a child that has the beginnings of an illness triggered by circumstances around her. She is the result of those conditions. She isn’t the condition,” says Dr. Larson, pointedly.

“Oh,” Mom repeats, but more feebly now. “I didn’t mean to sound so...”

“No Mrs. Phillips, it’s okay. That is why you are here to see me. To find answers,” she says, then looks at me. “Answers for both of you.”

After a few more comments back and forth, Dr. Larson sends Mom to the waiting room.

“How are you feeling today, Evan?” she asks as she places her desk chair in front of me.

Seriously? Is that her opening question? So cliché for a psychiatrist.

“Okay.”

“Why are you here?”

Again, another cliché.

“My mom and dad want me to see a specialist.”

She sits back in the seat more relaxed now. Kind of makes me relax a little, but not by much. “For what?”

Shit, she is a pushy one.
I know what she is doing. Trying to get me to say I have a mental illness.

“You know why I’m here,” I shoot back.

“I know why your mother brought you. She and your father are worried about you. I want to know why you are here?” she says, not missing a beat.

“Because I have to be. My parents made me.”

She writes down a few notes. I peer closer, trying to decipher the words upside down.

“Dr. Middleton diagnosed you with the possible onset of Bipolar Disorder, correct?” she asks.

I nod, becoming less and less interested in talking.

“And he prescribed you 30 mg of Zoloft along with a script for Xanax for anxiety and insomnia?”

I nod again as I pick at the fray on the thigh of my jeans.

“Are they helping?” she asks.

That is a trigger question; one I want to answer. I have to say she is good at what she does. “No, they aren’t.”

“Why do you think they aren’t helping?”

“Because I don’t have bipolar disorder, “ I say, simply yet snidely

“Have you been taking the medication consistently, routinely, every morning and as needed for the Xanax?” she asks.

I don’t deny I have missed doses a few times, but mostly I have been taking them the right way. I’m not telling her that though. Having Mom hovering more than she already is, dishing me my medication in a Dixie cup every morning, would be the worst that could happen right now.

“I am just a normal moody, hormonal teenage girl. Plain and simple,” I say curtly.

“Yes, you are those things, Evan, but variables in your life have triggered an illness within you that needs treating,” she says, deadpan.

My chest tightens as I stumble over my words. “So, you think I have this illness? You don’t even know me. How can you say within a matter of minutes I have bipolar and I am doomed to a life of uncontrollable emotional ups and downs and medication?”

“Your illness can be controlled and it can be treated with the right medication and counseling, Evan. You can live a completely normal life. Like Dr. Middleton I’ve listened to the symptoms your mother has outlined and I’ve carefully reviewed your medical history records.”

I feel trapped, not physically, but emotionally and mentally. Like I have no say in what is being decided for me. “So you aren’t going to listen to me then. You are just going to treat me for this fucking bipolar, manic shit and say that is what I have?” It all spills out before I can stop myself, the foul language and all. I feel so stupid for saying “fucking” and “shit” to this woman I have just met and who has only good intentions. She doesn’t show any signs of shock or anger, which is strange to me.

Evenly and completely composed she says, “I am going to listen to you if you are willing to talk and tell me everything you are feeling. Are you ready to talk?”

She has gotten me to this point in the appointment only to take me back to the question I avoided answering. “What are you here for, Evan?”

Her brows are knitted together and her green eyes, unmarred with makeup, await my words; not Mom’s or Dad’s, not Dr. Middleton’s, but mine. The sound of the ticking clock on her bookshelf counts the seconds of silence.

At first it doesn’t sound like my voice at all. It sounds clipped and choked as I relay thoughts I have kept only in my head; contemplating them, distressing over them, denying them; never wanting to admit them out loud... until now.

“I want to know what is wrong with me.”

I tell her I don’t feel like I had an illness. Tell her about the acceptable, friendless, life I led back at Paramount High School. There follow a series of “whys “and “how did that make you feels”; I don’t derail from telling her this time. I tell her the medicines aren’t working; that they are just making me feel dopey not better, and that I am still spiraling.

“Spiraling?” she asks.

I explain what a spiral looks like and how it feels. She can’t take notes fast enough. She asks me about starting a new school, being in a new town and if that is causing me any anger or resentment.

“No,” I reply. “It actually is nice to be closer to my grandparents now.”

She smiles. “That is right, this is your mom’s hometown.”

I nod.

“And you will be attending the same high school as her?”

I nod again.

“How does going back to the school environment make you feel?”

“Anxious. Not because of not knowing anybody though. It’s just the unknown of what I am falling into.”

“You mean the school society; jocks, cheerleaders, techies, stoners?”

“Yes,” I say with an inkling of relief that she gets it; she understands.

She nods. “Understandable and completely normal.”

She scribbles a few more notes then looks up at me like she’s waiting for me to say something else.

I’ve told her everything, so I ask, somewhat shyly, “What?”

“Is there anything else you would like to tell me?”

I think for a moment.
Is this a trick question?
I slowly shake my head.

Her smile reassures me. She places her pen on top of her notepad, sets it back behind her on her desk, and intertwines her hands on her lap. “Evan, you do show some symptoms of the onset of bipolar, but currently you aren’t experiencing the severe symptoms that differentiate true bipolar from clinical depression.”

I feel relief wash over me. “So I’m just depressed.”

She tilts her head and corrects me, “Depression with symptoms reflecting the onset of bipolar disorder. The symptoms are there and have been triggered, activated within you.”

“By variables.”

She nods. “Yes, by variables at school, at home, through genetics.”

“Genetics?”

“Depression and bipolar disorder, like other mental illnesses are sometimes inherited from parents.”

“Oh.”

I consider all the triggers that could have been the root of my tipping point into my unstable mental situation, while Dr. Larson continues talking about starting me on a different antidepressant since it seems the Zoloft is having little effect. She also says something about coming in every two weeks, but I an still stuck, thinking about these “triggers”.
Was it because I didn’t try to be social? Or because I stay in my room all the time? Could I have done something to stop the triggers from happening? Could I have kept myself from having this illness?