Out Of Sight, Out Of Mind - Treebros

Chapter 12: "If I Became Healthy, Would I Stop Being Me?

Monday, November 5th

I've always hated Dr. Sherman's office.

Not because I hate therapy or anything, although it isn't exactly my favorite past time. It's the actual room I have a problem with. Dr. Sherman is always burning a candle that smells like cinnamon, but it's a cheap candle. It's at least 20% plastic and smells like it. And he doesn't ever use the ceiling light, only these two lamps that have orange shades and make everything a sickly orange color. The whole room makes me want to tear my own skin off.

And the ticking of the clock. Right now, it's drilling into me even more than usual. Dr. Sherman is tapping his pen against his stupid clipboard, waiting for me to speak and I can faintly hear the air conditioner.

Tear off the Band-Aid, Evan.

"I don't know how to be okay without my mental illnesses," I blurt out, fingers digging into the sides of the chair. I know he won't understand and I'll have to explain, but I really don't want to. Might as well prolong it by making him ask.

"I see this a lot, especially in patients with depression. You identify so closely with your mental illnesses that you feel they make you who you are and you don't know who you are without them?" Dr. Sherman asks. I try not to let my surprise show on my face. He's been doing this forever, of course I wasn't suddenly going to be a psychological mystery.

"I know they'll never go away. But once they stop having such a hold on me, and I'm in charge... I don't know what to do with that," I whisper. The clock is laughing at me. I can't look away from the floor.

"That's completely normal," he says. He's wrong. It's not normal. I'm not normal.

"How do I stop letting my anxiety and depression be such a big part of myself? They've always been there, and I don't even know what it feels like to not have them," I admit, and Dr. Sherman hums.

"What's something you enjoy?" he asks. I rack my brain for something that's socially acceptable to tell your therapist you enjoy.

"I like talking to my friend," I answer finally, going for vague. A good answer, I think. What kind of teenager likes to talk to their friend? A normal one, that's what. And if I can't be normal, I can at least convince myself and everyone around me that I am.

"Jared? Or Connor?" I must have already told Dr. Sherman about Connor. It makes sense, considering how big a part of my life he's become, but I don't ever actually remember mentioning him. I usually try to be as abstract about personal details as I can.

"Connor." Come to think of it, it's been a while since I've talked to Jared. He hasn't been stopping by at lunch, and I try not to instigate interaction with him.

"And how do your mental illnesses affect how you interact with him?" he asks.

"I jump to conclusions a lot. I'll do something, and he'll laugh, and I immediately assume it's at my expense. But I've learned to stop assuming because he keeps proving me wrong. Every time I think he's going to make fun of me, he doesn't. Its kind of bizarre," I chuckle weakly. The candle is choking me. I can feel the fingers wrapping around my throat and I want to claw at them but they aren't real and I don't want to get labeled as psychotic.

"He's helping you to unlearn what your anxiety makes you think?"

I nod.