“I started taking sleeping pills when I was little, after my mother died. My therapist prescribed them because I couldn’t sleep without nightmares. As the years went on, I realized that I liked the way I could take them and slip away from reality. I starting using different kinds of drugs. I’ve never stopped, until recently.”
Dr. Tyler stops scribbling and looks up.
“You’ve stopped using? Why?”
I nod. “I dumped everything out this past week. I don’t want to feel numb right now. Like I keep telling everyone, I’m not an addict. This isn’t a big deal.”
He lays his pen down and studies me. “You don’t consider drug use a big deal?”
I exhale and fiddle with my hands. “Of course it isn’t legal and it isn’t healthy. But what I meant is that I’ve never been addicted. I’ve barely craved anything since I dumped everything down the drain.”
The doctor nods. “Some people do have more addictive personalities than others. It must be harder for you to become physically addicted to narcotics than others. That’s in your favor. But I’d like to talk about why you’ve done drugs for so long if you haven’t been addicted. You’ve just told me that you know it isn’t healthy. So why would you inflict that kind of thing on your body if you could’ve stopped at any time?”
I stare at the floor, at my feet, at the patterned rug.
“I don’t know. Because I craved oblivion, I guess. Because it’s easier to fade out of reality than face it. My reality as a kid wasn’t that great. My mother was dead and my father might as well have been, because he sure as hell checked out when my mother died.”
The doctor nods. “It sounds like you’re a little angry about the way he handled things.”
I think about that. “Yes. I’m angry about it. He had a little kid to raise and not only did he pretty much neglect me and spend every waking hour at work, but he uprooted me and moved me across the country to live in a place where I didn’t know anyone. He couldn’t have made a worse choice. I needed normalcy, I needed to be around people that knew and loved me. But instead, I got nothing.”
“So, you took drugs to cope?”
“I guess,” I answer. “Although that makes it sound like a cop-out.”
Dr. Tyler looks up. “It’s not a cop out. Everyone has their reasons. Is that yours?”
“I suppose,” I admit, and the feeling of admitting it is huge. I don’t know why. But there is something freeing about saying it out loud. “I took drugs to cope with the void that I feel.”
Does that make me a pu**y, after all?
Dr. Tyler looks interested. “Did it help? Did it fill the void?”
I stare at my hands. “Yes.”
“When the drugs wore off, did the void come back?”
“Yes,” I answer quietly.
“Is the void still there?” The doctor is definitely interested now, his dark eyes staring into mine. I look away, at the wall, at the clock.
“Yes,” I answer honestly.
It’s quiet now, the only noise coming from Dr. Tyler’s pen scratching across the page. I have the urge to reach over and grab it, to snap it into two. But I obviously don’t. That would be crazy and I have no reason. I don’t know where my sudden anger is coming from. I flex my fingers against my knee.
“You don’t like talking to me, do you?” Dr. Tyler observes without lifting up his head.
“No, I don’t.”
“Then why are you here?”
I think about that, trying to come up with a somewhat polite answer.
“Because Mila asked me. And because I’m tired of the messed up dreams.”
The doctor looks at me, his eyes kind. “What exactly bothers you the most about the dreams? It must be something substantial to get you to come see me.”
My foot bounces up and down with nervous energy.
“I don’t know. I think it’s because my mom seems to want something and I’m not able to give it to her and it seems important. And because she turns into Mila and that freaks me out.”
The doctor smiles. “I wouldn’t worry about that aspect. Many people associate others in their dreams and it doesn’t mean anything significant, at least regarding that person. Most of the time, it’s symbolic of something else entirely. If I had to guess and at this point, it’s an early guess, but if I had to guess, I would say that your mother turns into Mila because you have a deep-seeded fear that Mila is going to leave you like your mother did.”
Shock slams into me and I suck in my breath. It’s quite a concept and one that I hadn’t thought of.
“My mother didn’t leave me,” I manage to answer. “She died. There’s a difference.”
“Yes, there is. But to a seven-year old boy who has been uprooted from everything he knows, there’s not much difference. And it was at that point, when you were seven, that that idea was formed. In your head, she left you. And it was perfectly normal to feel angry about that. It’s one of the normal phases of grief, actually. But since you blocked it out and didn’t deal with it, you’ve never successfully gone through those stages. You might be stuck in the anger phase.”
“Fuck,” I breathe.
“Indeed,” the doctor answers. “You’ve got some work ahead of you.”
He scribbles some more and I pull at my collar as the room seems to get hotter and hotter. Then thankfully, my hour is over.
On the way out, the doctor scribbles something on a little paper and hands it to me.
“It’s for Xanax,” he says. “If you get the urge to use something again, to block out the stress or anger, get this filled instead.”
I give him a hard look.
“I told you. I don’t need this.” I start to hand it back, but he holds up his hand.
“Take it,” he urges me. “Just in case.”
I roll my eyes.
“Whatever.” I crumple it as I shove it into my pocket. “See you next week.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mila
Why in the world did I agree to help with the lunch rush at The Hill? For one thing, there isn’t a lunch rush, not during this time of year. And for another, I should’ve known that Maddy only wanted to get me here to lecture me.