"2009"
Song by: Mac Miller
I don’t actually know if this lady was a therapist, or a counselor, or just someone who worked there and had read a script and sat in conference rooms on Saturdays watching poorly-made instructional videos on what to say to parents of teens who are scared of living. Whoever she was, I know she was wearing a beige cardigan that she wrapped across her body and crossed her arms a lot.
She took a sip of her coffee and quickly glanced at the clock on the side table. There is always a clock on every side table in buildings like these, and the clock always faces the therapists, or counselors, or beige cardigan wearing staff members.
I sunk into the couch and looked at the carpet.
I have to hand it to whoever designed the rooms in these buildings, they always did a spectacular job of making sure the late 90’s remained for eternity. Grey weaving surrounded circular geometric patterns of dingy green. It looked like the carpeting in my rich friends’ houses when I was a kid. It made me think of eating graham crackers and watching PB&J Otter after kindergarten.
The couch I sat on was the same color green as the little bubbly circles in the carpet. I wondered what would happen if it was cleaned. How green was this couch actually, at the start of its life?
None of that really mattered because I was cold and hungry, and I just wanted to be alone under the covers. Just prior to sitting on the green couch that I now highly suspect all behavioral health centers have somewhere in their existence, I was interviewed on an orange chair just as ugly. Only there I sat and jiggled my knee as I waited for some other person, of which their title was not clear, to come in and ask me questions off a clipboard.
A lot of behavioral health assessments include waiting and while I doubt there’s any correlation with the need to make you wait, part of me wonders.
There was a lamp in the orange chair room. It was the same lamp that every family had when I was in elementary school and has since migrated to basements across the Midwest. It had a three-way swtich; twist knob once and one of heads turns on, twist twice and two alight, twist three times and you’re blinded by full illumination. That type of lamp always created far too much light, like the lights of the grocery store, like the world was closing in on itself.
In the orange chair another lady in a beige cardigan asked me a series of questions. I had heard them before. I rambled off the answers to these questions the same way in my psychiatrist’s office, the school counselor’s office, the therapist’s office. I made sure I was honest enough for them to know I was not okay, but not too honest as to lose my shoelaces.
I was terrified of losing my shoelaces. Even though the world felt like it was slipping through my hands and I was running out of spaces where I felt sane and calm and not in constant obsessive worry, being alone away from home was a non-negotiable for me. So, I was careful to mince my words.
When I left the orange chair and went back to the waiting room with my mom I felt like I was going to throw up and collapse and rip off my skin all at the same exact instant. My regular fears took a break and my massive panic that I was going to be locked away overtook me in every sense of my being. I couldn’t tell my mom what I was so afraid of. I couldn’t tell anyone what I was so afraid of, because it would only lead to the outcome I so much didn’t want.
By the time we got to the green couch, I was exhausted from my hormones moshing through cycles of panic that I couldn’t focus on anything. I just wanted to hear the lady say something about ‘outpatient.’ I didn't care if it would work or not or what was wrong with me. I just needed to hear that I’d be okay.
From the green couch I heard her list off the anxieties they seemed to have picked up on. Scared to eat? Yup. Scared to be in public spaces? Bingo. Scared of not being able to leave? Bullseye. Scared of going crazy? Right on the money. The compulsions were relatively correct, but counting was never really my thing. Repetition? Absolutely.
By the day that I was sitting on the green couch, I had been in a constant level of heightened anxiety without relief, even when mom sat next to me and held my hand. I couldn’t eat for fear my throat would close. I couldn’t talk very well because my brain was so occupied by intrusive obsessive thoughts about needing to escape, how dangerous anything and everything was, how nowhere was safe, and what I was going to do about it.
I was thin and silent as the lady said, “We believe a partial hospitalization program would be best for Michael. We have what we call a School Refusal Program, where children Michael’s age come from 8am to 4pm and go through group therapy, art therapy, and other programs.”
My heart stopped and restarted at the words partial hospitalization. It didn’t matter what I said in the end though, because I ended up in a place where the door slammed with comfort on one side and me on the other, I just didn’t have to sleep there. I was pretty sure too, that any intimation that of my true thoughts would lead to a higher level of care that involved socks with rubber grips, and robes without belts.
The therapist lady said to my mom, “This is one of the first programs of its kind in the area.”
My mom said, “So are all the kids in the program like Michael? With, um, what did you say…was it inter- no intrusive, intrusive thoughts?”
“No,” therapist lady said. “Not all the kids in the program are struggling with the same issues as Michael, but they are all struggling nonetheless and together they can learn from each other and learn how to be comfortable.”
She went on to talk about the portion of the program that involved medication management, as if I didn’t have to taste the bitter pills each morning. They talked shortly to each other about how they were never anxious in school, and not sure what could have caused this for me.
What was it about school that was so difficult for me though? That’s what they couldn’t glean from any of the sessions where the asked me questions in rooms with furniture purchased in the early aughts. Here I was, Michael Amato, great student, all AP and advanced classes, highly involved extracurriculars, never bullied, quite popular actually, but school was my greatest panic trigger.
Was it possible that the death of my peer the year before by way of a spontaneous heart failure had anything to do with it? Probably. They had to also know that I had my first lock-down drill in first grade, that I knew what to do if there was a shooting because there was a sign in every room. Surely they understood that teachers would randomly lock us in our classrooms while police and dogs searched lockers for guns and drugs.
I guess most kids were able to compartmentalize that and move forward. But, me and the others, the ones whose brains were ever so slightly different, found it all to be a trigger. I was terrified I was going to die in class, and the obsessive need to escape anywhere that was unsafe was impossible when I was at school. Now, it was starting to become impossible to escape anything because my brain started to feel unsafe but no one could know that.
I cleared my throat, “Listen, I’m okay. I don’t think I need this. This program seems like it’s for kids who were bullied or, like, cut themselves or something. No disrespect to them, but I’m just not that bad.”
The therapist lady looked at me, “Honey, I think you are.”
It’s fifteen years later and that sting still tingles through my skin. I started crying right then and there on that green couch, and I could still feel the same tears in my eyes at the very thought of it.
I wished for cancer instead. At least if I had cancer, people would feel bad for me and I wouldn’t have to keep secrets. Instead, no one could know where I was or what was happening or tell me they’re sorry for the pain I’m in.
I never got that comfort from anyone. I don’t think it would’ve helped if my illness was in my body and not just my mind. People can’t comfort you the way you think they can. I realized that back in 2009.
I saw a lot that year. It was the first time I ever saw someone in a straitjacket, a girl my own age who seemed peaceful when she was wheeled past me. I watched as people got drug tested. I saw scars very near major arteries and bones that protruded so sharply under skin I thought they’d puncture through. I learned how to roll a blunt; not that I asked. In fact, I learned more about drugs and alcohol in 2009, as a 15-year-old, then I did in college.
I got better in 2009, and stayed better for a while. I got worse, a lot fucking worse in 2015, but I think if 2009 didn’t exist inside of me, 2015 would have been my last year. I’m glad it’s not 2009 anymore, but I like to visit.
