E. Montes - Perfectly Damaged

Not quite feeling like a brand new woman, I walk into Dr. Rosario’s office and take a seat on the white leather sofa, which I’ve grown accustomed to. Four years of psychotherapy, five therapists, and one admission to an inpatient institution later, my parents found Dr. Rosario. They feel strongly about her abilities and said I have an actual chance of recovery with her, whatever that means.

Dr. Rosario sits across from me, at ease in her matching white leather armchair. She opens my file and roams through it as her slender finger adjusts her glasses at the bridge of her nose. The only sound in the room is her fingers flipping through the pages. It’s beginning to irritate me. My legs bounce in place. I nibble on my inner cheek as I wait. The silence claws at my skin. I like quiet, but not this kind. Not when there’s someone else occupying a room with me. Not while I’m waiting for what she’ll ask or say next.

What the hell is she thinking anyway? It never takes her this long to begin one of our sessions. Is she analyzing what she witnessed a few minutes ago? If that’s the case, I’ll be bullshitting my way through the next forty-five minutes, hoping that at the end of it she believes I’m getting better.

Her brown eyes meet mine. Finally. “So, Jenna, tell me how you’ve been dealing with your symptoms lately.”

Is she serious? Why doesn’t she try living with schizoaffective disorder for four years? Then she can tell me how she deals with it. “Good.”

“You haven’t experienced any episodes in the past week?” she prods.

I swallow back the truth. “No. I actually feel like the new medication may be working.”

Dr. Rosario smiles. “That’s great, Jenna.” She scribbles down on a note pad. “Are you having any side effects from the antipsychotics?”

“I feel nauseous at times and have a loss of appetite. I also feel sleepy all the time, just tired.”

“Ah. Do you feel that the constant need to sleep has to do with the depression part of the disorder?”

“Maybe.” I shrug, looking down at my folded hands in my lap. I spot the gold, heart-shaped charm (inscribed with Sisters Forever ), which hangs from the bracelet snugged around my right wrist. I cherish this bracelet. It’s the one item that keeps me going. Brooke gave it to me at my high school graduation. Every year since then, she’s added a new charm. But not this year.

“I’m going to prescribe you a higher dose of the antidepressants. We’ll see if that’ll help with your fatigue. Is that all right?” Dr. Rosario asks, disturbing my memories.

I keep my head low, trying to fight back tears as I cling to the tiny heart-shaped charm. I nod. “Okay.”

“Great. Now, let’s discuss a few things you can work on this week.”

I nod again, allowing Dr. Rosario to go on, but her words sound off distantly as my mind is somewhere else. As usual, I react and answer at all the right times, so she thinks I’m engaged in the therapy, maybe even getting better. I have to make her believe it, or at least make myself believe it, because at this very moment I’d rather be in my room, entombed in my sheets, and locked away.

After my visit with Dr. Rosario, I take a long walk around town. It’s the only way to clear my mind, to breathe. Anything to get rid of the hallucinations and the voices in my head. For once, I just want to feel normal. No one will ever understand it, not unless they’re going through it. Eventually, my legs tire and give out, and I’m forced back home—a place I dread going to.

“Jenna, come here, sweetie,” Mom calls as I enter through the front door. She is nothing if not predictable. Sometimes I really believe she has a tracking device on me. I mean, how else could she know exactly the moment I get home? How else could she pelt me with questions and jabs and reminders and meaningless information the second I walk through the door?

I somberly head toward dad’s home office, which is the direction her deceptively saccharine voice came from. I stand by the entrance, taking note that she isn’t alone. My mother looks like a queen sitting on her throne behind the massive cherry wood desk. Her silky smooth, natural red hair falls just above her collarbone, not a strand out of place. Her makeup is flawless as ever; never has my mother gone a day without her face made up just so. Come to think of it, never has my mother gone a day without dressing up either.

Her red lips twitch into a slight pout at my appearance. We’re the opposite of one another—day and night. Where she wears dresses and skirts, I wear jeans and shorts. Where she wears overly expensive designer heels, I wear sneakers or flats. The only makeup I use is the dark shadow and liner around my eyes and a bit of lip gloss.

I’m sure it took every ounce of my mother’s strength not to make a snarky comment about my chosen attire in front of our guests. After all, I am the daughter of Gregory McDaniel, CEO and co-founder of one of the largest financing and marketing companies in the tri-state area. So I’m certain ripped-up skinny jeans, black sneakers, and a Lady Gaga T-shirt, which features her practically naked on the front, doesn’t fit into my mother’s idea of what a perfect daughter’s wardrobe should be.

“Jenna, sweetie,” she says, forcing a smile, “these are the contractors that’ll be working on the guesthouse. This is Mr. George Reed and his son, Bryson.” She extends her arm gracefully toward the two men sitting across from her.

They turn in their chairs to greet me. The older man, George Reed, looks to be in his late forties or early fifties. The younger one, Bryson, appears to be roughly around my age, maybe a bit older. They both politely nod as I walk in and stand before them.

I respond with the same gesture, but after my mother’s disapproving, narrow glare, I reach my hand out to each of them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.” George Reed shakes my hand sternly.

“Same here,” Bryson says with a smile.

“Should we get started, Mrs. McDaniel?” George directs to my mother.

With a delicate wave of her hand, she lets out a giggle. “Please, George, call me Laura. And yes, we can begin now that Jenna is here.”

I’m caught off guard. “Oh, I wasn’t aware I was allowed to be involved in this little project of yours.” My words blurt out rapidly in a harsh tone, but it’s too late to take them back now.

Mother bites her tongue and a tiny, firm grin forms on her face. “Of course I want you involved with this project. Please have a seat, darling.” Darling? Ha! We stare at each other for an awkward, short moment.

I try to find sincerity through her act. And would you look at that? I come up empty. Since I don’t want to make a show in front of our guests, I swiftly sit in an empty chair beside Bryson and nod for them to go on.

George clears his throat and then spreads the blueprints on top of the desk. My mother squeals with delight. She scoots to the edge of the executive chair and leans in to have a better look. Bryson sets a laptop beside the prints, revealing a 3-D mock-up image of what the guesthouse will look like upon completion. “As you requested, Mrs.—Laura,” he corrects himself and goes on, “we designed the exterior of the property to be the exact replica of your home.”

Mother brings a hand to her chest and inhales an awed gasp. “I love it.” As much as I hate to agree with her on almost anything, I have to admit, it looks really good. They’ve managed to take our eight-thousand-square-foot home and transform it into a two-thousand-square-foot replica.

Bryson nods and continues, “I’m glad you do. Now for the interior, we’ve designed a two-story home as you requested. The architect was able to add in all of your wants and needs without complications. If you decide there’s anything else you’d like to add, we’d need approval from the architect before moving forward.”