Tara Kelly - Harmonic Feedback

Roger chuckled. “Tell your mom you can get a ride from me and Naomi from now on, if you want.”

“Sure, okay. Bye.” I turned around and jogged to the car, ignoring whatever Naomi called after me.

Dr. Weber had about ninety different pictures of cats on her desk and a yellow rocking chair by the window. It was meant for kids, but I fit in it just fine. Mom sat cross-legged on the generic brown couch near the door.

“How are you today, Drea?” Dr. Weber asked.

I shrugged and stared at her shiny lips, wondering what kind of lipstick she used. Anything to ignore her squinty blue eyes and incessant writing. The lyrics to the Smashing Pumpkins song “Bullet with Butterfly Wings” roared through my mind every time I was in a doctor’s office. Despite all my rage, I’m still just a rat in a cage .

Mom cleared her throat. “She always gets a little shy in these situations, but she’s adapted remarkably well over the years.”

The blond doctor flipped through my file and nodded. “She was diagnosed with ADHD?”

“Yes, in kindergarten,” Mom rambled on. “Her last doctor thought she had AS, but her symptoms are so mild… I mean, it’s not always obvious.”

The doctor nodded. “Right. It’s a difficult diagnosis. No two people with Asperger’s—or with autism, for that matter—are the same. And females do tend to have less obvious symptoms.”

“Do you have other patients with Asperger’s?” Mom asked.

“Of all ages—children to grandparents.” The doctor closed the file and looked in my direction again. She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “How’d your first day of school go, Drea?”

“It was school.” I never understood that question. Did they want a synopsis of my entire day? Most people gave short answers like “great” or “fine” or “crappy.” And telling someone I had a crappy day at school usually provoked the question “why?” But they didn’t really want to know why because they’d end up interrupting me and changing the subject.

“Did you make any new friends?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a girl across the street that has taken a liking to her,” Mom said. “It’s the first time in a while—she hasn’t had a friend in years.”

“Why do you have to tell my life story?” I asked her.

“You don’t like it when your mom speaks for you?”

“She has this need to tell everyone we meet that I have this disorder . But then she told me not to say too much about myself, because it might scare people off.”

“I told you that in seventh grade, after what those girls did to you,” Mom argued. “But your last doctor suggested that I inform the school, family members, and friends. People need to know what you’re dealing with.”

“Why does every guy you date need to know?”

Mom opened her mouth to protest, but the doctor broke in. “Does your new friend know?”

“No, and I want to keep it that way.”

“She really has come a long way.” Mom repeated herself, as always. “When she was little, she had a lot of run-ins with other kids, and I had a hard time getting her to bathe or—”

“Mom!”

“But now”—Mom uncrossed her legs and sat up—“she’s doing better in school, and her, um, you know, grooming habits have improved, and—”

“You always got shampoo in my eyes. That’s why I didn’t like it.”

“Even when I got you the tear-free shampoo, you still resisted. But that’s not the poi—”

“No, it’s not the point. Because I was five then, and I’m sixteen now. I take showers every day, I brush my teeth every night, I wear deodorant—even shave my legs. Because you wouldn’t shut up about it. ‘Comb your hair, Drea. Wear some perfume, Drea. Spend ninety million hours staring in the mirror like I do, Drea.’”

Mom rolled her eyes and sighed.

“If I may break in here,” Dr. Weber said. “I think your mother is trying to tell you that she’s proud of your progress.”

“Exactly,” Mom said, bobbing her head.

“Would it work better for you if your mom simply told you she was proud of you—rather than bringing up the past?”

“Yeah, because she never says that,” I said.

“I say it all the time.”

“No. You tell me to take my pills, you bring up things I did ten years ago, you remind me to brush my hair—but you never say you’re proud.”

“How’s your mood been?” Dr. Weber moved on.

“Like it always is.”

“Any negative thoughts or excessive worries?”

“Yeah, I’ve already been diagnosed with GAD. It’s in the file.” Doctors stuck me with generalized anxiety disorder in junior high when I began surfing the Web and self-diagnosing myself with everything from lupus to rabies and having panic attacks over it.

“I’m sorry,” Mom said. “She’s been really irritable with the move.”

The doctor raised her eyebrows, nodding. “You’ve moved quite a bit, huh?”

And this would be the part of the meeting where Mom goes over our financial troubles and my lack of a father—all in an effort to excuse the fact that, as her friends say, she changes cities like she does underwear .

“How much of the XR is she currently taking?”

“When I can get her to take it, twenty milligrams,” Mom said.

“How do you feel when you take it, Drea?”

“Like a zombie.”

“Right when it kicks in, or is that something you feel later?”

“It gets worse later,” I said.

“She gets more irritable at night—after it wears off,” Mom chimed in. “But it really helps during the day. She’s less impulsive and calmer.”

“And I lose weight since it kills my appetite.” I motioned to my body. “And let’s face it, there isn’t much to lose.”

“Can you hop on the scale for me?”

I rolled my eyes and prepared myself for the inevitable questions—how did I feel about my body? Have I ever thrown up on purpose? Blah blah blah. Every doctor had to rule out eating disorders.

I stepped on the scale, and she peered over my shoulder, scribbling 100.5 in her little notebook.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to see you lose any more weight. Go ahead and step off.”

At least this doctor kept her comments to a minimum.

I plopped back into the yellow rocking chair and gazed out the window. Naomi was out there somewhere—probably having a great time. Who knew what Justin and Kari were doing. Probably kissing or more. I wondered what it would be like to kiss Justin. Ew, no. Scratch that thought.

“We’ve got a couple of options,” the doctor said. “Some of my patients take the XR form in the morning and then an immediate-release tablet about eight hours later. It keeps them from crashing in the late afternoon.”

“That won’t keep her up all night?” Mom asked.

“It shouldn’t. The IR is much shorter acting. Lasts an average of four hours. There is also an ADHD drug that isn’t a stimulant—it may not suppress her appetite as much,” the doctor rambled on. “I also think an SSRI would help, especially with some of the irritability and anxiety.”

“I’ve been on antidepressants. I hate them,” I said.

She glanced down at the papers and nodded. “How do they make you feel?”

“Like shit.”

Mom put her face in her hands and shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s quite all right. It’s not easy trying out all these different meds, but sometimes it takes a while to find a combo that works.” She went on to suggest the SNRIs, a newer form of antidepressants, because they tend to have milder side effects. “They increase your levels of norepinephrine as well as serotonin. That seems more effective in some people.”