Day 6528 | Day 6531 | Day 6536
Jealousy is the most irritating emotion. It makes your blood boil
like rage, your stomach churn with nausea and disgust, and your heart
languish with sorrow. I'm feeling far too much jealousy these days.
Jealousy of my friends who have no class on Tuesdays. Jealousy of the
people who fit into a group and can hang out with them whenever.
Jealousy of my friend down the hall who makes getting into a
relationship seem easy.
I know that college students are statistically one of the highest
risk groups for clinical depression. Then again, I also know that
there are lies, damn lies, and statistics. When I was 11, my parents
took me to see a psychologist named Dr. E. I had just started
junior high and was becoming extremely frustrated with my teachers
who I felt were condescending to me. I would come home nearly every
day and scream that I wanted to kill my teachers, that I wanted to rape
them, that I wanted to kill myself to escape them. I resented the
power they had over me and my grade: the power they had over my
ability to get A's and succeed; those two being equivalent in my mind
then. Now that I'm older and have some measure of empathy I feel a
chill thinking about those words as I'm sure my parents were mortified
when they heard those sentiments.
After school one day my mom picked me up. We only lived about a
half mile away from the school then and I almost always walked or rode
my bike home rather than bother my mom to give me a ride. But I wasn't
one to complain about riding in our then new minivan. Instead of going
home though, my mom drove downtown and pulled into the parking lot of a
low-slung building coincidentally next to the church where she and my
dad had gotten married over 20 years before. Before we got out of the
car, she explained that she and my dad were concerned about my comments
and had decided to have Dr. E talk to me. They say the strongest
emotions make the strongest memories and I distinctly remember being
livid after hearing this. Even now that I understand they did it out
of love and concern for my safety I still feel my stomach roil with
inexpressable rage that my parents no longer trusted me to be in
control of my own mind. She eventually convinced me to go in and we
sat for a bit in the waiting room. The receptionist called my name and
my mom escorted me into the examination room. She and Dr. E
exchanged a few words and then she left the room, leaving me alone with
the shrink. I sat down in the reclinable black leather chair; the
exact same type as my grandpa had. There was a rough spot on the arm
where people's fingers rested and I remember flexing my fingers and
rubbing that patch back and forth during the entire session until they
were sore, wearing off the layers. I fought to hold my tears of rage
back and control my emotions; I wanted to prove that there was nothing
wrong with me so I put on a mask to hide my true feelings.
Though a clichéd expression, it's definitely true that we all wear
masks at one time or another. The person you are when hanging out with
your friends is very different from who you are when you are trying to
get a date is different from the person you are alone. I went for two
more sessions, still maintaining my mask and immensely distrustful of
the psychologist. The fourth week, my mom said she would pick me up at
school like usual but I had already made my decision. Instead of
getting into the car I started walking home, going about my normal
schedule. It was, to be honest, a very early sign of my now very
passive-aggressive nature. I had made it halfway home when she drove
up beside me on the street and ordered me to get in the car. "No," I
said. Again she ordered me. "No," again. Then she stopped the car,
got out and bodily put me in the car. I'd never seen my mom so angry,
it was usually Dad, so I put up almost no resistance. We got into the
parking lot again and I threw a tantrum in the car. By the time it was
over, we were nearly half an hour late for the appointment. I walked
into the room as calmly as I could but it was too late; the mask was
already cracked.
"Neil, your mom told me that you didn't want to come today," he suggested.
"No," I said.
"Why is that?"
"Because there's nothing wrong with me."
"You know you don't have to come if you don't want to."
"I don't want to then."
I never went to that office with the black leather chair again. Dr.
E must have said something to her because I now realize that it
was way too easy to convince my mom to stop making me go. Somehow I managed to wrench myself out of my
rut; no pills, no shrink, no talking about feelings. I haven't forgiven my parents for that experience. I understand
why they did it now but I don't think I will ever forgive them.
Coming back from the trip down memory lane is difficult. I don't think I've thought this much about those few weeks since they actually happened. I bring this up because I have been feeling much lower than I'm used to. If I were to describe my college experience so far, the word would
be melancholy. The time I spend with people just feels empty to me;
like nothing really important happened. I don't feel like I really
have anyone to confide in, a real friend. All of my relationships (in
a non-romantic sense) feel superficial; like they're based more on
convenience than care. Somehow I've learned to laugh without being
happy. To smile when I don't feel anything; good or bad. I don't
feel depressed or elated, just empty.