“Your going out, walking, swimming, and going to the gym also help,” he said. “Jillian told me all about your busy days.”
I had no idea they knew or cared what I did every day. I told them about my activities, but neither of them made a big deal out of it. They just let me be. “I read that it’s good for you to try to do stuff when you’re depressed.”
“Yup,” Dr. Khan said. “Depression and its close buddy anxiety are mental illnesses, but they have physical aspects as well. Most people don’t realize how much exercise can help.”
After I left the hospital, I’d done a lot of Googling of depression and anxiety. I learned that plenty of teens and even some little kids suffered with depression, even though adults might question what they could be depressed about. I knew that part of the cause of my problem was my brain chemistry. People who have depression don’t make enough of this brain chemical called serotonin, which scientists think helps make you happy. The most popular kind of antidepressant helps your brain build up more serotonin so you feel happier. But your brain also makes serotonin (and other feel-good chemicals) when you exercise and avoid stress, when you’re hugged, and from sunshine. I can’t honestly say if I had been feeling better because of the medication or because I was out of my horrible school and away from my judgy mother. I was walking and swimming in that weak-ass Canadian sunshine, and getting plenty of hugs from Jillian and Julie. And still, for the past few days the paralyzing pain and self-hatred had come back as strong as ever.
For as long as I could remember, my anxiety kept me up at night. I would worry about failing at school, every stupid thing I had ever said, global warming, my mother, the father I never knew. Fear would steal my dreams, gnawing at my guts and closing up my throat. Akilah told me that I worried for nothing, but her words meant little to me and certainly didn’t help me sleep when I was staring up at the ceiling in the middle of the night. When they first gave me the medication for my anxiety it made me doze, which was great for my sleeplessness. As the weeks went on, though, it was less and less effective. This meant my nightly vigil over all the bad things, real or imagined, had started up again about two weeks before the Tacos and Tequila Incident.
“Kiddo, you worry too much,” Dr. Khan said. “Really. Remind yourself that worrying won’t change anything. Do what you can do, and the rest is out of your hands, and that’s okay.”
“I’m so dumb,” I muttered.
“And please,” he begged, looking me straight in the eye, “remember what I told you about being gentle with yourself. Give yourself a break. You’re a good, valuable person. And you’re not dumb.”
Dr. Khan and I talked for about twenty-five minutes, with him doing most of the talking. He wrapped up when Jillian came back to the doorway trying not to look concerned.
“We’re done for today, but are you writing in your journal?”
I nodded.
“But you know,” he said to me in a gentle voice, “you have to see a therapist. I don’t usually do this type of talk therapy, I told you.”
“But—” I tried to resist, but both he and Jillian gave me such stern looks that my protestations crumbled. I guessed I would have to consider talk therapy with someone else after all. Soon, I promised them. Yeah, right.
He talked to Julie and Jillian in the corridor outside my room for another few minutes about what to expect. I could hear him. “She’ll be very quiet, probably, and might take some time to get back on her feet. Don’t push her to do too much, but don’t baby her either. She’s sick but not physically helpless. Try to coax her out of bed and even out of the house. She should not be on her own for a little while, until the suicidal thoughts subside. Encourage her to exercise. Once someone’s with her, she should be fine. And make that appointment ASAP.”
“I’m on it,” Julie chirped. “Booked an appointment in three weeks….”
My stomach heaved. I’d have to do that stupid questionnaire with another doctor? Dig up all that crap about my mom? Tell yet another person what a waste of space I felt I was? Yuck, yuck, yuck.
“What about having people over? We were going to have a barbecue next weekend,” Jillian said. “We were going to cancel it.”
“Nah,” Dr. Khan said. My heart dropped. I’d have to see people? Why, oh why? “She has to find ways to cope with her condition within a family. If she finds it gets to be too much, she can retreat to her room. Don’t force her. Encourage her to remember that other people can be fun to be around. You might want to tell your friends to give her a lot of space. Just say she’s a moody teenager; they’ll give her a wide berth.”
Jillian walked him to the front door. Julie came to me and sat on my bed, holding my hand. I was able to have a conversation for the first time in days. Talking to Dr. Khan had helped, in the end. But I felt so embarrassed about the way I had cried, the way I had felt, and the trouble I’d caused over the past few days.
“I’m really sorry about this,” I muttered to her.
“Oh, muffin,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. We knew this might happen. We’re here to support you. Whatever you need.”
“Yeah. But it’s so…” I didn’t know what to say. I felt ashamed of how I had behaved, even though I knew that I really didn’t have any choice about it. Clinical depression and anxiety disorders have minds of their own.
“Hey. Don’t worry about it,” repeated Julie with a firmness I seldom heard in her sweetly musical voice. “What do you want for dinner?”
I shrugged. While talking to Dr. Khan had helped, making decisions still felt like one of the hardest things.
“Curry?”
“Uh. Yeah,” I said. Julie’s chicken curry was amazing. And she made it with basmati rice and about six different side vegetables, each served in a little silver bowl. My favorite was dal, warm yellow split peas made into a puree. All that cooking should have taken hours and hours, but Julie somehow did it in two. Jillian returned and Julie slipped out to start dinner. In moments I smelled the wonderful aromas of frying garlic and geera, or to Canadian Aunty Julie, cumin.
Jillian was looking at me with a little half-smile.
“Chickie! You had us really scared for a while.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I’m too much trouble.”
“Nonsense! We love you. And we knew you were dealing with this when we invited you to stay here,” she said, echoing what Julie had said. I think they had worked out a spiel in advance.
“Want to go outside?”
I shook my head. I had no idea what day it was or what time it was but I knew that it had been quite some time since my last bath. I felt sticky and dirty and could feel a layer of grit on my teeth. I smelled like old, wet dog. “Think I’ll take a shower.”