She told the group about her story with a shy pride.
“So what?” the younger woman asked. “So you’re a big television star. So what? Does that make you better than the rest of us?”
“No,” Debbie tried to explain, “that isn’t what I meant. I meant it was a good day for me. That’s all.”
“You know,” the younger woman went on with a toss of her head, “I don’t know why you are here. You’re so happy with your job and everything, why do you need therapy?”
“Yes, I sort of wondered that too,” said the older woman. I still don’t know what your problem is.”
Bob nodded his agreement.
Because I need to be here,” Debbie responded. “Because I need to find out why I get so depressed.”
Now she called her sadness depression because the others in the room used that word to describe their own weekly conditions.
“You never seem depressed to me,” said the older woman.
“Maybe that’s good?” Dr. Waddell offered.
“You mean she feels good when she’s here with us? Is that what you mean?” she asked.
“Yes, Maynell, I think that’s what I mean. Debbie doesn’t feel sad when she’s with us and that’s good, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Debbie?”
“I guess so,” she said and smiled, but she felt the fear begin. “I hope I am getting better. No,” she corrected herself, “I am getting better.” She smiled at them. They would like that.
“Well, I don’t know why any of us are here,” the older woman said. “I mean, what are we supposed to be doing here?”
The younger woman ignored the question and went back to Debbie.
“You are unbelievable,” she told her. “The only thing we’ve talked about since you came here is you. You’re depressed. Big fucking deal. Could we please talk about something else?” She flung herself back in her chair.
Bob looked at his hands. The older woman folded her arms across her chest. Dark glasses hid Terry’s eyes.
“You asked me the questions,” Debbie said plaintively.
“Because you never stop whining about being so fucking sad,” the younger woman yelled, her face swollen with anger. “I’ve got no job. Terry’s an addict. Maynell,” she nodded toward the older woman, “has two kids who live off of her. We don’t know what he’s here for,” she nodded over at Bob. “Who cares about your shitty little problems?”
“Why does this make you so angry, Carol?” the doctor cut in.
“Why can’t she be angry?” the older woman asked. “Aren’t we supposed to talk about how we feel?”
Debbie was fighting back the tears. She didn’t know how to be part of them. She didn’t know what they wanted her to be. She didn’t fit in anywhere, not anywhere, not even this room. They would be happy if she left. Yes, they would. What was wrong with her?
“I don’t care what we talk about,” the younger woman stated, “as long as it’s not about her.”
Bob shook his head.
“How’s Terry?” the older woman asked, her voice like a chirp from a bird.
“Well, man,” he pulled out of his couch slouch, “I guess it’s okay. Yeah, everything is going fine.”
“You trying to convince us or yourself?” Bob asked.
“Hey, man, no. I mean, you ask how I am and I’m tell you I’m fine.” He gave a quick smile. “But, hey, I don’t want to talk about it. Okay? I don’t feel like talking today. That okay?” He looked at Debbie. She tried to smile.
“Let’s talk about something else,” he said.
They all seemed to nod, to smile back at him. That is what Debbie saw. She looked down at the floor. She would not let them see her cry.