This Is My Brain on Truth

JOCELYN

My dad drives me to my first appointment at the college’s mental health center. Last night, my mom finally told him about her own depression, and he’s been unusually subdued all day. Or maybe subdued is the wrong word—he’s just talking less, and watching and listening more.

He looks at me intently when he drops me off at the clinic, and he swallows.

“Qinai de xiaohai,” he says.

I turn around and gape at him, my fingers curled around the handle of the door. The phrase is often translated as “dearest child,” but “qinai” has a much more tender feel to it—more like “beloved.”

He’s never called me that before.

“Shenme, Baba?” I ask, feeling wrong-footed. Raw.

“Ni yao…” He shakes his head and switches to English, as if to make sure that I understand him. “You must always feel free to talk to me.” He says it like a command, but I know it’s not. It’s an opening.

“Sure, Dad.” I swallow. “I will.”

My father drives away, and I square up my shoulders and shuffle into the clinic.

Will warned me that the initial intake visit can be, in his words, “unsatisfying.” So I’m not expecting much. The shrink they match me with, Dr. Julie Cotton, is a thirtysomething white woman who is a personification of every psychiatrist stereotype I’ve ever seen on TV—soft-spoken, open-ended-question asking, nonjudgmental. I guess they teach that in school.

Our appointment starts out with me just talking, which I suppose is the point, but I don’t think I ever realized how much deflection I do during normal conversations. Even with the easiest questions about my family, it’s tempting to just skim the surface of the truth.

“Tell me more about ____,” I discover, is one of Dr. Cotton’s favorite prompts. Then, as our visit goes on, there comes a point where all she does is sit there and nod, and when the silence gets too uncomfortable I blurt out more detail just to fill the pause. It’s like therapy magic.

After about half an hour of information gathering or, as Will put it, “creating rapport,” Dr. Cotton asks me the million-dollar question: “So, what are you hoping to achieve with these visits?”

“Everyone’s telling me I’m depressed, so I’m here to get help.” If a little bit of resentment bleeds through my voice, it’s because, okay, I know she can’t wave a wand and make things better, but shouldn’t she be the one who has answers here?

“Do you feel like you’re depressed?” Dr. Cotton asks, face neutral.

I don’t answer right away. First it’s because I’m pissed, because, well, obviously, but after a second, it’s because I realize with a shock that this is the first time anyone has actually asked me. Everyone has just assumed that it is cool for them to tell me how I feel. It’s always, “It seems like you have depression,” or “Here are some resources if you’re feeling down.” This is the first time someone’s actually asked me, point-blank, if I’m depressed.

Maybe that’s why, for the first time, I actually admit to Dr. Cotton: “Yes, I am.”

After that, Dr. Cotton’s questions change subtly, like she’s a circling airplane that’s just been cleared for landing. Have I been feeling hopeless, or like I’m a failure? About what? Her questions are so gentle that I barely feel a bump of surprise when she asks:

“Do you ever think about dying?”

Do I ever think about dying.

“Well, sure, doesn’t everybody wonder?” I hedge, thinking of the night at the Venkatrams’ and how close I was to riding home without my bike lights on. “But if you’re asking me if I’ve ever thought about, like, taking a bottle of pills? No.”

Dr. Cotton nods, somehow managing to just signal acknowledgment rather than approval or disapproval. “Do you ever think the world would be better if you were dead?”

“No.” The lie sits there uncomfortably for a second until I nudge it straight. “Not exactly. Maybe. Sometimes I just think things would be easier if…”

I shrug, and Dr. Cotton goes on. “When people are sad and feel like nothing is helping, they sometimes think about what it would be like to just leave life to chance, by driving recklessly or not looking both ways while crossing the street. Have you ever felt like that?”

Have I ever felt like that.

The shiver of recognition that slides through my whole body makes my throat close up for a fraction of a second. When I can breathe again, the air comes out in a shudder of relief. I nod wordlessly.

“It’s a common misperception that passive thoughts about losing one’s life don’t ‘count,’” Dr. Cotton says, and that rings true, too. It’s as if I’m so down on myself even my suicidal thoughts aren’t good enough. “It’s my job as your doctor to assure you that they’re valid, and that they deserve treatment.”

“What kind of treatment?” I ask through the lump in my throat.

“That’s going to be your choice,” she says. “Every person will have a different answer to that question. Want to go over some options and come up with a plan?”

Of course, I think as I nod, still dizzy with relief. That’s usually a good first step.

That evening when I go down to work dinner, I see it. The contract that’s taped up behind the counter has been crossed out with a huge red “X” with the words Contract Fulfilled scrawled along the side. As if he thought it would make it more official, my dad has added his chop mark in red ink at the bottom.

“What the heck is this?” I say, holding the paper up so Will can read it. “We haven’t hit thirty percent yet.”

As Will takes the paper from me, our fingers brush, and I feel a Pavlovian sense of guilt that we’ve touched. It doesn’t seem real that my father’s honoring our contract. Will looks at the paper and smiles. “Well, last week’s number was up to twenty-eight percent, and if you round up…”

“When has my father ever rounded up when it was in someone else’s favor?” I demand. “Plus, what about item number two? I didn’t get the scholarship.”

Will looks shifty. There’s no other word to describe it. “Well, have you checked your e-mail lately?”

I boot up my laptop, and my eyes widen as I find another message from the college in my mailbox.

The subject line is: “Congratulations on your scholarship offer.”

I give Will the hairy eyeball. “Is there something shady going on, like your dad suddenly decided to donate to the college so they could create a new grant?”

“No,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I may have stopped by the JBP administration office yesterday to plead your case, but when I did, one of the interns let it slip that they’d just accepted you after all. I’ll bet one of the people they originally offered the scholarship to had something else lined up.” Will pauses and grins. “What’s really interesting, though, is that when I went to the office I ran into another one of your references who was there to update your application.”

“Who, Mrs. Morgan?”

“No,” Will says, looking up through his eyelashes. “Your dad.”

“What?” I practically shriek in horror. “That’s even worse!”

“Calm down.” Will laughs. “He wasn’t trying to bribe them or anything. He just wanted to drop off a letter of support with A-Plus’s new numbers.”

“What?” I say weakly. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“Okay. I see what you’re getting at,” Will says, sighing. “If you would rather be in breach of your contract—if you don’t really want to date me—I guess you can reply to the college saying that you want to turn down the scholarship…”

“Fine, fine.” I laugh. “Shut up!”

“… and you can go up and berate your dad for rounding up to thirty percent, and also tell your brother that he doesn’t have to study for his final anymore.…”

Seriously, this kid. There is, of course, only one thing I can do to shut him up: I kiss him.

His kiss feels like home, I think, even as I realize that it’s the tropiest “Kiss” trope of all. But you know what? It’s the truth.

I decide to own it.