I’m not entirely sure how I ended up in the passenger seat of Jamie’s car, on my way to speak with a therapist, mere days after I mildly suggested I might see someone. Jamie has taken my suggestion to heart—much more than I have. But if it had been left up to me, I would not be on my way to see a woman called April Jenkins right now. I’d still be googling reasons not to see a therapist, even if the thoughts inside your own head can cause such anxiety that you’re barely able to function. And the scary part is that I would have found those reasons—I would have stayed up night after night, scouring the internet, to find an obscure, unvetted piece of research to support my claim, and I would have believed it.
I’m too tense to carry on a conversation in the car so we listen to the radio while I read April Jenkins’ website on my phone. Even though it’s too late to cancel the appointment now, my anxiety is so extreme that it will grasp onto anything. A spelling mistake on her website could be enough right now for me to demand that Jamie turn the car around and take me home. If that happened, the fact that I even made it into the car, with the actual intention of seeing a therapist, would be enough to give me back a sense of control for a while.
I would have tried. I found a reason that was valid to my mind. It didn’t work out. It’s an endlessly repeatable cycle that never solves anything. But I still read the text on her website again and again, even though I’ve already gone over it a dozen times. And I know there are no typos. And I don’t even really want Jamie to turn the car around, because he had to go out of his way to set this up for me. He called April and made the appointment, and now he’s driving me there. He will wait for me until I’m done, and then he will drive me back home, after which he will say, “It’s no bother, coz I’m your brother.” But of course it’s a bother. Who wants to be driving around their autistic sister who was always afraid to learn how to drive and who can’t make her own appointments and, basically, is too afraid to live? Oh fuck, I’m spiraling again, but there’s no way out of it. I can try a couple of deep breaths, but the only way this anxiety spiral is going to pass is after I’ve seen the therapist I’m so afraid to see.
“Zoe called me yesterday,” Jamie says, out of the blue.
I’m too numb to give him much reaction, even though, behind the stiff mask of my face, my brain is going into ultra-overdrive.
“She wanted to talk about you,” he says.
“And did you?”
He shakes his head. “I told her to talk to you directly, but to wait until after today.”
“You think one session with the shrink is going to fix me,” I joke.
“God no, Anna. That will take years.” He turns to grin at me. “Hell, you may never be fixable, then again, who is?”
“How did she sound? Zoe?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t really pick up something like that from a phone call.” The car starts slowing down. “We’re here.”
“Already?” Oh Christ. Is it too late to get out of this? Maybe Mrs. Jenkins has had an emergency and she’ll need to cancel our session at the last minute.
“Yup.” He parks the car and starts getting out, not even asking if he should come in with me, because he knows it’s hard for me to say yes.
“It’ll be all right, Anna. I swear to you.”
I’m still clutching my phone in my hand. If I hold it any tighter, I fear I might crush it with the very force of my fear.
April Jenkins lives in a house with a lot of curb appeal. Jamie rings the bell, says our names, and we’re buzzed in, just like that. My anxiety reaches peak level while we wait, and time seems to speed up and slow down all at once. And then a woman emerges from a door and she’s tall and smiley and her lips are a little crooked, making her look like she’s grinning at something all the time. She ushers me in and leaves Jamie outside and then I’m sitting across from what could quite possibly become my long-term therapist.
I know Jamie got her number off Cynthia, who found this therapist for me years ago, but I refused to go. I had barely recovered from the sensory overload of the Autism Spectrum Disorder assessment. Because I know the text on her website by heart by now, I know that Mrs. Jenkins specializes in helping adults with Autism, with a further specialization in Pathological Demand Avoidance.
I wanted to prepare for this—in fact, that was one of the reasons I gave Jamie for not being able to get myself together so quickly after I’d mentioned that I might want to see someone. I needed more time to prepare.
“You’ve prepared for this for years,” he said, and that was that.
As soon as I knew I had the appointment—and Jamie was going to make me keep it—I tried to write down all the things I would say to a therapist, but I froze. A classic symptom of Pathological Demand Avoidance if ever there was one. So it looks like I have at least come to the right place.
“I know this is hard for you, Anna,” April says. “But I’m glad you made it here today.”
“What did my brother tell you about me?”
“That you could benefit from talking to someone like me.” She turns her crooked grin into a smile. “Would you like me to tell you a bit more about myself?”
“I’ve read your website,” I say.
“Okay. Would you like to tell me a bit about yourself then?”
I don’t know why I’ve always dreaded this question so much, but I do. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll start talking and won’t be able to shut up until all the things I’ve ever felt in my life have been expressed. Or maybe I’m afraid that instead of words, I will only have tears, and I’ll start crying for all the times I’ve felt inadequate, or too different, or too unsuited for this life.
“I’m not very… verbal,” I mumble. And I’m still getting over the shame of having my brother walk me in, as though he’s my dad and I’m twelve. “Which is why I never thought therapy could be very helpful for me. Because I don’t really express myself that way.”
“How do you prefer to express yourself?” April’s voice is very soft and calm. I wonder if she has to try very hard to look this composed. I mostly wonder how she listens to people like me all day long and doesn’t go insane.
“I paint,” I say.
“What do you paint?”
“Mostly people I like. My dog. And my house. It’s all very self-centered, I’m afraid.”
“They’re your paintings, Anna. They can be whatever you like. That doesn’t make them self-centered.”
“Yeah.” I wish I was in my painting studio, being self-centered, right now instead of here.
“May I ask you…” April leans forward a bit. “What are you hoping to get out of this and any possible future sessions with me?”
“Well…” I briefly manage to look her in the eye. “I guess I’m sick and tired of being afraid of everything all the time.”
April nods, but doesn’t say anything in response.
“I guess I’m looking for some coping mechanisms for my bottomless anxiety.”
“You’ve also been diagnosed with PDA.” How does April know all this? Jamie must have told her much more than she’s letting on.
“Yeah.” The most fun of all neuro-strands, I think.
April nods. “How’s your anxiety right now?”
I have to laugh. It’s the only way I can break the tension that coils inside of me. “Through the roof,” I say, after I’m done giggling nervously.
“That’s okay. We’ll work on that. You’ve come to the right place, Anna.” She smiles at me again, and it’s a little reassuring. At least I haven’t cried yet. And she seems likable enough at first glance. “If you’ve read my website, you know that I have two daughters who were diagnosed with PDA when they were young adults.”
I nod. Must be fun living in your house, I think.
“I’m telling you so you know that there are ways to deal with this. It doesn’t have to be doom and gloom all the time. Most of the time, my girls cope well, because they know what it is they’re dealing with. Knowing who you are can be a real gift.” She pauses and gives me a meaningful look—although I’m not sure what it means. “Most people try to figure out why they are the way they are all their lives, and a lot of people never figure it out. To know the root cause of your behavior is a great piece of knowledge to have.”
“I’ve known for years,” I say. “And what it got me was one completely ruined relationship and one…” I don’t really know how to describe my thing with Zoe.
April doesn’t say anything. She must be used to people trying to find their words.
“I met this woman a few months ago. Her name’s Zoe. And it feels like what happened between Cynthia and me two years ago, when we broke up because I couldn’t deal with having ASD, is happening all over again, but much faster. It’s like my subconscious has the need to show Zoe what I’m really like, underneath all the masking and the pretending that I’m normal, so that she knows to stay away from me.” I hadn’t expected to even talk about Zoe. Her walking out on me last weekend might be the direct cause for me being here today, but I have so many other issues to address.
“Tell me about Zoe,” April says. “What is she like?”
I arch up my eyebrows. “What is Zoe like?”
“Yes.” She gives me a therapist nod, which functions as a nudge for me to carry on talking.
“Zoe is…” I pause. “She’s a force of nature. She has the kind of smile that would melt all the remaining snow in the tristate area.” What am I saying? Have I well and truly lost my mind now? “Let’s just say that Zoe has been the subject of many a painting since we met.”
“And what happened? Are you still together?”
“No, I made sure of that.”
“Do you want to give me some more details?”
I might as well. If I’d known April could help me understand how I fucked up with Zoe, I wouldn’t have resisted coming here so fiercely. So I give her the broad strokes of what went down between Zoe and me, and I try to draw some parallels with the demise of my relationship with Cynthia, so she knows I’m not too stupid to realize that I’m sabotaging myself.
“And why is it so hard for you to accept yourself?” April asks.
“Because…” I shake my head. “When I see someone like Zoe, as much as I like her and want to be with her, in the back of my head, there will always be a nagging little voice telling me that someone like me shouldn’t be with someone like her.”
“When you say ‘someone like me,’ do you mean someone with your neurotype, or someone who hasn’t accepted her neurotype?”
“Both.” I shrug. “It’s basically the same thing. Well, it is for me.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” April puts her pen down. She hasn’t used it too much yet. “It’s not because you’re different that you can’t thrive, Anna. Or that you can’t be with the woman of your dreams.” She fixes her gaze on me. Her eyes are brown, like Zoe’s, but not as pretty and sparkly. “I like to say that difference is a teacher.”
I want to arch up my eyebrows again, but I don’t. I feel like I need to give April the benefit of the doubt.
“Do you know that song, If Everybody Looked the Same?” She clears her throat. “We’d be tired of looking at each other.” She actually sings the last bit. “It’s the same for neurotype. I’m not going to lie, ASD and PDA still suffer from quite a bad rap, but that will change over time.”
“It will always be a disability, as in not having the same abilities as neurotypical people.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have other qualities and skills that neurotypical people can only dream of.”
“That may be the case for some people with ASD, but I’m not one of the savants. I’m just plain old disabled.”
April cocks her head. “Do you have your phone on you?”
I nod.
“Do you have any pictures of your paintings on it?”
“Some.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure, but being able to paint is not a special skill. You can learn how to do it.” I unlock my phone and scroll to the folder with some of my paintings, then I hand it to her.
“Who taught you how to paint like that?” April asks.
“Nobody. I taught myself.”
“And you think that’s not a special skill—a gift, even?”
“If it is, I can’t really use it as a currency in society-at-large.”
She keeps looking at my phone. “Jesus, Anna. These are stunning. Your dog in particular is utterly adorable. What’s his name?”
“Hemingway,” I say, my chest glowing a little, as though I’m solely responsible for my dog’s cuteness, while all I ever did was adopt him.
“Is this Zoe?” She turns the phone screen toward me.
The glow in my chest changes into something else. Pangs of regret and guilt. I nod.
“She looks like a lovely person. Or at least you painted her as such.” She hands me back the phone.
“Oh, no, she is that gorgeous. The painting doesn’t even really do her justice.”
“I’m sure it does, Anna.” April straightens her back. “Right. I know what my mission is. Will you help me accomplish it?”
“Um, depends what it is,” I mumble while I put my phone back.
“My mission is to get you to accept yourself.”
“You sound just like Zoe now.”
“Good. Nothing like a gorgeous woman to get you where you want to be.”
I chuckle. “What?” April is not as therapist-y as I had expected her to be—far from it, actually. I kind of like it. I had expected a form of solemnness that reminds me of funerals, not this kind of playful energy.
“Your anxiety is hardwired, Anna. We both know that. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a life in which you’re not afraid all the time, in which you’re not afraid to be with Zoe—even though she might scare you because she makes you face some uncomfortable things about yourself.”
If you say so, I think, because I’m not entirely convinced yet.
“If you decide to come back, and I really hope you will, because I think we can do great work together, then I would like to give you an assignment. Homework, if you will.”
“I was always really bad at homework, what with the demand avoidance and all that,” I joke.
“I want you to go and see Zoe.” April ignores my joke, which is probably the best way to respond to it in this situation. “And I want you to tell her that you’ve taken the huge step of starting to work on your self-acceptance. And then I want you to see what happens and report back to me next week.”
“But… I haven’t even decided I want to come back yet.” Is the session over already?
“I know and that’s up to you. I know I can’t make you come back, but if you do, that’s your homework assignment.”
“You’re challenging me.” I purse my lips and look at April.
She nods. “I never said it would be easy. If it were, you wouldn’t be here.” She reaches behind her for something on her desk. “I’m going to write you down for an appointment at the same time next week. If you want to cancel it, email me three days in advance. My email address is on here.” She gives me an appointment card. “No pressure.” She throws in a smile.
“Wait… has an hour gone by already?” I check my watch.
“No, but I rarely have hour-long appointments with people with ASD. The sensory overload is too much, especially in the beginning. We need to work our way up to longer sessions.”
Smart, I think. Maybe April knows what she’s doing. I tap the card against the palm of my hand. “Okay.”
“I hope to see you next week, Anna,” she says.