TWENTY-EIGHT
My depression and anxiety have softened with the medication. My moods still dip every once in a while, but there are times I’m actually happy, not just tolerating life. Summer is my favorite season, so that helps, too. The other day I went up to a stranger and asked if I could hug her dog. She laughed and said yes, and the golden retriever covered me with kisses.
Part of it is thanks to my medicine, I think. Dr. Cooke also showed me some techniques to deal with my anxiety. I’m supposed to write what she calls my “mental distortions” in a journal and then challenge them with more reasonable thoughts. Like the other day, I started worrying that I wouldn’t do well in college because I’m just a broke-ass Mexican girl from a crappy neighborhood in Chicago. I convinced myself that all the kids are going to be smarter than I am because they went to better schools. I got stuck in this horrible loop. I became completely preoccupied until I focused on my breathing and surroundings, and forced myself to write a list of reasons why that was untrue: 1) The school would not have accepted me if they didn’t think I could succeed. 2) I’ve read about a million books. 3) I’ll work really hard. 4) Mr. Ingman says I’m the best student he’s ever had. 5) Most people aren’t really that smart.
It takes a lot of practice because my mind is so used to jumping to horrible conclusions. There are some days I still feel like the world is an awful, frightening place. Despite that, I want to go out into it and experience everything I possibly can. I’m not sure if that makes any sense.
Dr. Cooke tells me I’ve made a lot of progress and reminds me how important it is to take my medication at the same time every single day. I’ve talked to her a lot about my writing, so I ask her if I could read her a poem I
wrote last night when I couldn’t sleep.
“I’d love to hear it,” she says.
I clear my throat and pray that I don’t cry because that’s what I do in every single session.
“Okay, here it goes,” I say. “It’s not done yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish it. I’ve been reworking it all day. It feels good to be able to explain these past two years of my life. It’s called ‘Pandora.’
“She opened the vault, the box in which she kept herself—old filmstrips of her life, her truth. Broken feathers, crushed mirrors creating a false gleam. She takes it all apart, every moment, every lie, every deception. Everything stops: snapshots of serenity, beauty, bliss, surface. Things she must dig for in her mesh of uncertainty, in her darkness, though it still lies in the wetness of her mouth, the scent of her hair. She digs and digs in that scarlet box on the day of her unraveling, the day she comes undone. She thrives in her truth and travels the world like a nomad, stealing the beauty of violet skies, fishing for pearls, pretty arabesques, paper swans, pressing them to her face, and keeping them between her palms. Forever.”
Dr. Cooke smiles. “That was beautiful,” she says. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
“I’m glad you liked it.” I hug Dr. Cooke, which surprises her, but she hugs me back.
On my way out, Dr. Cooke tells me she thinks I’ll do great in college, and I decide to believe her.
—
After dinner, Amá asks me to stay at the table and talk to her over tea. At first, I’m worried, but then I realize it’s highly unlikely that anything could be worse than what’s already happened.
“Hija, I want to talk to you about boys,” she says as she puts the kettle on the stove.
“Oh my God, Amá. Please, no.” I cover my ears. I can’t believe I’m finally having a sex talk with my mother.
“I know you’re going to go to school, which is a very good thing. Your father and I, though we don’t understand why you need to leave, we’re very proud of you for being so smart. We just want you to be careful and protect yourself. Boys are only after one thing, you know? And once you give away the milk…”
“Milk? Ew, gross, Amá, please stop. I know what I’m doing.”
“You think life is so easy, don’t you? You think nothing bad will ever happen to you. I’m telling you that you can’t go around trusting everybody.” Amá shakes her head as she reaches for the mugs.
“I don’t trust everybody.” I know where she’s coming from with all of this, but it still frustrates me. It’s not like I’m some simpleton who doesn’t know anything about life. Besides, terrible things have already happened to me. She knows I’m no stranger to trauma. I’ve seen what the world is capable of.
“You know, I saw on the news that there’s a drug some men put in women’s drinks.”
I try my best to be patient. “Yes, I know about roofies.”
“Roofies, ¿qué es eso?”
“Forget it. Anyway, I know what that is. I’m not dumb, I swear.”
“I never said you were dumb. I just said you were smart, didn’t I? Why do you have to take things the wrong way?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll watch my drinks. I’ll be careful around boys, I promise.
I’ll carry mace, if you want.”
“You know, you can get AIDS or get pregnant. What would you do then?
How would you be able to finish college?” Amá puts her hand on her hip.
Talk about worst-case-scenario syndrome. Now I know where I get it from. “Jesus, Amá! I’m not getting AIDS or getting pregnant. I know about health. I’ve read lots of books.” I don’t tell her that condoms are ninety- eight percent effective, or that there is no way in hell I’ll ever have a baby, even if I do get pregnant.
“I’m only telling you to be careful.” She pours the hot water into our mugs.
“I know. Thank you. I know you’re just trying to help, but can we please stop talking about sex now? Do you want to teach me how to cook instead?
I really, really want to know how to make tortillas,” I joke.
She can’t help but laugh at that.
