If She Could Have Gone to Therapy at 18
It's 2008. Summer. Rachel sinks into the crack where two firm, rectangular cushions with harsh, piped corners meet to seal the body of a terribly corporate loveseat in Dr. Fields' office. Her body lifts at the same time. She's ready at any moment to stand, buzzing with anxiety and fatigue, with wonder and knowing. She is wise beyond her years and acutely aware that she is experiencing teen angst. She knows it. She stares off to the left as she speaks, and sometimes gazes down with blurred vision, lost in the pink, pastel spiral of her sacred notebook, where she carefully charts her meticulous schedule – and recently, her food diaries. The blinds are 25% dustier than they should be.
- fruit snacks
- grilled cheese
- tortilla chips without salsa
- 3 Dove Promises (dark)
- handful cheez-its
Rachel: I have a crush on this boy. Why do I like him? Because he pays attention to me. He is a Christian. He is taller than me. He plays music. I get the impression that he would be an acceptable partner to bring around my family. I could see myself marrying him. We would be involved in church and do music stuff and live in Candler Park with a house and kids and do full-time jobs that we don’t love – but it would be OK, because we would also be creative.
The thing is…I’ve only been on one date with him. We went to see Spider-Man. We held hands, in that really awkward way – I’ve even seen it in movies – where you don’t know when it should start or when it should end, and my hand was so hot and sweaty and numb, but I kept it there for as long as I could stand it. At one point, Neal had to get up and leave because his contacts were bothering him.
But yeah, I’ve suggested hanging out multiple other times. It keeps not happening. But he texts me nonstop at night. Sometimes we talk on the phone late into the night, too.
I hear EVERYTHING he says. I feel like I internalize everything he does or doesn’t like. Like, he told me he viscerally loathes when girls don’t have their toenails painted. And ever since, I spend each week preparing a perfect pedicure on the off chance that he will decide he wants to see me again. I obsessively make sure my legs are freshly shaved. I listen to his music on MySpace, and I just…wait.
UGH, and you know what? He wrote a song that I swear is about me. I’m a year older than him, going off to college soon, and his lyrics are about a girl who is leaving Georgia. I know it’s possible that it’s not me, but I don’t like the way he handled it. He asked me, soooo do you think this song is about you? And I answered in an ambiguous way, trying to play it cool, that was like a yes and a no at the same time. I was like, “well, some parts do sound familiar.” He then proceeded to make fun of me, like it would be incredulous that he would write a song about me.
And I'm just like, why does he text me every night? Like, why does he have this hold on me when he doesn’t actually want to spend time together in real life? I rearrange my energy and my schedule and my ability to show up for my friends and my family and my job, just journaling and hoping and praying and waiting for another chance with him. I hate it.
Therapist: Why do you like him?
Rachel: Because he likes me, and no one else does.
Therapist: What do you wish was different?
Rachel: I just wish I didn’t feel so powerless. I wish there was someone in my life who saw me for me and told me directly how they felt about me. And who prioritized spending quality time with me. And I wish I wasn’t so distracted on the days I didn’t see him. I wish I didn’t feel the need to perform, as a perfect Christian, or as some idyllic suburban girl. I wish I could be with someone who genuinely didn’t care if I shaved my legs or had my nails painted. In fact, I wish I could be with someone who encouraged me not to do those things – or at least not to do them for anyone else. I want to be with someone who doesn’t feel like a drug. So when I think about them, I feel comforted and at ease, instead of intoxicated and freaked out.
...I guess what I really want is to love and see and accept myself. I’m not sure who I am, except for being both a part of and different from my family.
And I wish I didn’t have to stay in the South. I’m pretending I’m OK with it, because at least it’s not Georgia. But I really wish I could go to the east coast. I really wanted that.
Therapist: Why can’t you?
Rachel: Money.
Can you ask me one more hard question? Anything.
Therapist: How would you describe your sexual orientation?
Rachel: I don’t know.
Thank you.
The thing is…I’ve only been on one date with him. We went to see Spider-Man. We held hands, in that really awkward way – I’ve even seen it in movies – where you don’t know when it should start or when it should end, and my hand was so hot and sweaty and numb, but I kept it there for as long as I could stand it. At one point, Neal had to get up and leave because his contacts were bothering him.
But yeah, I’ve suggested hanging out multiple other times. It keeps not happening. But he texts me nonstop at night. Sometimes we talk on the phone late into the night, too.
I hear EVERYTHING he says. I feel like I internalize everything he does or doesn’t like. Like, he told me he viscerally loathes when girls don’t have their toenails painted. And ever since, I spend each week preparing a perfect pedicure on the off chance that he will decide he wants to see me again. I obsessively make sure my legs are freshly shaved. I listen to his music on MySpace, and I just…wait.
UGH, and you know what? He wrote a song that I swear is about me. I’m a year older than him, going off to college soon, and his lyrics are about a girl who is leaving Georgia. I know it’s possible that it’s not me, but I don’t like the way he handled it. He asked me, soooo do you think this song is about you? And I answered in an ambiguous way, trying to play it cool, that was like a yes and a no at the same time. I was like, “well, some parts do sound familiar.” He then proceeded to make fun of me, like it would be incredulous that he would write a song about me.
And I'm just like, why does he text me every night? Like, why does he have this hold on me when he doesn’t actually want to spend time together in real life? I rearrange my energy and my schedule and my ability to show up for my friends and my family and my job, just journaling and hoping and praying and waiting for another chance with him. I hate it.
Therapist: Why do you like him?
Rachel: Because he likes me, and no one else does.
Therapist: What do you wish was different?
Rachel: I just wish I didn’t feel so powerless. I wish there was someone in my life who saw me for me and told me directly how they felt about me. And who prioritized spending quality time with me. And I wish I wasn’t so distracted on the days I didn’t see him. I wish I didn’t feel the need to perform, as a perfect Christian, or as some idyllic suburban girl. I wish I could be with someone who genuinely didn’t care if I shaved my legs or had my nails painted. In fact, I wish I could be with someone who encouraged me not to do those things – or at least not to do them for anyone else. I want to be with someone who doesn’t feel like a drug. So when I think about them, I feel comforted and at ease, instead of intoxicated and freaked out.
...I guess what I really want is to love and see and accept myself. I’m not sure who I am, except for being both a part of and different from my family.
And I wish I didn’t have to stay in the South. I’m pretending I’m OK with it, because at least it’s not Georgia. But I really wish I could go to the east coast. I really wanted that.
Therapist: Why can’t you?
Rachel: Money.
Can you ask me one more hard question? Anything.
Therapist: How would you describe your sexual orientation?
Rachel: I don’t know.
Thank you.
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