My shrink Dr. Pittenburg (AKA Dr. Pits) told me keeping a diary would help me with my "problem." I think that's a load of bull but my parents are paying a lot of money for this guy so I guess I'll name an effort. But I'm not calling this a diary. I am not a pretentious princess who thinks that my life is so incredibly fantastic and dramatic that I have to write it all down so everyone can read it and admire me. No, this is a journal. Like what journalist use. Business, strictly business. Well, without further ado, here is the spectacular journal of Lilian Adi Stevenson.
P.S. Bite me Pits
Sat. 8/24/2013
Dear Journal,
I'm not really sure how this is suppose to work or what I am suppose to say so I guess I will just tell you what has happened. But not about the "problem," Mainly because the "problem" is a figment of my parents imagination and doesn't truly exist. No, I will not be telling you about the "problem." Dr. Pits wants to know what is going on with me so how about I just write about my life. Get ready to be bored by the mundane expose of an insignificant high school sophomore. But where to start? Well since you don't get to know about the "problem" how about I start with you.
Today was my first meeting with the crazy's doctor extraordinaire, Dr. Pittenburg, who's wheezy monotone and patronizing niceties are enough to turn anyone into a depressed suicidal maniac. Nevertheless, my parents have been worried about me and practically begged me to go and talk to him. I don't want them to worry so I grudgingly allowed my mother to drive me to Dr. Pits' office at the bottom of Newgate hill.
The waiting room was a nauseating yellow color with a handful of chairs lined up against the far wall. Annoyingly optimistic posters covered the walls displaying their unrealistically cute animals preaching annoying mantras such as "Hang in there!" and "Have a purrfect day!" Highlights magazines littered the coffee table in the middle of the room and dolls, blocks and legos carpeted the floor, just waiting to twist someones ankle. For some ungodly reason my parents decide to send me to a children's doctor even though I'm 15.
After about five games of solitaire on my phone a middle aged women walks out of Dr. Pits' office with a boy who couldn't be older than 6. The assistant at the office window tells me I can go in. After my mom assures me for the tenth time that she will be waiting right outside if I need anything, I enter the Pits' office for my first psych evaluation.
Mr. Pits' office was even more chaotic then the waiting room. The light brown walls were almost completely covered by shelves and cabinets stock piled with books, toys and games. Animal figurines were sprawled across the floor. Paper snowflakes from the previous winter were stuck to the dirty and foggy windows. A small desk was tucked in the corner and was so plastered with paper and books that it seemed unusable. For a place that was suppose to help people with their mental problems, the office would be hell for someone suffering from OCD.
Dr. Pits was sitting in a short square chair that matched his body shape. His fake smile reached all across his face from one large, saggy ear to the other. His head was almost completely bald except for a ring of white stringy hair that wrapped around the circumference of his skull. The largeness of his hooked nose was emphasized by the small spectacles perched on the tip of his nose; glasses which were way out of proportion compared to his other facial features. That is except for his needy dark eyes.
"Miss Stevenson," Pits said in his nasally monotone as he rose from his chair and offered me his hand, "such a pleasure to finally meet you."
I returned his fake smile and shook his hand while already mocking his appearance in my mind.
"Please, won't you sit down," he said, gesturing to one of those stereotypical psychiatrist chairs with a raised back attached to a long bench for a patient to lie down on. The thought of lying down on that chair and having Pits dive into my mind and try to dissect my problems made me cringe. Only people with problems lie on chairs like that and I don't have a problem. Instead I perched myself on top of the back of the chair. I was higher up than Pits. I was in control. "Very well then," Pits said in response to my perch as he scribbled a note on his clipboard. "So why don't you tell me why you are here," he continued.
"I'm here because my parents think I have a problem."
"Do you think you have a problem?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because there is no reason for me to have a problem."
"Well then why do your parents think you have a problem?"
"I don't know. Why don't you ask them?"
"Because I am asking you."
There was a moment of silence as we sized each other up. My mother's plea to me to at least make an effort at therapy surfaced in my mind along with a stab of guilt.
"My parents think I am depressed because my friend killed herself," I revealed. By the lack of surprise on Pits face I assumed he already knew this but decided to make me admit it anyways. Dumb sadistic therapists.
"So are you depressed?" he asked.
"I am after being in that obnoxious waiting room."
"How do you feel about your friends suicide?"
I paused, taken aback by his directness. "What kind of a question is that?"
"A simple one. How do you feel about your friends suicide?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I don't know."
"You must feel something."
"Well right now I am feeling homicidal due to your aggravating questions."
Pits scribbled more notes on to his clipboard, the scratch of his pen giving me a headache.
"I want to help you Lilian, but if I am going to do that, I need you to work with me," Pits told me as he stared at me with those beady eyes, which I had decided were more like weasel eyes than human eyes.
I remained silent as we once again studied each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.
"So when does school start?" Pits asked, breaking the stalemate.
"Tuesday," I answered as a feeling of dread started to swallow me due to the thought of having to go back to school in just two days.
"What grade are you going to be in?"
"Tenth."
"Taking any cool classes?"
"No."
"Looking forward to anything?"
"No."
"Not even seeing your friends again?"
"My friend is dead."
"I mean your other friends."
"It was always just me and Lexi."
"And Lexi is the friend who committed suicide?"
Silence.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"What activities did Lexi like to do?"
"She liked to be in the woods."
"Why was that?"
"How should I know?"
"Because you were her friend."
"Were? Am I no longer her friend?"
"She's dead."
"People can't be friends with the dead?"
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"What activities do you like to do Lilian?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"There has to be something?"
"I like to sit in my room and not have old weasel bird nosed men ask me questions."
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"Did Lexi ever tell you she was suicidal?"
"No."
"Did she ever tell you she was depressed or troubled?"
"No."
"Do you wish she had?"
And that was when I stopped talking. Pits continued to make scratches and ask me questions but I didn't answer. He had overstayed his welcome.
For about the next ten minutes he tried to get me to talk to nonexistent success. Eventually he gave up.
"I guess I will just go call your mother in," he said, rising from his chair and heading towards the door. I moved off of my perch and sat on the edge of his weird psycho coach thing. My mom entered the office and he offered for her to sit down in the chair opposite him.
He continued to tell her his diagnosis. Depression, mainly, with some possible PTSD and a slight hint of Neurosis, all together making one steaming stew of crazy.
"With school about to start, I would prefer to not put her on any medications at this time," the weasel continued, "The school year will be enough of a stressful adjustment without trying to add new medications on top of it. I do think that she should continue meeting with me, once a week. The receptionist outside can help you find a day and time. I think it is also a good idea for her to keep a diary. She is having a hard time voicing her thoughts and I am sure that she has a lot of them right now. The diary would provide her with an outlet until she gets more comfortable talking to someone. How does that sound Lilian?"
Surprised I looked up from the hangnail I had been picking at, "Oh I didn't realize I had any say in this situation. And it's Miss Stevenson."
"Lily," my mom finally chastised.
"Fine, whatever," I sighed.
Pits stood up and moved over to his desk. He pulled out a composition notebook and handed it to me. "I want you to write in that everyday, as best you can. Bring it when you come in next week and I'll look over what you read and we can start treatment from there."
"That sounds great Dr. Pittenburg," my mom said, rising from her chair and shaking the weasel's hand, "Thank you for all your help."
"Lilian, until next time," he extended his hand to me. I glared at it for a moment, wanting more to spit at it then shake it, but seeing the pleading look in my mom's eyes, I finally reached and took his hand.
"So how did it go?" my mom asked me once we had gotten in the car.
"I hate him."
"Please, Lily, don't be so dramatic. He is going to help you. This is good for you," she sighed, "Will you please just try, for me?"
I hate it when my mom pulls the guilt stuff on me. I really don't want them to worry about me. I know ever since they found Lexi, my parents have been fearing that I will run off and do the same thing. But I'm fine. I guess the only way to prove that to them is to keep seeing Pits. So I just sighed and nodded and promised I would try.
"I have a surprise for you," she said.
"What?"
"As a thank you for coming today I thought maybe we could make a stop at that record store you like. You can pick out any one you want and I will pay for it. My gift to you."
At this I actually smiled. My mom always seems to know just how to bribe me.
The record store my mom was referring to was a place called Grooves Records ( I know, corny-ass name) and they sold actual vinyl records. Over the summer I had rescued my parents old turntable from the attic and had been starting my own vinyl collection since, mainly modern stuff, but with a few classics hear and there. I spent a lot of time at Grooves this summer, especially after the whole Lexi thing. The guy who owns it, Hyde, is pretty cool. One time I had a bit of a meltdown in his store, balled up in the corner sobbing. I had come to the store to get away from everything for awhile, but it all sort of followed me there. I had hidden myself pretty well and no one saw me for over an hour. It wasn't until Hyde had started locking up when he found me. He was really chill about it though. He got me a glass of water and a package of Oreos he had stashed in his office and just sat with me for an hour talking about music and records, not asking me one question about what was wrong, not passing one judgement. He told me how he really liked the rock and roll legend types, AC/DC, Zeppelin, KISS, Pink Floyd. I told him I like the more modern indie/alternative stuff like The Lumineers and Of Monsters and Men. That was the night he introduced me to Greg Laswell and gave me Laswell's album Three Flights from Alto Nido. on the house as he put it. It has this one song "Comes and Goes (In Waves)" that, I swear, I have listened to like 100 times. It is one of those songs where you can feel yourself identify with every single line. After giving me the record he drove me home. Now he always gives me an Oreo each time I buy a record at his store.
"Hey Hyde," I said as I entered Grooves, my mom following me in.
"How's it going Lil," he replied as he put away a stack of records.
"Hanging in there," I replied as I started shifting through the Alternative music bins.
He put his stack of records down and walked over towards me, "Hey I finally got that Greg Laswell album you were asking for."
"You did!"
"Ya, some dude brought in a copy a few days ago and sold it to me. I've been saving it for you in the back. You want it?"
"Ya! Obviously!"
I followed him to the back of the store and waited at the check out counter as he went into his office and retrieved the album. "Here we are," he said as he came to the counter, "Greg Laswell's Landlines."
He handed the album over to me. It was a little dinged up having been used but all in all it was in pretty good shape. "Hyde you rock!"
"Did you find the one you want?" my mom asked, coming up behind me.
"Ya, I did," I answered, showing her the album.
Hyde rang us up and as usual, gave me an Oreo as my mom paid for the record.
After that we headed home. Mom made dinner and now I am in my room listening to my new record and writing my first journal entry for Pitt. I think I already have my favorite song on the album. It's the first track, a song called "Come Back Down". It is sort of like the harsh - but - coming - from - a - good - place sort of pep talk/intervention you would expect from a best friend. Exactly what I think I need.
I'm still not really sure how I feel about this journal thing. It feels really weird talking to a journal, but until I can think of something or someone better to write to I guess this is all I've got. Well, until next time I guess.
-Lily