There were some things that Riley really liked about Dr Grace Anderson:
1: She didn't charge the Matthews a fortune per session, because she was the Abigail Adams school therapist and gave AAHS students a discount.
2: Her office walls were a lovely shade of lavender.
3: She seemed nice enough—Nurse Grayson clearly held her in high regard, after all.
Unfortunately, all of these factors were outweighed by one significant strike against her:
1: Riley never knew what to say to her.
Riley had been attending weekly sessions with the psychologist since her {very public} breakdown. These appointments always started with the same question—"what do you want to talk about in this session?"—which inevitably left Riley flustered and casting about wildly for a topic of conversation.
Most of the time, she was left to recap the week, leaving Dr Anderson to act as a very reactive diary.
Especially because Riley had been—for the most part—fine since her aforementioned public breakdown, nearly a months ago now.
It had been uncomfortable at first, but most of the school had long since moved on to more interesting scandals {like how Sage had decided to raise the baby, and how Emma and Mila had been seen making out on the bleachers after cheerleading practise, and–
"Riley?" Her eyes snapped over to Dr Anderson, who was watching her with the patient smile of someone practised at distracting people from their runaway thoughts.
"Uh, yeah, sorry. I got a little bit spacey there. What did you say, again?"
"I was asking about your appointment with Dr Shelley tomorrow." Dr Shelley had come highly recommended by both Nurse Grayson and Dr Anderson herself. The child psychiatrist was set to be the one who gave Riley a diagnosis {who gave everyone else a reason Riley was acting 'so weird'}.
"I mean. I have one?" It was probably more of a statement than a question, but Riley wasn't exactly sure what Dr Anderson wanted her to say.
"And how are you feeling about it?"
Riley let the question sit in the air, eyes resting on a point just over Dr Anderson's shoulder {it always felt like too much when they made eye contact. Too real. Still, she could feel the woman's dark eyes on her, waiting, watching. Expectant}.
"I don't know."
Dr Anderson didn't say anything. Instead, she just watched Riley in silence.
The set up of her office was bad, Riley decided. There was a window to Dr Anderson's left, and the light of late autumn that shone through the window made it difficult to focus. Eventually, Riley hummed slightly, still staring into the brilliant light.
"I don't want to go," she managed to mumble. She took the moment to chance a glance at Dr Anderson, who was still sitting with no discernable thoughts on her face. Riley quickly looked back down at her hands.
"Why not?"
Riley bit at the inside of her cheek, spreading her fingers wide over her thighs as if that would stop the frantic bouncing in her legs. She breathed in sharply, steeling herself.
"I don't want to be different," she started, and once those words were out, she couldn't stop the rest of them from tumbling out after them, "I don't want to have a problem with me. I don't deserve to be so upset about things, not when Maya's dad left and she lives in a tiny apartment with her mom, and not when Farkle's mom left and his dad hates him—I can't tell anyone about that, though, so just pretend you never heard it—and not when Lucas lost a year of his life and his family don't want him back home, not really. It's not fair of me to take up so much of people's worries and energies. And I'm also scared that there's not going to be anything wrong with me and that I'm just making normal things out to be worse than they are, and that my parents will be mad that I've wasted their time and money and Farkle will hate me because I've been asking so much of him when I'm not even—"
Riley couldn't see her hands though the tears thick in her eyes and her throat, and she laughed wetly. "I hate crying. I want to be all cried out, by now. But there's always more tears when l least expect it."
"Crying is a healthy emotional response," Dr Anderson told her. "Especially when you're feeling so much and don't have anywhere to process those feelings." Riley rubbed at her eyes, reaching over to grab a tissue from the box on the end table to her left. Dr Anderson seemed content to let her pull herself together for a minute.
"Riley, none of what you're feeling is wrong," Dr Anderson said softly, and all of Riley's efforts became useless as a soft sob pushed its way out of her anyway.
"It's okay to be anxious about this- it's a big upheaval in your life. It's changed the way people see you, and the way you see yourself. From what you've told me in past sessions, it seems like it's very important to you to feel like you're in control. And now there's this whole new set of things you have to deal with, and you don't really know how."
"The best advice I can really give you right now is to be honest, Riley. With Dr Shelley, but more importantly, with yourself. You don't have to second-guess your feelings. Even if you can't bring yourself to be confident in their validity—which you don't have to, not yet—try to acknowledge to yourself that you are feeling something that you dearly don't want to be feeling. Let their existence within you be enough, even if you're worried that others won't think that you're allowed to feel like this. You're allowed to have your own feelings, no matter what other people think about them."
Riley nodded to acknowledge that she'd heard the other woman, and took a deep breath in, trying to stop the hiccups that always seemed to come with crying.
"And Riley, from what you've mentioned about your friends and family, they don't seem like the type to judge you for how you feel. Did they help you when you were worried about your other friends?"
"Yes."
"Then I can't imagine a reason they wouldn't support you when you were struggling. You're here, after all, which meant someone cared about you enough to make sure you got help when you were feeling low." Riley swiped at her eyes again, a small smile creeping its way onto her lips.
"It's difficult to be anxious when you logic things out like that," she told Dr Anderson, swallowing the leftover tears down.
"So I'm told," she joked, offering Riley one of the glasses of water on the table between them. She took it gratefully.
"I know it's difficult, but you could also try bringing these feelings up to the people they involve. You don't even have to do it immediately. Maybe you'll want to do it when you've come to terms with these feelings a bit better by yourself. But I think that, if you do, you'll understand better than ever how much of your thoughts are unfounded anxiety." Riley looked away very determinedly at that point, and Dr Andreson seemed to recognize that Riley had deemed the conversation over.
Mild Depression. ADHD. Anxiety Disorder.
The word had been fluttering around her head all day, loud and constant and terrifying. She'd come home with small scabs around her hands where she'd rubbed them raw while her parents were inside talking with Dr Shelley. She'd had twelve texts from Farkle, and nearly double that from Maya, and eventually she'd turned her text notifications off and blasted Death of a Bachelor on repeat until she couldn't hear her own thoughts {the way she liked it, the way that was so much more comfortable than thinking}.
Eventually, a knock on the Bay Window made its way into her head, and she sat up, not sure how to chase her well-meaning best friend away.
But it wasn't Maya, or Lucas, or even Farkle that was crouched on the fire escape outside her window. Instead, Isadora Smackle waved brightly and knocked lightly on the window again (honestly, Riley was kind of impressed that she'd made it up the fire escape, cause she was wearing a knee-length skirt and short stiletto heels, and whenever Riley made use of the exit she at least wore block heels).
She debated for a second before standing up to let Smackle in, forgetting her phone on the bed and experiencing the unpleasantness of her earphones being yanked out of her ears when she moved too far.
"Hey, Smackle," she greeted nervously after the other girl had crawled in and made herself comfortable in the Bay Window.
"Good morning, Riley," Smackle responded with her usual promptness, but she was fidgeting a bit with the bottom of her skirt, and she looked nervous. Riley wanted to put her hand over the other girl's to comfort her but wasn't sure that it would. Instead, she settled for crossing her legs and waiting for Smackle to say whatever had brought her over.
"Farkle informed me that you had an appointment with a psychiatrist today," Smackle said, and Riley nodded. She'd given him permission, in a roundabout way, to tell their friends (well, it was really more like she hadn't told him not to tell anyone, and he'd—correctly—understood that to mean that she wanted them to know).
"And I know you might not want to talk to anyone, but I had also thought-" Smackle hesitated, for a second, and Riley could see how nervous she was about this; "I thought that maybe you'd like to speak with someone who'd already experienced something similar?"
And oh, right. It wasn't something that Riley thought about all the time, or even that often, that Smackle was on the autism spectrum. She listened to what Smackle asked her to do and not do, and she then did that, because she was Smackle's friend and that was what she was supposed to do.
"You said you were diagnosed when you were five, right?"
"You remember that?" Smackle seemed surprised, and no matter how bad Riley was feeling about herself, she couldn't let that stand.
"Of course I do. It's something important about you. And that was when we became friends. I wasn't gonna forget that about you."
Smackle stared at her, and Riley couldn't quite read her friend's expression- her eyes were soft and her jaw was clenched, and she was clutching the bottom of her skirt with a ferocity that would cause it to rip if she wasn't careful. Riley sat and watched, and wasn't quite sure what to say {it wasn't like with Dr Anderson, though. With Smackle, Riley felt comfortable}.
"My parents took me to a neurologist when I was five. I still wasn't speaking, and they were worried, I think. And when they were given a reason, it soothed them a lot. But they never quite understood. After I was diagnosed, they hired an elocutionist to help me learn to speak, because they didn't like it when I was non-verbal. They still did all the same things, and I think they were just happy to have a reason for me not liking to be touched, or not speaking, or having what they referred to as 'meltdowns' when I was in a particularly loud space."
"Smackle that's not right-"
"No. In fact, I find their disregard for my neuroatypicality very frustrating, especially when they seem to think that I should have 'grown out' of some of my sensory issues. But the point remains that I, too, would rather have an explanation for what I'm feeling. And I think that might be how you feel too?" She broached the topic delicately, and Riley swallowed hard {it's difficult, Smackle's struggled so much, why do you deserve people's sympathy when she—}.
"The first time I was in one of your dad's classes- when the guidance counsellor thought that Farkle might have an ASD, remember? He said something like the only label you should wear is your name. And I think that that's a nice philosophy. But I also think that having a label, like autistic, that I can use for myself is actually quite freeing. It feels rather like proof of validity. Something that I can point to and say 'see? My struggles are real and you have to acknowledge them now'." Smackle was quiet, then, and she met Riley's gaze with a fierce passion.
"I like being able to say I'm autistic because it means that other people have to acknowledge my existence and the existence of the problems I face. And I don't know for sure, but I think that maybe, whatever the psychiatrist told you might be like that?"
"I think that this is the most you've ever said to me at one time," Riley joked, and Smackle giggled brightly.
"It's something that I care very much about."
Riley turned to look out her window, staring down at the cars queueing down West 11th. "I got a whole list," she told Smackle softly, still not looking at her.
"ADHD and Depression and an Anxiety Disorder. They wrote me a prescription, too, that my parents went to file already. For anti-depressants and anxiety relievers and a month's worth of insomnia medication. And I'm so glad to have it, so happy I'm not going crazy-" her voice cracked, and Riley swallowed down the flood of words threatening to pour out of her mouth.
She took a deep breath.
"I don't want this," she told Smackle, who nodded knowingly.
"I don't know if anyone ever really does. But it gets better. I grew… comfortable with it, eventually. But do you remember, when you first found out, that I wanted to be normal?" Riley nodded quickly, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand, even though she wasn't crying yet.
"I don't think like that anymore," Smackle told her, and she paused for another second, before asking, "Would you like a hug?" Riley nodded, and for the first time, she found herself on the receiving end of a hug where her arms were held close to her body, and the other girl's arms were around her.
"Let me know when the pressure is sufficient," Smackle asked, and Riley smiled, a breath of laughter escaping her quite unintentionally.
"It's good."
They sat like that for a while, just the two of them, and while it wasn't a position that Riley had ever expected to find herself in, she found that she was quite comfortable.
"I do have a small request, if you do not mind," Smackle broke the silence again, and Riley's head quirked to the side, almost without her permission.
"Shoot."
"I would like to ask that you call me Isadora from now on. I am the only one in our friend group not called by my first name, and while I do not think that you do it on purpose, I do sometimes feel like it separates me from the rest of you."
Riley pulled herself from her friend's grasp, but she wasn't upset. "You only ever had to ask," she told Isadora, and then grinned when the other girl lit up with excitement.
"I am gonna hug you properly now, though, if that's okay with you."
"I would welcome it," Isadora answered, and that was all it took for Riley to wrap her arms around the other girl.
They spent the rest of the afternoon there, in the Bay Window, exchanging silly stories and childhood dreams and experiences with mental health, and slowly, Riley started feeling normal again- or maybe a new normal was the better term because she'd never been this friendly with Isadora before, and she was finding it to be really fun. It was nice, to just be girly and silly and also to be allowed to be honest about things that she hadn't told other people before, for fear that they'd think her crazy.
Hello and welcome to *Harley's Very Long Author's Notes*
Okay first things first: I AM NOT A PSYCHOLOGIST/THERAPIST of any other nature. I have been going to therapy (not as consistently as I should have been) for six years this year, so I probably have a pretty good idea of, at least, what imy/i therapist might say in a specific circumstance, this fic should not substitute in for therapy for anyone! Half the time I'm using this fic t explore things that I personally experienced, so like. I am not the role model, here. If you cannot afford a therapist, or both provide access to free peer listeners and cheap access to licensed therapists (or do your own research, there are tons of online therapy things out there!)
Secondly: I am not on the autism spectrum. I've said it before, but I'm saying it again to remind everybody. I do my best with Smackle's character, and a lot of her dialogue in this specific chapter is things an autistic friend of mine has said to me (I got her approval before I published it, and she liked the chapter when she read it). That being said, if you are autistic/have an ASD and you feel I've misrepresented something (or even if you just want to talk about it!) please feel safe to message me (there's a link to my tumblr at the end of the work, or you can leave a comment on this fic).
Thirdly: This chapter was a bit of a filler chapter. I mean, not entirely, but still. It's not very long, I know, but writing these chapters that delve seriously into mental health is pretty taxing on me sometimes, so I do it when I feel like I can. Luckily, after this chapter, we're gonna turn back to the romances a bit, which is a lot easier for me to write as I have never been involved in a romance, and so I can make up whatever the fuck I want.
If you're reading this and I haven't responded to comments you've left on this fic, that's my bad. It's the next thing on my to-do list. But I do want to let you know that SavvyCat on ao3 who commented yesterday is probably the reason you've got this chapter today. They said "take your time" and my brain said "that time is now", I guess.
If you read Isle Culture, I promise I know what's gonna happen in the next chapter, I just have to convince my brain to write it down.
I hope that you've enjoyed this chapter, and if you've read it, I hope this note didn't bore you endlessly. I seem to use authors notes as a pseudo-diary, so that's my bad.
As always, I hope everyone is staying healthy! Sanitize and wear a mask when you go out, and wash your hand very thoroughly! Take the vaccine if you somehow have access to it (I live in South Africa, and so will likely only be getting the vaccine next year at the earliest)! Remember to read something about systemic issues today. Look after your mental health, and your physical health! I love you all so very much!
Love,
Harley
P.S. I'm well aware that the people reading chapter 18 of this fic who then also bothered to read my whole author's note are not the people that need these reminders, but I like to write them anyway. Because sometimes you need a reminder to love yourself
