This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,117

and the big pot for frying? I will get the nutmeg and sugar. Oh, and I picked up your prescription for you.”

I blink in alarm. “What prescription?”

“The Zoloft that Dr. Rifkin ordered for you,” she says casually, as if she were commenting on how she got me a new tube of toothpaste because she noticed I was running low. “I saw it on the kitchen counter when I was cleaning up the other day.”

“Um, thank you. I, uh, hadn’t decided on whether to take it or not.”

“Is that so? May I ask why you would not?”

I almost laugh. Why would I not? Because it still feels like a shortcut, like I’m being lazy. Because my nne nne would have a stroke if word got out that I was “mad” and was taking one of those American devil drugs. Because I thought my mother would think less of me if I did.

“Well, there are a lot of side effects.” I say finally.

She flicks her hand dismissively. “William, if there is one thing I know as a doctor, it’s that every medication has potential side effects. That does not mean that the risks outweigh the benefits.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a fan,” I mumble. “You never even take Motrin when your neck hurts.”

My mother sighs in response and smooths a finger over the bottle of vegetable oil that she’s taken down from our cabinet. “Yes, well, I’m not the best role model. Doctors are always the worst patients, right?

“But this is about you. Of course I was reluctant to jump straight to medications when you first started having problems, William. You are right, there can be side effects, including a possible initial increase in suicidality that is well documented if poorly understood and controversial. I always like to start with conservative treatment, even in my practice. However, we’ve given nonmedical intervention the old college try, have we not?”

She turns to me and reaches out for my hand. Her palm is silky smooth; she’s always been obsessive about the use of moisturizer because she has to clean her hands so often every day. “I am so immensely proud of you, of all the work you have done to keep yourself mentally healthy over the years. But a person—anyone—can only do so much with the biochemistry they were born with. I do not begrudge my diabetic patients medications when they fail to control their sugars by diet alone. If you feel like you are ready to turn to pharmaceutical management for your anxiety, it is your choice.”

I duck down to get our big stainless steel pot from the cabinet, so my mother can’t see the wetness in my eyes. Five seconds in, five seconds out. I’m proud that when I speak, my voice barely wobbles. “But how do I know if I’m ready?”

My mother smiles. “You’ll know, William. You’re the only person who will.”

This Is My Brain on Truth

JOCELYN

My dad drives me to my first appointment at the college’s mental health center. Last night, my mom finally told him about her own depression, and he’s been unusually subdued all day. Or maybe subdued is the wrong word—he’s just talking less, and watching and listening more.

He looks at me intently when he drops me off at the clinic, and he swallows.

“Qinai de xiaohai,” he says.

I turn around and gape at him, my fingers curled around the handle of the door. The phrase is often translated as “dearest child,” but “qinai” has a much more tender feel to it—more like “beloved.”

He’s never called me that before.

“Shenme, Baba?” I ask, feeling wrong-footed. Raw.

“Ni yao…” He shakes his head and switches to English, as if to make sure that I understand him. “You must always feel free to talk to me.” He says it like a command, but I know it’s not. It’s an opening.

“Sure, Dad.” I swallow. “I will.”

My father drives away, and I square up my shoulders and shuffle into the clinic.

Will warned me that the initial intake visit can be, in his words, “unsatisfying.” So I’m not expecting much. The shrink they match me with, Dr. Julie Cotton, is a thirtysomething white woman who is a personification of every psychiatrist stereotype I’ve ever seen on TV—soft-spoken, open-ended-question asking, nonjudgmental. I guess they teach that in school.

Our appointment starts out with me just talking, which I suppose is the point, but I don’t think I ever realized how much deflection I do during normal conversations. Even with the easiest questions about my family, it’s tempting