This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,76

of me trying to push someone into therapy who isn’t ready. Team Mayday is freaking the heck out. How can she not see it? Feelings of guilt and inadequacy. Check. Decreased appetite. Check. Altered sleep patterns. Check. Now loss of interest in movies and filmmaking. Short of printing out a copy of the DSM-5 guidelines from my mom’s old psychiatry textbooks, I can’t think of anything that would be more convincing. Or more futile.

Jocelyn and her family clearly have some sort of mental block against talking about psych issues, and I get it, I really do. My own family, open as it is, doesn’t bring my anxiety and Grace’s anorexia up in casual conversation.

We don’t pretend it doesn’t exist, either.

Team Mayday is running circles around my head, screaming at me that I have to say something, that stigma and denial are dangerous, that they can kill.

Team Chill retorts that arguing with someone who doesn’t recognize that they’ve got an issue is only going to cause resentment and further entrench them in their denial.

As my thoughts war, my body is the battleground. If someone were looking at me they might notice that I’m starting to look spacey. Maybe they’d see that my eyes are darker, because my pupils are dilated from the stress. People who know me would recognize my more common tics—the tugging at my sleeves, the way I rub my wrist as if I could slow my pulse manually, as if there’s anything I can do to calm my stupid, skittish, runaway horse of a heart.

Jocelyn looks pissed, as if my using the “d” word is a personal affront. Part of me is reflexively, defensively, mad in return. I mean, I opened up to her about my own anxiety. Does she really believe I’m the type of person to think less of her just because she might have depression?

For a few seconds, I let myself feel angry. Angry that it seems that Jos is upset with me for caring. What, does she think I’m confronting her because it’s fun? Does she think that I’m taking joy in this intervention, like I’m some sort of psychiatric superhero swooping in to help the poor, screwed-up damsel in distress by ferrying her to a therapist?

Then, because my brain is a freaking pinball machine, a memory burns away my anger in an instant: I remember how mad I was at my dad the first time he took me to a psychologist, how betrayed. I was only eight at the time, but even then I had a sense of the stigma, what with the white lie that my dad told my teacher to excuse my absence. The worst part was when my dad left me alone in the consultation room for the first time. Dr. Rifkin asked me, gently, “Did your parents tell you why you’re here?” And the only response I could think of was “Because there’s something wrong with me.”

JOCELYN

For a moment, Will’s eyes narrow in anger, and it’s such an unfamiliar expression that I can feel a thrill go down my spine, a flash of dangerous recognition. I’ve seen Will indignant, passionate, and even outraged, but I’ve never really seen him match the dark resentment that always seems to simmer inside me. I feel a weird mix of triumph and shame to have goaded him to that point. See, I think, he’s not perfect. And now he’ll realize that I don’t deserve him.

Part of me wants to cry, already anticipating the loss of our relationship. He won’t quit A-Plus; he’s too goddamn professional for that. He’ll keep doing his best to fulfill the contract. I’m sure he’ll whip Alan into shape if only to prove that he can. But at the end of the summer, he’ll look at our spreadsheet, feel satisfaction at a job well done, and say good-bye.

And for what? Because I’m too proud to admit that I might have depression? My mind does that familiar acrobatic loop-de-loop where all of a sudden my anger implodes onto myself. It’s all my fault for jumping to the attack so quickly. Will was just trying to care, and now I’ve driven him away, cut him with my sharp edges the way I’ve alienated everyone from Peggy Cheng to that girl Megan who shared her Babybel cheeses with me in sixth grade, only to have me complain about how they tasted gross and gave me gas.

Suddenly, I feel empty, as if all my emotions have canceled one another out. I’m a zero