By Julie Gunsaulis
I take a deep breath.
In, two, three, four.
Out, two, three, four.
I push open the cracked door and say, “Hi.” I quickly remind myself to smile. People like you more when you smile, part of my brain volunteers. You can’t out-psychology your therapist, another part counters. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts but only succeed in shaking my short black hair from where it is clipped up at the nape of my neck. I tuck it behind my ear and shove the clip into my coffee-stained New Yorker tote that I bought at Goodwill the year before.
The woman sitting at the desk in front of me – Amelia – swivels her chair to face me. “Hi, you must be Julie,” she says, standing. “Come on in. Make yourself comfortable.” She gestures to the couch nestled in the corner of the small office before moving to seat herself in the armchair it faces. I walk over to the couch and sink stiffly into the soft fabric cushions, watching her as she pulls out a notebook and flips through the pages.
I notice how different she looks from the picture on her website. It’s not a concerning difference; definitely not catfish-level, but she looks a few years older, and her hair is much lighter – almost honey–colored and hanging down to her waist in loose curls. I’m also not convinced her tan is natural, but her smile is warm and welcoming. I think I like her already.
She clicks her pen and looks up at me to ask, “Okay, what brings you to therapy?” I rub my hands on my new tweed tailored pants (that I definitely hadn’t worn to impress her) and fix my gaze on the lamp on the table beside her. I scratch at my scalp, a bad habit I have thanks to my anxiety. I realize it’s taking me a long time to answer, but I’m not sure what to say. None of my answers seem to adequately sum up the culmination of nearly a decade of pushing away my emotions and downplaying my declining mental health. I think I have ADHD. I’m just really sad sometimes. I think I have forgotten how to let myself feel emotions. I need to pass this semester.
I think there is something very wrong with me.
Something is wrong with me.
That’s all I could think as I stabbed my spoon back into the jar of peanut butter. I had been surviving off of peanut butter and grapes for the past week but had finished off the grapes the day before, so now all I had left was the jar of Skippy. It was nearly empty, which meant I would have to make a trip to the store soon for some more, which meant I would have to leave my freshman dorm, which meant I would have to get dressed, which meant I would have to do laundry… I didn’t dare look at the mountain of clothes glaring up at me from the corner by the door. Just do your laundry and then you can go to the store and get food.
I stared down into the jar. There were probably only five or six spoonsful left. I found myself wondering how long I could ration six spoonsful. I could just have one a day, and that would last me nearly a week. It wasn’t like I was doing anything that would require a lot of energy. I had just been in bed watching Netflix for the past who-knows-how-long. That could work. No need to leave. No need to do laundry for another six days.
My phone buzzed from somewhere in the pile of books and clothes at the end of my bed, pulling me out of my thoughts. I reached down to dig through the discarded remains of failed attempts at homework and social excursions. I found it under my copy of the Mahabharata. Just seeing the title made me sick to my stomach, so I quickly tossed it onto the desk below my lofted bed and unlocked my phone to check my notifications.
3 unread messages
One was from an unknown number. Hey, Beautiful! It’s Eli from tinder. We need to hang out soon! Are you free this weekend?? I had to open Tinder and look through my matches to figure out which one Eli was: 23, architecture grad student, “extensive liquor collection.” Right.
I typed out, Heyyy!! Yes, I agree! I should be free Saturday!! I knew full well that I would be flaking out with the excuse of an exam or sudden friend emergency, but at the moment, I was bored and having a guy five years older than me saying he wanted to hang out made me feel good.
Two was from my friend, Eric. Jullllliiiieeeeee!!! The gang is getting dinner at Fulbright and then hanging in the Fu-trap basement tonight. You in??? I sighed and looked down at my laundry pile. Surely there was something in there clean enough for Fulbright dining hall. I hoped I had some dry shampoo left as well. I couldn’t remember the last time I had washed my hair, and it was hanging around my face in greasy, chestnut strands. YES!! Absolutely! What time? I responded.
Three was from my mom. Hey sweet girl! We tried to call last night but didn’t get an answer. You were probably out with friends. Just wanted to check in and see how your classes are going! Love you! My stomach turned over. I had most definitely not been with friends last night. I had been in bed watching my phone ring, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to pick up. My parents were going to ask about my classes, and I didn’t know how to tell them that I was failing every single one. They didn’t need to know. I could fix it. I had time.
“Okay, where did we leave off last time?” Amelia asks as she settles herself across from me again and sets a timer for 50 minutes. I look down at my nails as I try to recall but get distracted by the uneven edges. I need to get them done, but it can be hard to drop money on a manicure when I know it will just get ruined at my next shift at work. Focus, Julie. Answer the question.
I glance up to find Amelia looking at me patiently, delicate hands poised over her notebook, ready to make notes on whatever I have to say. “Um,” I say eloquently. “My family, I think?” My gaze trails off with my voice, falling to the desk on my left. It’s bookended by shelving units, housing knickknacks and farmhouse–style signs. One catches my eye. It sits on the bottom shelf on the unit closest to me. It’s the ten commandments painted on an old wooden board, but it is written in a southern dialect. No killin’, No stealin’…
“Yes, that’s right,” she says, drawing my gaze back to her. She pulls her white dress back down over her knees and leans back in the chair. “Tell me about your parents. What is your relationship with them like?” She scribbles something down. I wonder what her handwriting looks like.
I reach up to pull at the thin silver-plated chain around my neck – another nervous tick – thumbing at the pendant that hangs just between my collar bones. It is silver as well, but real silver – a small oval about the size of an almond with a star etched into the center. In the middle of the star is a piece of raw diamond. I had recovered it from the bottom of my mom’s drawer of broken and mismatched jewelry. She let me keep it. “I don’t wear it,” she had said. “But it is really silver and has a real diamond, so don’t lose it.” It took me a long time to feel brave enough to actually wear it. It sat alone in a hand–painted dish one of my friends had brought back for me after her trip to Israel. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I finally bought a chain for it and began to wear it regularly. Now I never take it off.
“It’s good,” I say, but even I am not convinced by my tone. “I’m pretty close with my mom. The older I’ve gotten, the more I realize how similar we are.” I don’t say that I think she is what I would be like if I wasn’t depressed, or if I didn’t have anxiety, or if I didn’t have ADHD. All I have to do is stop being all of those things, and I will basically be my mother. I really do hope to be like her one day. She is one of the kindest and most patient people I know, even with her rebellious Scottish streak.
“What about your dad?” Amelia asks.
“I love my dad,” I say too quickly. “And I know he loves me too…” She quirks an eyebrow up at me. I can see the question in her expression, But? I continue, “We’re not as close. I don’t think he understands me. Our brains are wired very differently.”
“How so?”
“Well,” I start, thinking of the framed diplomas hanging on the wall of my parents’ bedroom:
Michael S. Gunsaulis, B.S.
Michael S. Gunsaulis, M.S.
Michael S. Gunsaulis, Ph.D.
“He’s really smart. He has a doctorate in agricultural engineering. I struggle with college a lot. He doesn’t know why, and I always feel like I’m disappointing him.”
They’re going to be so disappointed. My fingers hover over the call button on my mom’s contact. I had just gotten back from my appointment at CAPS in Pat Walker. It was a psych evaluation. I had scheduled it after breaking down in my dorm the day before. I had finally been able to admit to myself, I’m not okay.
The psychiatrist I met with had said I had depression and academic anxiety. Yeah, that sounds about right. She gave me a prescription for citalopram – an antidepressant – and set me up with counseling sessions when I returned the next semester.
Next, I had to call my parents and come clean about my grades. I sat down on the steps outside my dorm and pressed call before I could lose my nerve. It rang once. Twice. Then my mom picked up.
“Hey, Sister! How are you?” she greeted.
“Hi,” I replied. “Is Dad there?”
“Yeah, he’s right next to me. We’re just in the bedroom watching the game. I’ll put you on speaker.” I heard a click.
My dad’s voice chimed in, “Hello, Big Girl! It’s good to hear from you!”
“Yeah, you too,” I laughed nervously. Then I sighed. It’s now or never. “Um, actually, there’s something I need to tell you.” The other side went quiet.
“Okay, what’s up?” my mom finally asked. My free hand came up to pull at the split ends of my long chestnut hair.
“Um, I am actually not doing well in my classes or in general really. I am really depressed and have been for a long time, and I haven’t been to any of my classes since midterms, and I’m definitely going to fail all of them,” I word-vomited. Silence. Then,
“Okay…” my dad started, sounding frustrated. “I guess I am just a little confused. You have been telling us everything was fine.”
“I know,” I said, rubbing at my hazel eyes, trying to stop tears from falling. “I thought I could fix it, but I ran out of time. I don’t know what happened.”
My mom spoke up finally, “We love you, Sweet Girl. We’re on your side.” I could no longer hold back the tears as relief flooded through my body.
“Thank you,” I croaked and hung up. It was going to be okay.
I still can’t believe I have been going to therapy for a full month, I thought as I once again stepped into the small office at the end of the carpeted hallway. I was excited about today’s session: coping mechanisms for depression. Just what I needed. The days had started getting shorter, and I could sense the familiar feeling of apathy worming its way under my skin. Now, four years after my first breakdown in my dorm room, it was easier to recognize the signs of my mental health slowly getting worse. Not this time, I think to myself. I will not let you ruin another semester.
Amelia is already waiting for me in her chair, notebook open, and timer set for 50 minutes. “Come on in!” she says. “You know the drill.” I laugh and take a seat on the couch, lounging against the pillows propped up on the arm. I pull out my own notebook that I had started using as a journal to keep track of my good and bad days.
She presses start on the timer before asking, “How was your week?” I smile.
“I had a really good week! I made margaritas with my roommates the other night while we danced around the kitchen to early 2000s hits, and on Saturday I drove to Tulsa to have lunch with one of my oldest friends,” I say. Then I confess, “I have started to feel depression creeping in a little bit, but I’m trying to keep it at bay by doing things that make me happy.”
Her grin is all teeth and pink lipstick. “That’s so good! You seem to be doing really well. It’s clear how determined you are to improve yourself.”
“Thank you. I’m really trying.”
“How are your classes going?” she asks. For the first time in a long time, I can feel pride bubbling up in my chest at that question.
“They are going really well!” I say, and this time I am able to mean it.