Small words

April 16, 2009

Nu Magazine - April 16, 2009

I’ll be right back. I’m just going to turn on the noise maker, so no one else can hear us. Make yourself comfortable,” she says as she briskly leaves the room.

I look across the small, white-walled room at the black leather couch that seems slightly worn out. My mind conjures images of the other kids who have probably been told to make themselves comfortable on that very same couch: the druggie, the anorexic, the bipolar, the suicidal. When did I become one of them?

I sit down awkwardly on the edge of a leather cushion and take a look around. There isn’t much. A stack of books, a framed pastel watercolor painting, an industrial lamp in the corner. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for me. I pick at my hair, a nasty habit I’ve picked up, and wonder if $120 in exchange for 45 minutes is going to change anything.

I hear the turn of the doorknob, and she walks back into the room. Her short blonde hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she’s wearing a paisley sweater and jeans that are a size too big. She is a tiny woman who settles into her oversized chair with a sigh and pulls out some pink papers.

“You can take off your coat,” she smiles, as she slips on her reading glasses and glances over the sheet in front of her. I pretend not to hear her; I wasn’t planning on staying long anyways. Forty-five minutes, that’s what my mom said, only 45 minutes.

After a long moment, she shuffles the papers to a corner of her desk and pulls out a white notebook and pen. She begins when she realizes that sitting at the very edge of the couch in my winter coat is as comfortable as I’m going to get. “Hi Annie. My name is Joanne.”

She starts with something basic, about my family. I throw her a few words about my overprotective mother and pester of a younger brother. I didn’t bother to mention the painful fight I had with my parents about coming here in the first place. And I try not to meet her radiant blue eyes.

“And how does that make you feel?” she asks. How clichéd. I thought they only used that line in movies and TV. I try my best to hold back a smirk, but she asks the question again with a rejuvenated optimism when she senses emotion behind my painted expression. I want to roll my eyes. It is only her naivety that brings amusement to this dull conversation.

I sigh softly when I realize she is actually waiting for an answer. She smiles at me encouragingly, her pen waiting in hand, and I shift in my seat. How am I supposed to answer that anyways? What do I feel? I feel like every other teenager. Not exactly a special case. Just a 16-year-old with some nasty habits and a nasty case of unhappiness. Apparently nowadays these “symptoms” qualify me for 45 minutes on this couch stuck having to answer stupid questions like, “and how does that make you feel?”

I am yanked out of my silent conversation when I hear her clear her throat kindly. I glance at the clock. Five minutes have passed and I still haven’t told her how I feel. “I feel fine.” I barely manage to croak.

The rest of the questions she asks are as basic as the first. This time, I try and answer her more quickly. We talk about my friends, school, and guys. I admit to being awkward around boys and she smiles. I grimace. Does she actually think she can relate to me, and the horrors of my high school? How old is she anyway, 50? I can’t help but wonder how many guys she picked up when she was younger. I answer the next few questions using as few words as possible and utilize the head nod for the yes or no questions.

“Is there anything else you’d like to share with me?” She asks as our time nears its end. I can hear it in her voice, she’s begging for me to give her more. Probably because she is just as confused as I am as to why I’m even sitting on this couch.

Lately, I’ve gotten pretty good at putting on the happy face when it’s convenient, especially around adults. But maybe she can see past my one-word answers and fake smiles. Maybe she knows about the nights I sit alone on my bed, letting the tears soak my pillow, until I have nothing within me, the whole time not knowing why I’m crying.

What if I gave her a chance? Told her about the times I walk down the crowded hallways of school and feel unreasonably alone. Or the feeling of incompleteness that harbors in my heart.

But these things are not shared in 45-minute appointments, in a small, white walled room, with a black leather couch, and a woman I just met.

“Nothing more?” she asks again, her kind eyes piercing into mine.

I look down at my fingers, start picking at the loose threads on my jeans so that she can’t see the desperateness in my eyes.

“Nope, that’s all,” I say as I get up to leave.

“You know,” she says, “I may be a small person, but I can lift heavy weights.”

Phoebe Rosenfeld, 16, attends Livingston High School and is a member of Nu’s teen board.