t w e n t y - e i g h t
“A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all
things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light.”
—Leonardo da Vinci
An assistant takes us into the therapist’s office. There are big abstract paintings on the walls, and the floor lamp is dimmed to make the room seem cozy. Dr. Lisa M. Larson’s name is on the door. Seems harmless enough.
Mom and I each take a chair.
“Dr. Larson will be with you in a moment,” the assistant says.
She closes the door behind us.
“Thanks for coming, Liv,” Mom says. “I feel like none of us have been doing enough for ourselves lately. I think this will be good for both of us.”
A woman enters the room wearing white pants and a black top. A gold necklace hangs loose below her collar. She has auburn hair and seems barely older than Jasmine.
Royce probably needs this counseling more than I do.
“Good to see you, Debra,” the therapist says.
“Hi, Lisa.” Mom nods at me. “My daughter, Olivia.”
“Nice to meet you,” Dr. Larson says. “Your mom has told me about you and your brothers and this campaign. It must be a lot of pressure.”
“Yep,” I say. “Mostly the media attention.”
“Tell me about some of it,” Dr. Larson says. “Does it stress you out too?”
“You could say that.” I don’t want to get personal with this therapist, so I keep things simple. “I’m sure my mom will tell you about it if she hasn’t already.”
“She’s told me a lot, but mostly we talk about her role in the campaign. When she mentioned her concern about how the campaign is affecting you, I suggested that she ask if you would like to come in as well.”
“I’m here to support Mom,” I say. “She has way more responsibilities than me. I don’t think I really need to be here...”
This is starting to make me uncomfortable. Why did I agree to come?
“This is for you too,” Mom says, patting my knee.
“I’m going to ask you to let her speak, Debra.”
Dr. Larson smiles. It’s smug. Friendly. Cold. Warm. I can’t tell. She’s got more masks on than a Bourbon Street parade. Mom pretends to zip her lips shut.
“How’s your personal life?” Dr. Larson asks.
“It’s fine. You know, high school stuff.”
She demurely crosses one leg over the other. “Such as?”
She’s not going to give up with these short answers. I have to give her a little information to get her off my back. At least then I can control the conversation.
“Classes. Studying for midterms. Getting ready for college. Friends,” I say, knowing that I barely have enough friends to mention. “I’m dating someone.”
“How do you feel about that?” Dr. Larson asks.
“I like him. He likes me. But he’s on a TV show and I have the campaign, so sometimes that makes things hard. Nothing major though,” I say.
I don’t want to talk about my love life with a stranger. Especially in front of Mom. There are some things a girl should be able to keep to herself.
“My own relationships usually affect everything I do,” Dr. Larson says. “I sometimes have to remind myself that how I relate to others in my personal life affects how I relate to those in my professional world.”
Why does she want to know so much about my feelings? I thought this was supposed to be about Mom. Or Mom and Dad. Why isn’t he here?
“This is all new for me, so I haven’t really thought about it much.”
“It’s sometimes hard to do that when relationships just begin,” Dr. Larson says. “They’re affected by our pasts, by our family life, by any stresses we previously had. Everything gets placed within that new relationship too. Do you feel any of those pressures already affecting recent changes to your life?”
I’m not really sure how to answer the question. I have no idea what she’s getting at—does she really want me to talk about my relationship with Zach? Is that what Mom wanted me to come here for?
Dr. Larson doesn’t wait for my answer anyway.
“Have you noticed any changes in your habits?” she asks, staring me down. “You may have found your appetite has decreased? Perhaps you don’t enjoy certain foods like you once did before?”
Suddenly, I’m aware.
This is an ambush.
This isn’t about supporting Mom. This isn’t even about the campaign’s ridiculousness or Rich’s awful controlling of me. This is about me, digging into my past, my secrets, my relationships, all the things I keep to myself that my parents desperately want to know about. It’s about what I eat, what I don’t eat, how much I eat or not. Mom’s using Dr. Larson to do her dirty work. She suspects something, but doesn’t want to ask me herself.
I stare down Dr. Larson. She’s not going to get in.
Not in a million years.
I take her down another road. I can talk political crap all day to this woman.
“This campaign is so-o-o stressful,” I say. “I really feel like I’m under attack.” I look at Mom. “Is it okay if I say that? We can be honest here, right?”
“Of course,” Mom says. “Everything we discuss here is private.”
“It’s just a lot to put on someone in high school. I mean, Rich has drawn up a plan for the image my boyfriend and I need to cultivate as a couple. He wants me to lie about my major? I can’t go lying for the family for the sake of some twisted reality.”
“Perhaps your father could tell Rich to ease up,” Dr. Larson says. “As a young adult, Liv needs to be able to make decisions for herself.” She turns her attention to Mom. “And you have to be able to trust her, Debra.”
Mom stares at her lap, not saying anything.
“Do you not trust me?” I ask.
“Should I?” Mom says. “You’re a teenager. God knows I wasn’t a perfect angel when I was your age—and I’ve tried to give you freedom—but I’m concerned about you. When you’re home, you shut yourself in your room. You’re angry and tired all the time. And, frankly, I’m worried about your drinking. I found an empty vodka bottle in your room.”
“But I...”
Mom holds up her hand. “I’m not here to argue with you. I want to have an open conversation with you, Liv.”
I focus on the abstract painting above the desk. It’s a black ink blob on a pink-and-yellow background. This conversation isn’t going anywhere good, but I’d rather talk to Mom about drinking than my eating habits. I would be on lockdown if she knew how bad my bingeing and purging have gotten this year.
“Fine,” I say. “So I drink sometimes. Big deal.”
“What do you think about that, Debra?” Dr. Larson asks.
Turning toward me on the couch, Mom looks seriously concerned. “It’s normal for teenagers to experiment. I know that... Your father and I both went to some parties when we were young. But times are changing. There’s a lot more out there than beer. And the drinking leads to other things too. I guess with Mason’s history...”
“I’m definitely not Mason.”
Mom nods. “You’re your own person. Of course. I still worry about you. Mason was the kind of kid who wore everything on his sleeve. We knew he was having trouble. He acted out. You don’t talk to us. You just shut yourself up in your room.”
“It’s not my fault that—”
Dr. Larson puts up her hand. “No one’s blaming you. We have to try to avoid becoming defensive in order to communicate with each other. Your mother is simply voicing her feelings and observations.”
I’m sick of this conversation. No one cared about my feelings before. Why do I have to talk about them now? Why do I need a complete stranger telling me how I should speak?
“Fine,” I say. “I’m trying to juggle a lot and I get tired. Sometimes I just want to be alone when I’m at home. It helps me recharge.”
It’s true. After being at school all day, I’m tired and I want to be by myself.
It’s easier to be alone.
“That’s a valid point,” Dr. Larson says. “It’s more important for some of us to have alone time than others. But it can also be a sign of depression or a variety of mental health problems.”
I know I get depressed, but I don’t need to have that shoved in my face like I’m something that needs to be fixed.
“I’m not crazy,” I say. “Plenty of artists spend lots of time alone. And I shouldn’t be punished for apparently being the only introvert in this family.”
“This isn’t punishment,” Mom says, raising her voice. “Something obviously is going on with you. I’m trying to give you a safe opportunity to tell us about it.”
“I came here to support you. Remember?”
“Let’s try to keep this conversation productive,” Dr. Larson says. “It’s possible to share our emotions without becoming emotional.”
She seems like a nice person, but I wish she would shut up. I don’t need therapy. I don’t need her telling me how to express my emotions. I don’t need any of this.
“If you have a problem with me drinking sometimes, I’ll stop,” I say, looking at Mom. “But you could have saved your therapy time by talking to me by yourself.”
“I would appreciate that,” Mom says. “I don’t want to be controlling, but I’d rather you be careful.”
“All right, Mom. I get it. I’ll take care of myself. Can we start talking about what we were supposed to be here for? I’m done talking about me.”
“I think Olivia’s suggestion is a good one,” Dr. Larson says, completely unfazed by my shutting her out. “We can follow up on her self-care at another time.”
She probably doesn’t think I know what she’s doing. Mentioning self-care? I know she’s dropping hints. I know that next time she’s going to go there.
“You told me you were worried that you’re overextending yourself,” Dr. Larson says to Mom. “Are there any tasks you can delegate to another person on the campaign?”
We leave the session thirty minutes later with Mom telling me she’s made more progress than ever. “I’m glad you finally decided to open up, sweetheart. I know you’re a private person, but you can’t keep things in forever. It’s unhealthy.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” I say, getting into her car.
I’m furious as she tells me how she hadn’t realized that she was manifesting some of Dad’s fears as her own. I start tuning her out as she says, “I need to do more for myself. I need to remember that the campaign isn’t the only thing in my life.”
“Great, Mom,” I say.
Yeah, I think. Quit trying to ambush me with your therapist.
“Will you go with me again?” Mom asks as she drives out of the parking lot.
“What?” I can’t believe she would even ask.
How out of touch is she with how uncomfortable I am?
“To the therapist,” she says. “Will you keep coming with me? I’d really like you to. It would be good for both of us.”
“Maybe,” I say, barely listening. “I’m not really sure...”
My headache is back. My stomach is acting weird. I’m dizzy with vertigo. I feel weak and cold and like all of my emotions are starting to shut down.
I don’t want anything to do with a therapist again.
Never, I tell myself.
Never.