On Leave, Chapter 4: The Therapist

Three weeks later, I lay on the sofa and surfed channels on the flat-screen TV Mom bought Dad for Father’s Day. I watched the Green Bay Packers cream the New England Patriots. Dull. I turned the channel to a soap opera. The woman was crying like a fucking baby and the dude was acting like a chauvinist, hugging her with his muscular arms. Pathetic. I finally settled on the news. At least then I would know that other people were suffering, probably more than me.

“The U.S. president cancels his talks with the leader of Uganda, putting the country at stakes with war. If the two do not hold this dialogue, it will soon lead to chaos. Thousands of Ugandan men, women and children are feeling the effects of war. The screen changed to a baby with a swollen stomach and protruding ribs. Frightening as sin and now I felt like an entitled piece of trash with all the complaining I did earlier to Mom and Dad.

“Ooh, how’s this woman?” Mom pranced into the living room with her laptop.

“What do you mean?” I mumbled, my mouth full of soggy Froot Loops.

“She’s got a five star rating.” She shoved the laptop on my blanket-covered lap.

“Hey, I was watching TV.”

“Stop whining. Now come on, read this guy’s bio.”

I sighed.

“Dr. Abraham Maselmak is one of New York City’s finest therapists. He handles LGBTQ+ issues, mental health issues, and couples therapy. He has an MSW from Purdue University and has a lovely wife and two beautiful children.”

The picture showed a bald guy with olive skin and Coke-bottle glasses. His smile looked like something out of The Shining. So like a mother to send your kid to a serial killer-looking dude.

“If you’re not happy, I can look some more. But I need you to help me fix dinner in exchange for finding you the therapist.”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll choose him, now can you let me watch cartoons?”

“Well, you already said yes, so…” she grabbed the remote from me and switched off the television. I let our a half-groan.

“No, you cannot watch TV, come help me make dinner.”

I groaned and shuffled into the kitchen to help my mom make pork-belly greens and macaroni and cheese.

I grabbed the collard greens, the butter, the block of Kraft Cheddar Cheese, and the pork belly Dad got from Sal’s Butcher Shop on West Avenue.

I enjoy it when Mom and Dad do all the cooking. Kristina sometimes helps, too. But somehow I never enjoyed cooking. It seemed less fun than spending my time practicing my cello. But I had nowhere else to go, I was banned from school, so I had to enjoy my now permanent house arrest.

—

I walked past the Urban Outfitters, the Starbucks, the Wall Street building that glinted in the sun during summer, and made it to another large silver skyscraper. I walked into the building.

A short lady with glasses and bobbed brown hair sat at the receptionist desk.

“Hey,” I said, “do you know where Abe Maselmalak’s office is?”

“Oh, Abraham’s? Just take the elevator to the 5th floor and he is in room 5128. Do you have an appointment with him?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Natalie.”

“Your full name.”

“Natalie Rogers.”

She searched the computer, then typed some things in and set on the marble counter a clipboard with a bunch of forms on it.

“I need you to fill out your personal info, your contact info, and your medical history. You can take it upstairs and just give it to Dr. Maselmalak when he’s ready for you.”

“Ok.”

I walked to the elevator and pressed the up arrow button. It dinged and I waited for a good five minutes before the elevator door opened and a young man in a business suit walked out with his wife.

“So glad we did couples therapy,” the man sighed. “Our relationship is so much better now that we’ve talked to Abe.”

I did a little smirk as I got in. This wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

—

I filled out the contact info. Name: Natalie Rogers. Date of Birth: December 21, 1998. Mother: Aurora. Father: Daniel. Hair: Golden. Eyes: Black. Race: Black

Insurance Card. Oh no. I forgot. I dialed Mom. The phone rang a few times.

“You have reached the voicemail box of…”

Mom never left her voice on her voicemail. Says for privacy reasons.

I hung up. Who cares anyway?

I completed the rest of the form and sat there for the rest of the time.

I looked around the walls. They were beige and ugly. What was this place, a prison?

The door outside the waiting room opened. A tall beautiful woman came out.

“Natalie Rogers?” She looked around. I gave her a small wave.

“Mr. Maselmalak will see you now.”

I walked into the room. The lady sat back down at her computer, and a man of average height with glasses and olive skin came out of the adjacent office.

“Hi,” he greeted. “Are you Natalie?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Dr. Abraham Maselmalak, but you can call me Abe.”

I shook hands with him.

“Come in, come in.”

I walked into the room. It was dim. And soothing. This wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

“Relax on the recliner right there.”

I saw the crimson recliner. It looked like something out of the Guggenheim, but when I lay my body upon it, it was plush and I didn’t want to spend the next hour talking to some guy while on it. I wanted to just sleep.

“So, tell me about yourself.”

One of the worst questions you can ask someone. What was I going to tell him?

“Uhhhh…” I started, then trailed off.

“Are you in school?”

“Yeah.”

“What school do you go to?”

“Just a music school down on 17th and Broadway.”

“Oh, fun. What do you play?”

“The cello.”

“And I heard you were going to a party and you drank too much and passed out. With alcohol poisoning, if I’m correct.”

I paused. Why did we have to talk about this?

“Do you feel depressed in any way?”

“No, not really.”

“Do you work?”

“No.”

“I found that one of the best ways to get rid of depression is to get a job.”

I pulled my head up just a bit from the recliner.

“Are you sure about that? I know plenty of folks who cure depression without having a job.”

“Natalie, I remember I was sitting alone in my house playing video games when I was 15 and my parents, not taking any slack, told me, “Abe, if you want to grow up and become a man, you need to get a job.” And so I did, at Werner’s Ice Cream Parlor down on 15th Street and Plaza. Scooping those ice cream cones nearly gave me carpal tunnel, but it taught me the value of hard work and patience.”

“But what about my practice time?”

“You can make time to practice. There are plenty of ‘starving artists’ who are probably just as talented as a conservatory student such as yourself, who work at least two jobs to pay their rent and still find time to practice. Unless things change and every musician suddenly becomes famous, there’s no chance that someone could just practice music all day and not have a day job.”

I groaned.

“Just look around New York. There are plenty of stores and restaurants waiting to hire someone such as yourself. Don’t worry if you are overqualified. Just apply. That is my homework assignment for you.”

I continued to recline.

He took out a clipboard and balanced it on his lap.

“I would also like to prescribe your medication now.”

I sat up in horror. I knew this dirty trick. He wanted me to be like those smiling phonies on those Xanax and Prozac and who-knows-what-the-hell-else -zac. Those actors who pretend to be on the drug and list all those crappy side effects like shitting liquid, drowsiness, puking up your guts, and then when the camera dude goes “Cut!” they go home to their nice depression-free lives, curl up on the zebra-skin sofas in their multimillion-dollar lofts, and enjoy Seamless and a glass of Cabernet with their spouse. These people never lived through depression in their lifetimes. If they knew what having an episode felt like, they wouldn’t bother auditioning for such crappy commercials.

“Medication?!? Why the hell are you putting me on meds, Doc?”

“Natalie, medication is not necessarily a bad thing. There are many successful people out there who suffer from mental health issues who have to take medication to simply survive. Mental illness is a journey and, frankly speaking, not fun for anyone, but if you need medication, then you need medication, and no one can judge you for that. In this case, you need four things: one, a job. Two, these therapy sessions. Three, a psychiatrist who will prescribe you the right dosage and medication to help get your life on track. Four, you need to attend weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.”

“Again, why the meds? Why Alcoholics Anonymous? Do I look like I need any of this? Do I look like a crazy psycho?”

He sighed. He was three seconds from kicking me out of his office, from throwing me off of his beautiful luxury recliner and kicking me out until next week’s session. Or maybe he wouldn’t be seeing me next week, because he’s tired of me at this point. I ask too many questions, I whine too much, and he’s done. Poor guy.

“Natalie, let me reiterate one more time: you are not crazy. You are not messed up. You are not broken. You just hit a rough patch and need to get back on your feet, and taking time off to recuperate is the best time. Believe me, I know. I have a son in his senior year of high school, wasting his life away studying for those useless SAT and ACT college prep exams and taking six AP classes. I told him to take time off after college, and he’s already planning to work at McDonald’s until he feels like he has the emotional fortitude to finally hit the books. I know too many kids who go to public and private universities who burn themselves out studying, going to class and then going to extracurricular activities after, only to lose steam and burn out even before graduation. It is a vicious cycle and I want to make sure that doesn’t happen to you.”

I listened, my face a hollow void. It seemed like everything he was saying to me was gibberish. I sat in silence.

“So…can I go ahead and get you this psychiatrist?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you want,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

“Great! I’m going to refer you to Dr. John Maloney. He’s a really caring guy and he knows the ins and outs of prescribing medication so don’t you worry.”

I grabbed the slip of paper.

“I believe we are done here. It was nice meeting you.”