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I remember that day. I was sitting in class taking notes, and then a sleepy feeling came over me. I had stayed up the night before practicing for my big gig that I didn’t have time to sleep. I remember taking notes, writing things down about Les Preludes, trying to pay attention as Professor Jones played the ancient recording. And then I remember opening my eyes and having a piece of paper sit at my feet.

“That’s the class notes,” he told me. “Pick it up.”

I did. And every day after that I walked sleep-deprived into the 8 am class, wondering why I was so tired.

I remember every morning at breakfast I would have this tea. It had a moon and some stars on the packaging, but I didn’t mind because I wanted to calm my nerves. Somehow being around other people makes me nervous. So I drank the tea.

“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” Sharon said one day.

“Why?”

“Read the packaging.”

I saw the package said Sleepy-Time tea. Damn you, Bigelow.

After that I started drinking just plain water and it really helped. I stopped sleeping and started paying attention more.

I came home and rested. I had nothing else to do without having schoolwork to finish so I sat bored out of my mind on my bed. I browsed YouTube and looked up “ASMR videos.” I knew some kids in college who liked watching those videos because it not only helped them with their depression and anxiety, but also just because they got tired of watching cat videos in their procrastination time and wanted to watch something different. There was something satisfying about these videos, maybe just seeing people do the easiest thing in the world that could be monetized: eating leftovers or takeout, whispering into these jumbo microphones, giving Turkish massages. I hadn’t watched them before; in fact, I sort of poo-pooed them because it just seemed weird to watch people doing an everyday thing that shouldn’t really deserve any likes. But I was bored, so I thought, “What the hell?”

I typed “asmr eating.” There were thousands of videos that popped up in the search showing people eating Taco Bell, eating raw honeycomb (I don’t know if that can even be called a legit food), or whispering French into the microphone. Some people even read racist, sexist and homophobic comments from haters of their channel. Somehow that didn’t seem too relaxing to me, so I went with the whispering Spanish video by ASMR Afficionado, a girl with cornrows and excessive makeup.

“Holaaaaaaaa…” she whispered into the microphone. “Me llamo Tricia, y hablo espanollllll…”

All of a sudden I felt this weird tingling sensation down from the top of my head to the bottom of my spinal cord. Was I experiencing ASMR, too, even though I never knew all these years that like those kids in college who liked ASMR, I had the same response?

She continued to speak into the microphone, reading from a novel in Spanish that she must have gotten from the library. Then all I heard was jumbled noise, and I was asleep before I knew it.

I trudged down 5th Avenue and heard a small gurgle in my stomach. I whipped out my phone and looked at the time. Damn. It was already 12 o’clock. The therapy session seemed longer than I thought. I saw in the distance a coffee shop, so I thought about going because I wanted to grab a bagel or something and just eat it on the way home. I walked further down the street, and stopped in front of it. Lost Dreamers Coffee. Not a very optimistic title for a shop that promotes drinking a stimulant that has you bouncing off the walls.

The bell tinkled as I walked in. There was not a long line. People lounged about in bean bag chairs, they sat at tables drinking their coffees and nibbling their blueberry muffins. It was quite relaxing. The Starbucks down the street on the other hand. That’s a whole nother story.

The walls of the café were a beautiful mural, one with blue oceans, goddesses with blond wavy hair holding large earthenware bowls of fruits, vegetables, and grains. Cows, llamas and various others animals milled around her on the mural.

“Welcome to Lost Dreamers Coffee!” a girl behind the counter called out.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

I went up to the counter.

“What can I get you today?” She was an attractive young woman with pink hair and a silver nose ring.

I stopped. “Uhhhhh….”

I felt like Patrick Star in the Krusty Krab training video where he’s at the counter and Squidward asks him “May I take your order?” in a frustrated way, and Patrick goes “I’ll have uhh-uh–uhhhh” and ends up drooling and zoning out.

“Take your time,” she smiled with the patience of a Zen master.

I looked at the menu. Turkey bacon wrap. No, that’s meat. I’m trying to be a vegetarian with Derek, so I can’t break my friendship pact like that. Blueberry muffin. Eh, alright, but I need some kind of protein to go with it.

And then I spot it. On the menu are the words “grilled cheese: a blend of Havarti, Swiss, Cheddar and Provolone on our handmade sourdough loaf. You don’t want to miss this.”

Well, I did love cheese even though I am technically lactose-intolerant.

“Ok, I’ll have that. And maybe…drink-wise, I might need more time.”

“Want some recommendations?”

“Uhhhh…okay, sure,” I shrugged.

“We’ve got a mint mocha latte with a garnish of fresh crushed Oreos, gummy worms and coffee.”

Was this Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory? What kind of drink is that anyway?

“We’ve also got a vegan Reuben sandwich which is pretty good–“

“Scratch the grilled cheese, I’ll take the Reuben,” I cut her off. I just wanted to sit down and eat and drink something with a peace of quiet mind.

“Okay, cool beans!”

Who says “cool beans?”

“And what drink would you like?”

I looked up at the menu again. This hippy-dippy menu was starting to get confusing, with its chalk drawings of unicorns and rainbows and peace signs. Yuck.

“I guess I’ll just have the one you recommended. The super sweet mint one.”

“Oh, the mint mocha latte! That’s one of my favorites. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.” She gushed in her fake-it-’til-you-make-it barista voice. I bet when she got home she sounded like a grizzly bear on crack cocaine, ready to never talk to another customer again. I couldn’t fault her though. She was doing her best to cheer up me, the Grumpy Little Brat.

“Coming right up! And can I get your name?” She wrote on the rainbow disposable 16 ounce cup.

“Tabitha,” I lied. This was New York City. Anyone who walked in this shop could be an FBI agent. Not that I did anything illegal, I just didn’t want people knowing my real name.

“Okay, Tabitha, we will have your vegan Reuben sandwich and your mint mocha latte out in about fifteen minutes. I’m Sam, and if you have any questions just come and see me!”

“Thanks,” I grumbled, and walked over to find an empty table. I found one by the corner and sat down. I looked around at all the people in the coffee shop. There were bespectacled millennial college students sipping their reusable coffee mugs and typing at their laptops. I bet they were trying to make up for sleeping past that midnight deadline. I absorbed the sounds of Charles Mingus’ “Moanin'” in the café. The soothing sounds of the trumpet and drums calmed me down. I took the novel about Dmitri Shostakovich I was reading out of my bag. I am a nerd about composers, so I often read both non-fiction and fiction books about them. Shostakovich attracted me because of his youthful appearance and also his willingness to speak truth to power through his music. He had an acronym he used throughout his pieces called DSCH which was his name. He couldn’t use an explicit political expression in his pieces because the Soviet Union was under Stalin’s rule, and if he did he would have gotten killed or put in prison. I wrote a final paper on Shostakovich in my Western classical music course and got my first and only A minus in the courage. Guess I shouldn’t have dozed off so much in class.

“Okay, Tabitha, I’ve got your vegan Reuben sandwich and your mint mocha latte,” A guy with piercings announced.

I walked over to the side counter.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Have a good one!” he smiled through his piercings.

“You too,” I said in a soft voice. I was always anxious in public places, and Charles Mingus wasn’t making me any less nervous of them.

I sat down and took a bite of the Reuben. Mmmm, it actually wasn’t that bad. And I also sipped the mint mocha. Ah, it was hot! I felt my tongue get that furry feeling, that feeling where it even hurts to have your tongue in your mouth.

I finished my food while reading my novel, and then when it was done, I remember what I came in here for: to ask for a job. Duh.

I saw the cheery pink-haired girl steaming milk behind the counter.

“Hey,” I said.

She didn’t hear me over the noise.

“Hey, you!” I said louder.

She looked up and looked flustered.

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry, I was so caught up in what I was doing I didn’t even see you there. What can I help you with, ma’am?”

“I was wondering how I can apply for a job here.”

She looked surprised.

“Oh, yes, we had our Now Hiring sign in the window. Just come back with your resume and we can set up an interview for you.”

“Okay, do I need to wear anything professional?” I asked.

“No, just some jeans and a T-shirt would be fine.”

“Cool. Thanks,” I said.

“No problem. Have a great day!”

I left the coffee shop.

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.”

Chapter one:

The cold December air nipped at my face as I made my way with my friends down to Sharon’s car. The concert had finished, we had wowed the audience and everyone was celebrating the beautiful cello concerto.

“Damn, Natalie, you killed it with that solo, girl!” America whooped as we all piled in the car to go to Damien’s place.

“Thanks,” I laughed with a sheepish grin.

I cannot remember detail to detail what happened, but all I knew was that my body was in the moment during that concert and I lost all train of thought when it came to my anxieties. When it came to playing music, I could tell my stories, share my deepest fears, give away my biggest secrets to the audience without saying a word. I remember the beads of sweat dripping down my forehead and down my back as my fingers flew through the third movement of that concerto. My man, Robert Schumann, may he rest in peace, is probably cheering in his grave for me right now.

“Oh, gosh, I screwed up so many notes though!” America laughed as he warmed his mitten-less fingers by rubbing them together.

“Oh, no, you were fine,” I chimed in. “I was the one who effed up.”

“Quit being so modest,” Derek said, punching me in jest on the arm.

“Ow, you little ass,” I joked.

“Hey, you guys can screw around when we get to Damien’s place,” Sharon called out from the driver’s seat.

“Yes, Boss Lady,” America said, rolling his eyes.

I turned my head to admire the New York City skyline. The Brooklyn Bridge iced over. The naked trees with nothing but fresh snow to clothe their freezing balls. The couples who walked hand in hand with their kiddos as they sipped their hot chocolates from Starbucks.

“It’s so pretty outside,” I mused.

“Funny you should say that, because earlier you were bitching about this crappy-ass weather.”

“Oh, shut up, Derek,” I said, rolling my eyes but flashing him a sheepish grin. He was pretty cute. But he is taken already, so my chances of ending up with him are zero to none.

We pulled up to Damien’s place. Just a regular old two-story house in suburban New Jersey.

Sharon turned the keys out of the ignition.

“Let’s get hammered tonight, guys. We need it more than ever after that shit show of a concert.”

“It wasn’t a shit-show. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” America mentioned.

“Thanks, Mr. Idioms, but it was just that. A terrible performance. The only good thing keeping it together was Nat.”

I blushed. Why was everyone treating me like the star athlete here? We are all good musicians who got into this elite conservatory for a reason, so why should they put themselves down for the sake of lifting me up?

Ding-dong! Sharon rang the doorbell.

A tall, muscular beefcake with stringy, blonde hair and chiseled cheekbones opened the door.

“Hey guys, come on in,” Damien greeted us.

“Hey baby,” Sharon perched onto her black patent-leather flats to kiss her boo. Aw, so romantic. A guy who looks like he should be lifeguarding instead of working in insurance to go towards his college tuition, kissing a 5 foot 1 inch tall soon-to-be-professional oboist. An eclectic combo, but that’s what makes them so perfect.

We left the nippy cold and soon basked in the warmth of Damien’s pad. Ludacris blared from the stereos. Dang, I should have brought my earplugs, I thought. I have sensitive ears, so it pisses me off that while I can hear intonation and have perfect pitch, my ears cannot take loud concerts. So I guess I won’t ever get to meet P!nk of Beyoncé, my childhood idols. It’s okay though because at least I have Jacqueline du Pre. Like Schumann, may she rest in peace.

We made our way to the kitchen and saw about twenty or so people lounging on sofas and around the table. It was all overwhelming to take it, but we all had a rough night so what the hell. After all, you only live once and life is short.

Damien tosses me a can of peach Smirnoff. I gave him a startled look.

“Oh, I’m good, thanks,” I stumbled my words. I know it was my 21st birthday, but I also didn’t want my parents to find out I had been drinking. They do not like alcohol since alcoholism runs in our family.

“C’mon, Nat,” Sharon laughed. “live a little. It’s your 21st and you slayed that concerto tonight.”

“She doesn’t have to drink if she doesn’t want to,” Damien gave Sharon this serious look.

“Oh, no, it’s fine. Sharon’s right. I can live a little,” I said, cracking an embarrassed half-smile.

“If she says it’s fiiiiiinnne,” Sharon slurred, pushing her face up to Damien’s. She planted a kiss on his nose, “then it’s fiiiiine.”

He looked a little worried, but said, “Okay,” and with that America, Damien, Sharon, Derek and I all clinked our cans of Smirnoff and downed them.

After a few minutes, I felt the adrenaline course through my veins. I was starting to come out of my awkward little turtle shell and become the life of the party. This was my birthday and I wasn’t going to let a little gaucheness stand in my way.

“Give me another drink. Let’s try moscato.”

I screwed open the tall bottle of Yellow Tail and poured the moscato with little coordination into a red Solo cup. I feel the warm fruity liquid rush down my throat as I drink.

“Girl, you sure you’re gonna be okay drinking all that?” Derek asked.

“Bro, I’m fine,” I assure him, continuing to swig my Solo cup. I am not fine. I lied. I hate school, I wish the admissions office never gave me that full-ride scholarship. I feel like a fucking impostor, and I want out. This party is the only way I will feel okay being a human being right now.

The room looks a little blurry, but I don’t mind. I finally knock back the moscato.

Within ten minutes the room is starting to look like a Claude Monet painting. A water lilies work with blurry voices in the background to complement the art.

I don’t feel anything. I feel like I am on a plane. A plane flying on Cloud Nine. There is shouting and shrieking. And I feel a deep sharp pain, and my mouth is opening and within a few minutes I am facedown in some acidic green-yellow-brown looking shit. I hear a loud high-pitched wail. It doesn’t stop.

Chapter Two

I struggled to open my eyes. Wait, what happened to the music? Where’s Ludacris when you need him most?

My eyelids feel heavier than usual. What the hell is happening?

I try to open my eyes but something is keeping them from doing so. I see blue. I see blobs wearing blue things, these blue things on their heads. And on their mouths, they wear blue, too. They hold these silver things. Are those forks? Spoons? Knives?

And then I realize, in an instant. It doesn’t take me a second to figure out. I drank over my limit and now these random strangers are pumping my stomach. To keep me from dying.