Filed to story: If He Had Been With Me Book PDF Free
“My mother.”
“Mmhhm, and why is that?”
“She says she’s worried about me.”
“Hmm,” Dr. Singh says. I look back at him. “Why do you wear the tiara?”
“Because I like it.”
“I see, and how long has this been going on?”
“I don’t know. A couple of years.”
“Are you frightened to be without it? Anxious or worried?”
“No.” We stare at each other for another few moments. He writes something down.
“How is your appetite, Autumn?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Really? What did you eat today?” It sounds like “et” when he says it.
“My mother made me oatmeal for breakfast—“
“And did you eat the oatmeal your mother made you?”
“Yes.”
He makes some notes on his papers. I watch him. His handwriting is too small and messy for me to read.
“Autumn,” he says. He stands. “Come over here and I will check your weight.” He leads me over to a small scale. The scale is covered with the name of a drug I’ve seen advertised on TV. I stand on the scale and he makes some notes.
“I don’t have an eating disorder,” I say.
“Mmhhm,” he says and makes more notes. We sit down again.
“Why is your mother worried about you?” he says.
“She thinks I’m depressed,” I say. “Like her.”
“Like her?” He gives me an intent look as if I’ve let something slip.
“She’s one of your patients,” I say.
“Ah,” he flips through some papers in the file. He reads something, looks at me, then reads again. Finally he closes the file.
“And so tell me about your depression, Autumn.”
“I don’t think I’m depressed.” He cocks his head to the side.
“Are you sad?” he says.
“Well, yeah.”
“What is making you sad?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You do not know?” he says. I shake my head and look at the floor. He writes something down and keeps talking. It is the longest he has looked away from me this whole time.
“How long have you been sad?”
“A few months,” I say. “It’s winter.”
“Are you sad every day?”
“Pretty much, but that’s not that weird, right? I mean, it’s not that big of a deal.”
“Do you have increased feelings of anger, Autumn?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you finding yourself irritated more often?”
“Well, yeah,” I say.
“Are you anxious or worried?”
“No.”
“How are you sleeping?”
“Okay, I guess,” I say. “I sleep a lot, but I’ve also been waking up early in the morning.”
“And you cannot get back to sleep?” he says.
“No,” I say.
He nods. Dr. Singh lays his pen down and looks at me. “Have you had any suicidal thoughts? Do you wish to die?
“No,” I say.
“Are you sure, Autumn?”
I nod slowly. The question frightens me.
He continues, “Depression affects the sleeping patterns. Some sleep more and some sleep less. Very often, the people who wake up very early in the mornings are the ones who have suicidal thoughts.”
“But I’m not depressed,” I say.
“You think you deserve to be sad,” he says. There is a moment of silence as we look at each other. “You think it is okay for you to be sad every day. But it is not okay. And you do not deserve it.”
I look down at the floor, even though I know he has already seen the tears stinging my eyes.
“It is not shameful,” he says. “It is okay.”
I nod. I hear his pen scratching against the paper as he writes again.