One
My name is Maya Douker, and I have some news for people; the delusional theory of a Happily Ever After is bullshit. Twenty two years of research has led to the conclusion that all we have to live with is bitter emotions and resentful pasts. At least, that’s what I think; my therapist on the other hand likes to believe that “life is pure magic”. Yeah, right. The only thing that’s special about me are my secrets. I’ve have had both obsessive compulsive disorder and depression since the third grade. However, I’m not complaining. People in this world have it much worse than me, and I know that, believe me. I'm just so tired of this monotonous routine that we call life. Sometimes it feels as if the simple pleasures aren’t enough to surpass the formidable obstacles in our way; but hey, that could just be the depression talking.
Monday mornings have a whole new terrible meaning for me- therapy. And with the stuffy waiting rooms and the s***ty coffee comes the magnificently awful Pam Honaker. She specializes in ideas of delusional happiness that are almost as bright as her sweater set combinations. Not a button on her cashmere cardigan goes untouched and not a corner of my mind is left uncovered.
I bumpily arrive at the pathetic brick building in my 1999 station wagon, greatly aware that it is 9:47 when my appointment was at 9:45. Mrs. Honaker will most likely pass out at my less than timely manner but this chick runs on a little thing called i-don’t-give-a-s***-about-therapy time. I numbly great Mrs. Schlitz, the mind-blowingly social receptionist and head back to the dungeon…oh, I mean the therapy room. Walking down this hallway is similar to Death Row, with hollowed out people sporting flushed cheeks and tear stained faces. The timid hum of therapists creates a rhythmic frenzy that drives you slowly insane so you cave in and spill out your heart so you can leave. But don’t worry about me, the first time is lightyears ahead in the suck-ass department.
My inaugural glimpse of the beast that is The Great Rapids Psychiatric Group is a dark and fragmented memory seemingly lost to my now numb mind. My mother’s promises of trusting hands and soft secrets turned before my eyes into a dark one man prison cell.  As soon as she opened her mouth to explain our visit I began mourning my life. In this office, your life is not yours, its just business.
The beige wallpaper is probably the most exciting thing in this place other than the crazies, the lazies, and the down-right nonfunctioning. Every time you leave you swear you’ll never come back but the hell here is better than the hell in my mind. It’s the only outlet to let out all these negative emotions other than drugs, alcohol, or cutting (most people have tried at least one). I refuse to resort to either drugs or alcohol because I know they’ll help and I’ll immediately retreat from any and all responsibilities, move to Vegas, and gamble and drink away my qualms. I’ve only tried cutting once, on my forearm, when I was 16. I knew it was wrong but I just needed to let the bad feelings out; the worst part was that it helped, they just don’t want you knowing that. There have been plenty of times that I have wanted to just grab something sharp and feel better but I want to get better, and getting better means coming here.
My hand disobeys me and places a soft knock on “The Door”. I can almost smell the cheery energy through the thin wall.
“Oh, Maya. Didn’t your mother ever tell you how rude it is to be late?” Mrs. Honaker’s enthusiastic, creepily white smile does nothing to ease my dislike of her- in fact I think it increases it. Her dull hair and waspy eyes catalog my every move, trying to find something, anything, to criticize... oh wait she calls it fix.  Maybe if she would stop interrupting to give her vital advice and insisting she knows me better than myself, I might actually like her; on second thought, no, the neon pink outfit is just too much for my dulled senses to take in. She looks like a freakin’ Telatubby for crying out loud. She bustles over to her chair that has worn down to accept the roundness of her hips. I begrudgingly head over to “my safe space” and settle in between a pillow of her dog Millie, and a floral blanket Pam knitted herself.
“Now sweetie,” her shriveled hand comes to lay on top of my dark jeans, “how have you been?”
I stick to my automatic reply in hopes it will shut her up, “Fine.” What does she think I’m going to do anyway, come in here a blubbering mess and spill my life out to her? My number one rule with therapists is to never trust a therapist. Counter productive perhaps but it’s all I’ve got. They are just there for judgment and to ease the minds of disconnected parents who have no idea how to communicate with the children they’re responsible for.
“Alrighty then, I’ll just have to pull it out of you.” She swiftly shakes her short hair at me, “I really wish you wouldn’t make this so difficult Maya. You know I only want to help you.” The cliche phrase is spoken for the umpteenth time and my eyeroll count grows by one.
I look down at my chipped purple nail polish and try to put into words the emotions and feelings controlling me. My mother always tells me, “She can’t help you unless she knows what’s going on.” Well, the truth is I don’t even know what’s going on half the time; sometimes I just feel like I’m living in black and white with Mrs. Honaker’s bright outfits the only color. How am I supposed to tell her what I am feeling when I don’t even know?
Luckily, my hero in fuchsia likes to do most of the talking. “How is the door fetish? Do you still have to knock five times?”
My bewildered expression causes her to look back through her papers. “Oh my, I’m sorry I grabbed the wrong folder.” I barely suppress a groan. I come here weekly and try to let her into my life and she can’t even remember what’s wrong with me? That’s reassuring. Her manicured nails shift through a stack till she finds what she’s looking for and shifts her cheery gaze back to me. “Now Maya, are the pills you’re taking helpful in anyway.”
Oh, boy here we go, my ‘artificial happiness’ capsules. I try to keep my answers clipped so she won’t feel as if she has any wiggle room to converse with me.  “Yes, they have helped. The OCD is barely noticeable but the depression has gotten worse.”
“Oh!” The twinkle in her eyes tells me that she is very surprised with my honesty. To this woman I must seem like I am on my period all the time. It’s not my fault I am so cold with her, it’s the stupid depressions fault. the same depression that has invaded my brain and stolen my control so, actually, I guess it is my fault. Oops?
She reaches over for her disheveled binder and writes down more of her thoughts about my life on the starch paper, my biography if you will. Those pages are the only evidence I was ever here except for fuzzy photographs and sketchy memories. 
“Well sweetie, along with my suggestions from last week may I suggest  group counselling sessions.” Does she seriously think she can turn my life into a John Green story? Two wounded people find each other in a session and become whole. Yeah, that is so not happening. Besides, how does she expect me to be able to spill my personal issues to a group of strangers when I can barely tell my mom about them? That’s one of the problems with depression, loneliness. You feel as if no one can understand you, and I suppose that’s true. The only person who will ever come close to knowing every fact about you is yourself; or in some cases, extremely annoying therapists.
“No, that’s okay.” I need to think of something to tide her over till next week, a small untrue morsel to keep her smile from crumbling.  “I’m actually alright, I’m going to practice using the visualization exercises you suggested.” Yeah, imagining myself on a beach covered in sticky sweat and itchy sand -  that works wonders. Pam seems satisfied with this and claps her hands together, her sign that it’s alright to leave. I gladly oblige and hurry out the room without a second glance back. I probably should feel bad for lying but, in case you haven’t gotten the memo, I don’t really get that much a say in the affairs of my brain.
Once I’m out of her exuberant room, the silent waiting room seems like a godsend. I head over to the desk to pay my $20 shrink fee.I follow the maze of red ropes and settle behind a senile old lady mumbling something about a guy named Benny.
“Where is he?” she mumbles. “Where’s Benny?” A woman in a lab coat comes over and grabs hold of the lady shoulders, shuffling her behind closed doors where her mind is theirs to mold. There goes another crazy.
Dolores, the feisty cashier, holds out her extraordinarily long nails for my debit card and I reach into  “the jungle” a.k.a. my purse to fish it out. Tampons, gum wrappers, a nail file, no card. Where the hell is it?
“I’m sorry, I can’t seem to fi….” A light tap on the shoulder silences me.
`“I believes this is yours… ah Maya?” I swivel around and am blasted by the rugged scent of Old Spice and the piercing aura of sexiness. I look up to meet the man of my dreams; Clipped blonde hair, slight scruff, and hazel eyes; not to mention the fact that he’s in a suit. Plenty of fantasy scenes from books and movies flow through my juvenile head as I stare at his beautiful face. I mumble my thanks to the angel and turn back around with wide eyes to Dolores. I swear she wipes drool from the corners of her mouth as I enter my pin.I head out of the building and shove the crumpled receipt into my purse.
A rumbling voice catches my attention as I hurry through the crosswalk. . It’s Sir Hotpants and he’s walking my way. What the hell?! I look down at my faded jeans and concert tee feeling like a leper compared to the Mona Lisa. My pulse rate kicks up as I think of a love story unfolding, damn unrealistic YA fiction.
“Would you pay more attention next time? Your little blonde moments are really getting on my nerves.” He thrusts a piece of paper into my hand and storms off. I stand there a minute completely unsure of what just happened. I unscrunch the paper chastising myself for having visions of him leaving his number after acting like a douche. The ink smudges on the paper come into formation and…. what? How did this guy have my receipt? I put it into my purse. I pull the bag to my side and feel around for the paper I know I put in there. My fingers find nothing, absolutely zip. I pull the bag open and, low and behold, a huge ass hole is in the bottom of the bag.
I turn and pick up all of my fallen crap from the curb, when an epic puddle wave arches over my head, soaking me. I gasp for air and flip onto the ground seeing that damn asshole driving away in a Porsche… a freakin’ Porsche! Ughhh, why all attractive people have to be such assholes I will never know. I don’t even know why I get my hopes up. I’m a legal adult who’s never been on a date, never been kissed, and has never even come close to having sex. I like to blame it on the OCD but I think it’s probably just me. Now that he’s gone I think of a few comebacks I could have thrown at that ass. Firstly, I’m not even blonde! I am a proud member of the brunette gene pool and have never once thought about killing brain cells by bleaching myself silly. People like that are just too high on themselves. My olive skin tone and deep brown eyes are my only good features. My Italian nose has never done me any favors and my oily complexion is not the best.  I strip off my soaked jeans behind Frank, my station wagon and try to tamper down my anger. After all station wagons and harsh feelings don’t mix well.