The Psychology of Falling in Love

XIII. Aria: 2016-2021

AN: Slurs, abuse, mentions of sex, implications of self harm, trauma

"Ms. Erickson, the actions and emotions that your child is explaining to me are abnormal. The descriptions of these 'out of body' experiences, the short-term memory issues, and long-term memory loss are extremely alarming."

"She's doing it for attention. Ever since I got diagnosed, she's been doing this 'woe is me' act."

"I have evidence to believe that-"

"Fine! Fine. Put her on whatever fucking chemical you want her on. The state will pay for it anyway."

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make my way back into my mind. My vision was a nauseating rendition of a fish-eye lens, and my brain constantly felt like it was getting zapped by a bug zapper. I could hear the conversation going on outside of the office, but it was garbled, like when you listen to something under water.

The door opened but I didn't drag my eyes away from the paint chip on the wall opposite of me. The only way to deal with the nausea was to focus on something permanent but insignificant. My tongue felt thick in my mouth, almost suffocatingly so.

"Aria," Dr. Lawrence tried to call my attention, his voice soft. "Aria, your mother has agreed to treatment."

I nodded and quickly regretted it. My entire body felt like it took a screenshot, a momentary pause in time. A crippling wave of discomfort gave birth to frayed nerve endings. Words, I had plenty-ability to speak, I had none.

The seat beside me sank and I smelled her signature scent of cigarettes and boxed wine.

"Ms. Erickson, after 5 years of co-therapy with your daughter, Aria Erickson, I have come to the conclusion that my previous diagnoses of General Anxiety Disorder and Major Depressive Disorder are incorrect."

My mother scoffed. "So, why did we have that conversation in the hallway?"

"The causation for those diagnoses is linked to a much more serious problem- Depersonalization-Derealization Disorder, which-"

"Dr. Lawrence," she cut him off, sounding bored and venomous at the same time. "Cut to the chase."

"Ms. Erickson," he continued, vocal chords tense. "Your daughter's treatment will include individual therapy sessions, as well as a mixture of an antidepressant and antipsychotic."

"She will not come here alone," she shouted. My body took another screenshot. "So you can prey on her childlike vulnerability? So you can turn my baby girl against her own mother?"

"Well, Ms. Erickson-"

"No! A 15-year-old on antipsychotics? Pumping her full of chemicals so she hates her mother? You don't have the right."

Dr. Lawrence had the patience of a saint, but even the strongest of threads can snap.

"I may not have the right, but the state does! If you want to keep your daughter, you will allow this treatment regimen. Otherwise, you will forfeit your custody. This is what you signed up for."

What a diabolical web we weave.

. . .

I sat underneath the big oak tree on the school grounds, doodling away in my notebook. Lunch for today was the smoggy air that floated over from the bus lot, paired with a crumpled up, overused plastic bottle of water. I had one headphone in, listening to Twenty One Pilots. The other ear was listening out for anyone approaching.

Two sets of footsteps shuffled through the gravel and grass soon after. The two girls sat down next to me. Raine nudged me with her foot while Bailey leaned against my shoulder.