by Mercy Wed Jan 26, 2011 12:11 amI trudge down the stairs finding my stepmom watching Oprah. Sitting down, I grab the cereal box, pouring it into the bowl, my eyes narrowing in on the TV. Oprah was helping a young couple who came from nothing, had a kid and needed money big time. She was showing them their new car, a totally new wardrobe, and a brand new house. She probably bought them the finest yacht along with all that and gave them 1000 dollars to spare. Oprah’s smile brightens the TV screen and I chomp on my cereal, silently hating on her.
The lady’s got everything. She’s got enough money to go build some hover crafts, pay some scientist to make some replica of her so she could live on forever, all while we are under her rule. Not only did she have the money goin’ for her, but she had this God-given gift to take the most depressed man who has had all his dreams shattered and probably cure him with her phlegm. She was Oprah. She was perfect in the people’s eye because she came from nothing and worked her way up to the top and still admitted she had some problems.
There wasn’t much reason for her not to be happy.
“Kudos, Oprah.” I mumble between angry chomps of cereal.
Of course, Oprah probably wouldn’t approve of me going on anti-depressants. She would most likely highly encourage me to go get some of my best wonderful OMGBFFL gal-pals, power through my problems, and have the occasional chick-flick movie night with a quart of ice cream or a box of chocolates-- whichever you prefer.
But I’m no Oprah. It probably doesn’t help when I already have a problem with my weight, so no ice cream or chocolate for me; my friends had their own shit to deal with and I don’t have the confidence Oprah does. Oprah is a saint, and trust me when I say I’m no saint sent from above. And I certainly do not have beams of light from God coming out of my ass every morning to say ‘Hello world!’.
For I, am Kariana. Kariana Graham. The world’s most imperfect person.
I quickly finish up my breakfast, grab my car keys and head for the door.
My stepmom turns to me, “Would you like me to drive you?” She chirps happily, turning off the TV as Oprah said goodbye to her millions of fans.
“Uhm...” I pause, considering the pros and cons of this future situation.
Pros? I won’t have to use up my own gas money...
Yeah that’s about it.
Cons? I will have to be in the same car with her while she tried pulling teeth with me on how my school was going, who my friends were, what the latest gossip was. Or she might even blast some of her crap music that could possibly break windows and make ears bleed.
“No, I’m good.” I say with a small nod and put on my Northface and walk into the garage. I sit down in the driver’s seat of my car, grasping the wheel and letting out a sigh.
Anti depressants? Mmm, not really what I wanted to be doing. Going to see some person who’s going to analyze me from the inside out and try to dissect me like I’m some sort of lab rat.
Most teenagers on a Saturday would be out with their friends at the mall. Friends? I had three best friends, everyone else I pretty much despise. I guess the constant reminder that my dad is an ass, my stepmom’s a pampered pooch and my little sister gets everything she ever asks for didn’t really help my case.
I begin to make my way to the office of doom and drive down the road. The mucky rain seemed to mock me as I switched on the windshield wipers.
Swish, swish, swish, swish...
My mind began to go numb as the roar of the engine rumbled through my toes and the constant swish of the wipers filled my mind.
Pulling into the parking lot, I put up the hood on my favorite sweatshirt and grab the car keys, walking inside.
Mythbusters proved that walking through the rain got you less wet. No one ever believed me and ran through the rain.
Idiots.
I push the door open and walk to the elevator where a young mother and her husband were arguing about something. No doubt they were in couple therapy. I silently wait behind them and I don’t even think they notice me as they bicker and banter. The light blinks and a small ‘ding’ comes from the elevator and I step in after the couple does. They take notice of me finally and their voices lower to an eerie, not to mention awkward, silence. These were the moments when there was actual elevator music.
I make it safely to the waiting room and sit down in the bland grey chair as I wait for the doctor to show up. I find an amusing piece of string on the arm of the chair and began to pick at it with my newly painted nails – I had painted them black just to piss off my stepmom of course. The string unravels slightly and I continue my handy work. The lady behind the desk was hunched over, her glasses nearly falling off the tip of her nose. I wonder if she hunched over more if she would find herself in a rut and not be able to get up from that sitting position. Did she have back problems? I bet if she hunched over any more her glasses would fall of her pointy-ass nose anyway.
The clacking of her fake fingernails against the keyboard stops for a moment and she looks over at me slowly. I, unflinchingly, stare back at her until she gets too uncomfortable to hold eye contact. I sigh, going back to the string on the arm of the chair and could not find it anymore. Maybe it ran away, afraid of being pulled out of the comfort of the dusty chair.
I suppose I can show some empathy towards the poor string. I bet it has some family or something too...
Oh god, who I was I kidding. It was a goddamn piece of string.
Out of sheer boredom, I begin counting my teeth... My last count was eighteen, but I knew the regular adult mouth had twenty-eight [not including molars]. Then again, I was sick the last time I counted my teeth. I had been watching Family Guy and definitely had a good dose of Nyquil in my system.... No wonder I was off.
“Kariana Graham?” A voice calls from the doorway and I look up.
“Yup.” I say flatly, as I take in the appearance of this doctor. He was tall, prominent nose, dark brown eyes and neatly shaved. He wore a very bright cyan blue shirt and a silver tie with neatly pressed pants.
A pretty clean guy if I do say so myself.
He waves his hand and I stand up, taking note of the stack of papers wedged between a perfectly intact manila folder. I am in shock by this of course. I have never even met this doctor before and he’s probably got my entire lifeline in that manila folder...
He probably knows how many teeth I have.
Creepy.
“Well, hello there, Miss Graham. I’m Dr. Pikor.” He ushers me through the door and into his office.
He eyes me up a bit, and I frown. I know I am a bonanza of problems but he didn’t have to look so goddamn intrigued.
“Hi...” I say, almost afraid to ask what sort of information he had about me in that manila folder. I walk into his office and sit down cautiously on the leather two-seater couch.
I sat down and the stiff leather farted under me.
God, that’s embarrassing. What if he thought it was me? I shake off the thought and look up at the doctor. He sinks into the deep navy blue chair across from the couch and places the manila folder on his lap neatly, flipping through the twenty-billion pages... What was this, a secret life of Kariana Graham?
Maybe I was being a bit vain by thinking the man was stalking me but I think I have a reason to be skeptical.
“Oh, Kariana,” He begins looking up from the papers after a few moments, a big pearly white smile upon his face – did he have twenty-eight teeth? Did doctors make mistakes in their counting, too?
Woah, wait a second, bub... There is no reason to ‘Oh Kariana’ me... I think to myself; my eyes narrow on him.
“I’ve been reading through your transcript here and it seems to me like you’ve had a lot of struggles in your life.” He says, almost in a pitying way.
I don’t like pity to be honest. It bothers me. I lean back in the farting leather chair and cross my arms over my chest.
“Mhm?” I ask, wishing he would just give me the prescription and leave me the hell alone.
“I just want you to know that if you want to talk about anything you can always call me and I can help you with whatever you need.” He leans over, handing me a neat card with his name and number.
“Yup, looks good.” I say shortly, examining the card with intensity. The black font seems to leap out at me against the silver paper.
Dr. Pikor... More like Dr. Prick... The name seems to stick in my brain and grow like an unwanted infestation of bees.
He takes out a pen from his shirt pocket, “Now, Miss. Graham, would you mind me asking a few minor questions?”
I pick at the rip on my jeans and I look up, my expression flat.
“Well, I suppose so... I do believe it would be awfully dickish of me to say no considering my ‘rents are paying about 150 dollars for this session.”
He chuckles, “Well... Yes... I suppose it would be.”
Why is he laughing? My temper shortens slightly as I stare at the man.
He leans over a bit more, as if about to tell me a secret that could save someone’s life, “You know, I was once like you. Just a little sapling waiting to be pried open and blossom,” – What was this guy gay or something?—“I was a rebellious little one at that.”
I raise an eyebrow. Where is he going with this?
“I had to struggle through the low times of my life in order to really find out who I was. It was only a matter of time before I realized my calling, and who I was to truly be. But it took me a while to be able to grasp that concept, and that is what I’m here to help you do. To find your true self and to let go of all those negative emotions ya got bottled up in that head of yours.” He chuckles and my eyes dart back and forth slightly.
“Now,” He begins, grabbing his pen, “How is your family life, Miss Graham?” He asks and the interrogation process began. Slowly and painfully.
Once he was done, he grabs a sheet of pink paper from his perfectly white binder of wonders.
Pink?
I shrug mentally and he unfolds his glasses and slips them on – which, by the way, he also pulled from his shirt pocket. It makes me wonder what else he had in his magical shirt pocket. Maybe a tiny hoard of leprechauns living in a green handkerchief. I smile inwardly at the thought, a Mary Poppins pocket! He began to scribble down some things on the paper. He rips the pink page from a yellow one and hands me the yellow page.
“Here’s your prescription.” He says, “Now, the label will tell you what to do. I trust you’re old enough to understand and read. Also not to overdose.” He looks over his glasses, raising an eyebrow.
Yeah, me overdosing. I may suffer from this horrendous thing called depression, and I might live in a nice little place we like to call hell but I would never go to suicide.
I can give you the whole talk of how suicide is silly and I have so much to live for in this world and I am working at not being so depressed.
But the truth is, I’m a whimp. I could never take my life away. It scares me too much.
I nod, “Of course, Doc.” I say, tapping my foot.
“Have you ever thought of maybe doing a sport, it sometimes releases endorphins to help you feel better about yourself?” He says, looking through the Secret Life of Kariana again.
“I used to do swimming.” I say with a shrug.
He looks up, “Oh, my nephew swims!” He smiles brightly, “What stroke did you do?”
“Butterfly.”
“Oh, my nephew swims the breast stroke... Is that what you call it?”
I nod.
“That’s great!” He smiles, “I think, that if you wanted to, you could try out for the swim team again.”
I raise an eyebrow. Flamboyant doctor say what?
“Uhh, I don’t know about that.” I say, shaking my head.
“Maybe you should think about it.” He says, checking his watch, “Oh, listen, my next patient is coming in, but you should definitely think about rejoining the swimming team.”
Swimming team? Ew, who uses that terminology.
I stand, giving a friendly goodbye and a nod. Swim team? I had been on there for seven years; no way was I going back now. Plus, I was most likely out of shape and I would drown if I jumped into the water. As I walk out of the building, I try desperately to think of the perfect excuse not to start swimming again because I know my new doctor will probably ask me every day if I was thinking about rejoining.
Maybe it’s because I’m deadly allergic to chlorine.
Or my family dislikes me swimming.
Or how about I just use the excuse of ‘My depression is worsening, if I go near the water I might have thoughts of drowning myself’.
My brain must’ve been off because I couldn’t think of one legitimate excuse that didn’t make me sound like a lazy tub of lard.
God I hate this...
Me and my lazy lard-ness...
I drive back home and walk inside, throwing my prescription on the kitchen counter. My dad looks over his papers at me.
“How was it?” He asks his voice showing a slight heightened of interest. I decide to spare him the details.
“It was fine.”
“Good to hear.”
I nod and watch him put his nose hastily back into the newspaper. With a sigh, my feet trail down to the living room and I check the grandfather clock in there: 12:36 pm.
“Kari!” I hear my voice and my little sister looks up from her Barbie’s. I dread looking over at my sister. She was like a puppy, once you start paying attention to her, she doesn’t leave you alone. Once you even make the slightest bit of eye contact, you are sucked into playing Unicorns and Barbie’s for hours on end with her.
“Kari, will you play with me?” Her innocent voice melts me slightly inside and I give in, sitting down on the worn, cream colored carpet. Someday I hope we get new carpet in here, it was kind of dirty.
“Here, you can have that one, it looks like you!” She excitedly thrusts a Barbie into my hand.
NO way could this Barbie ever look like me. This particular Barbie was named Theresa I believe, brown hair, blue eyes. Pretty much Barbie’s twin, brunette form.
“Aaand I will have this one.” She pulls out a blue eyed, blonde haired Barbie and brushes a hand through her Barbie’s hair.
“C’mon! We’re going to go see my Fairy Godmother up in the woods!” She says through her Barbie, “But first, dress nicely because we’re having lunch at her house.”
She almost seems to be scolding me; I mean I’m sure my doll’s bright green bikini was socially acceptable for a lunch with a Fairy Godmother...
I roll my eyes sarcastically and she pulls out the wooden chest filled with shoes, dresses, skirts and pants. She fiddles through chest, finding a light fuzzy pink dress and dressing her Barbie in that.
I pick out a simple black dress for mine, and black heels.
“Kari? Have you seen the other bright pink high heel?” She asks, holding the shoe near my face.
I hold out my hand, “Here, let me check in the box real fast.” I say and she nods, handing me the wooden chest.
I search through it and frown, “I’unno, boo.” I say placing the chest down.
She shrugs, “It’s okay.” She pulls out a light pink shoe and places it on the doll’s other foot, “There, she looks pretty now.”
How could she possibly find these dolls pretty? Maybe it was just me, but I actually noticed Barbie’s imperfections. No one had perfectly blushed cheeks, or a perfect smile on all the time or bubbly blue eyes. She had stick legs, and boobs much too big for her own health – which I am sure she most likely had a lift, or an enlargement or two in her lifetime. I’m pretty sure that Barbie was an extremely unhealthy person in general. I mean, she’s got this on/off thing with Ken, and she’s got the rough and tough GI Joe around the corner as a backup boyfriend in case she gets bored with Fabulous Kenny. She definitely had some relationship issues goin’ on... Now I’m just taking a wild stab in the dark here, but this most likely spawned from early exposure of daddy-daughter issues. She always looks fierce, and has these fabulous cars, houses, planes, and whatever else you can possibly think of and, dare I say, she probably never worked a day in her life. In other words, she was just simply a slutty piece of plastic.
Yet the only thing that was wrong on Barbie to Lace was the two mismatched shoes.
I sigh, “Ready to go to your Fairy Godmother’s house, Barbie?” I ask with my doll.
Lacie frowns, “My dolls name is Tara.”
“Oh... My bad.” I say with a small laugh, and I put on my girly voice, “Ready to go to your Fairy Godmother’s house, Tara?”
If I’m playing, why not try to have fun with it.
“Yes!” She brings her doll up onto the couch, “Psst... Kari...This is where the Fairy Godmother lives.” She whispers to me and I quickly scramble my doll over to the couch.
I play along with her, bored out of my brains. I began to make up stuff as we played.
“Hey, Theresa, guess what?”
“What?” I ask, swinging my doll this way and that to show excitement. Can you show excitement through a plastic toy?
“My Fairy Godmother gave me the power to turn into a mermaid!”
“Wow! No. Way.” I over exaggerate the words, “Well, I have that power to, and I am secretly the Little Mermaid.”
“Well... I’m the Little Mermaid too.” Lacie says, almost competitively.
“Well, then I’ll be the big mermaid.”
“I’m the BIGGEST mermaid!” Her eyes narrow slightly.
“I’m super skank mermaid.” I say with ease and I feel my dad’s eyes narrow on me from across the kitchen. I unwillingly look over at him and he glares at me. My eyes drift back over at Lacie and she had let it swing by her with no questions asked.
I laugh lightly, wishing I still had that sort of innocence, to trust that people were saying only good things. To be able to believe in whatever anyone else says with no questions asked.
I continue playing with her for another hour or so, until eventually she grew bored of playing Barbies.
She looks over at me, “Kari...Can I have a grilled cheese?”
I nod, “Make sure you clean up your toys though first.” I say and she nods, grabbing all the Barbie clothes off the floor and shoving them into the wooden chest and placing her Barbies into the toy bin.
I stand up and walk over to the kitchen, searching through the fridge and taking out the cheese, bread and butter.
The wonderful meal of champions these days I suppose. Her new favorite thing was to eat it her grilled cheese with ketchup. Kind of like how I ate mine with BBQ sauce.
I don’t know, I guess I’m more like a pregnant lady when I’m hungry. I crave the most random shit in the world. It’s pretty disgusting. But that’s the joys of being a girl, Aunt Flo, strange cravings and food babies.
The good life.
My dad and stepmom come downstairs all fancied up.
“Kariana, we hope you don’t mind too much but we have a party to go to downtown. Would you mind watching over Lacie tonight?”
I eye up my stepmom for a moment, her perfect straight, reddish brown hair which hit around her delicate and even shoulders, her sun kissed brown skin and her chocolate brown eyes. In some ways, she reminded me of the Barbie. She had this supermodel body, which honestly made me feel like crap when I stood next to her perfectly thinned out self. I had always been lacking in the perfection department.
Then again, sitting in my room for hours on end pointing out how one boob was slightly bigger than the other, and one foot was a bit on the shorter side probably didn’t help my confidence level – which had been shot down by age ten ‘b-t-dubs’ [‘By the way’, in case you didn’t catch my teenage lingo].
I nod, “Yeah, sure.”
“There’s some leftover Chinese in the fridge, you can bring Andy and Nina over if you’d like.” My stepmom says and I nod with a smile.
“Thanks.” I say and they both wave goodbye and head out the door.
The lady’s got everything. She’s got enough money to go build some hover crafts, pay some scientist to make some replica of her so she could live on forever, all while we are under her rule. Not only did she have the money goin’ for her, but she had this God-given gift to take the most depressed man who has had all his dreams shattered and probably cure him with her phlegm. She was Oprah. She was perfect in the people’s eye because she came from nothing and worked her way up to the top and still admitted she had some problems.
There wasn’t much reason for her not to be happy.
“Kudos, Oprah.” I mumble between angry chomps of cereal.
Of course, Oprah probably wouldn’t approve of me going on anti-depressants. She would most likely highly encourage me to go get some of my best wonderful OMGBFFL gal-pals, power through my problems, and have the occasional chick-flick movie night with a quart of ice cream or a box of chocolates-- whichever you prefer.
But I’m no Oprah. It probably doesn’t help when I already have a problem with my weight, so no ice cream or chocolate for me; my friends had their own shit to deal with and I don’t have the confidence Oprah does. Oprah is a saint, and trust me when I say I’m no saint sent from above. And I certainly do not have beams of light from God coming out of my ass every morning to say ‘Hello world!’.
For I, am Kariana. Kariana Graham. The world’s most imperfect person.
I quickly finish up my breakfast, grab my car keys and head for the door.
My stepmom turns to me, “Would you like me to drive you?” She chirps happily, turning off the TV as Oprah said goodbye to her millions of fans.
“Uhm...” I pause, considering the pros and cons of this future situation.
Pros? I won’t have to use up my own gas money...
Yeah that’s about it.
Cons? I will have to be in the same car with her while she tried pulling teeth with me on how my school was going, who my friends were, what the latest gossip was. Or she might even blast some of her crap music that could possibly break windows and make ears bleed.
“No, I’m good.” I say with a small nod and put on my Northface and walk into the garage. I sit down in the driver’s seat of my car, grasping the wheel and letting out a sigh.
Anti depressants? Mmm, not really what I wanted to be doing. Going to see some person who’s going to analyze me from the inside out and try to dissect me like I’m some sort of lab rat.
Most teenagers on a Saturday would be out with their friends at the mall. Friends? I had three best friends, everyone else I pretty much despise. I guess the constant reminder that my dad is an ass, my stepmom’s a pampered pooch and my little sister gets everything she ever asks for didn’t really help my case.
I begin to make my way to the office of doom and drive down the road. The mucky rain seemed to mock me as I switched on the windshield wipers.
Swish, swish, swish, swish...
My mind began to go numb as the roar of the engine rumbled through my toes and the constant swish of the wipers filled my mind.
Pulling into the parking lot, I put up the hood on my favorite sweatshirt and grab the car keys, walking inside.
Mythbusters proved that walking through the rain got you less wet. No one ever believed me and ran through the rain.
Idiots.
I push the door open and walk to the elevator where a young mother and her husband were arguing about something. No doubt they were in couple therapy. I silently wait behind them and I don’t even think they notice me as they bicker and banter. The light blinks and a small ‘ding’ comes from the elevator and I step in after the couple does. They take notice of me finally and their voices lower to an eerie, not to mention awkward, silence. These were the moments when there was actual elevator music.
I make it safely to the waiting room and sit down in the bland grey chair as I wait for the doctor to show up. I find an amusing piece of string on the arm of the chair and began to pick at it with my newly painted nails – I had painted them black just to piss off my stepmom of course. The string unravels slightly and I continue my handy work. The lady behind the desk was hunched over, her glasses nearly falling off the tip of her nose. I wonder if she hunched over more if she would find herself in a rut and not be able to get up from that sitting position. Did she have back problems? I bet if she hunched over any more her glasses would fall of her pointy-ass nose anyway.
The clacking of her fake fingernails against the keyboard stops for a moment and she looks over at me slowly. I, unflinchingly, stare back at her until she gets too uncomfortable to hold eye contact. I sigh, going back to the string on the arm of the chair and could not find it anymore. Maybe it ran away, afraid of being pulled out of the comfort of the dusty chair.
I suppose I can show some empathy towards the poor string. I bet it has some family or something too...
Oh god, who I was I kidding. It was a goddamn piece of string.
Out of sheer boredom, I begin counting my teeth... My last count was eighteen, but I knew the regular adult mouth had twenty-eight [not including molars]. Then again, I was sick the last time I counted my teeth. I had been watching Family Guy and definitely had a good dose of Nyquil in my system.... No wonder I was off.
“Kariana Graham?” A voice calls from the doorway and I look up.
“Yup.” I say flatly, as I take in the appearance of this doctor. He was tall, prominent nose, dark brown eyes and neatly shaved. He wore a very bright cyan blue shirt and a silver tie with neatly pressed pants.
A pretty clean guy if I do say so myself.
He waves his hand and I stand up, taking note of the stack of papers wedged between a perfectly intact manila folder. I am in shock by this of course. I have never even met this doctor before and he’s probably got my entire lifeline in that manila folder...
He probably knows how many teeth I have.
Creepy.
“Well, hello there, Miss Graham. I’m Dr. Pikor.” He ushers me through the door and into his office.
He eyes me up a bit, and I frown. I know I am a bonanza of problems but he didn’t have to look so goddamn intrigued.
“Hi...” I say, almost afraid to ask what sort of information he had about me in that manila folder. I walk into his office and sit down cautiously on the leather two-seater couch.
I sat down and the stiff leather farted under me.
God, that’s embarrassing. What if he thought it was me? I shake off the thought and look up at the doctor. He sinks into the deep navy blue chair across from the couch and places the manila folder on his lap neatly, flipping through the twenty-billion pages... What was this, a secret life of Kariana Graham?
Maybe I was being a bit vain by thinking the man was stalking me but I think I have a reason to be skeptical.
“Oh, Kariana,” He begins looking up from the papers after a few moments, a big pearly white smile upon his face – did he have twenty-eight teeth? Did doctors make mistakes in their counting, too?
Woah, wait a second, bub... There is no reason to ‘Oh Kariana’ me... I think to myself; my eyes narrow on him.
“I’ve been reading through your transcript here and it seems to me like you’ve had a lot of struggles in your life.” He says, almost in a pitying way.
I don’t like pity to be honest. It bothers me. I lean back in the farting leather chair and cross my arms over my chest.
“Mhm?” I ask, wishing he would just give me the prescription and leave me the hell alone.
“I just want you to know that if you want to talk about anything you can always call me and I can help you with whatever you need.” He leans over, handing me a neat card with his name and number.
“Yup, looks good.” I say shortly, examining the card with intensity. The black font seems to leap out at me against the silver paper.
Dr. Pikor... More like Dr. Prick... The name seems to stick in my brain and grow like an unwanted infestation of bees.
He takes out a pen from his shirt pocket, “Now, Miss. Graham, would you mind me asking a few minor questions?”
I pick at the rip on my jeans and I look up, my expression flat.
“Well, I suppose so... I do believe it would be awfully dickish of me to say no considering my ‘rents are paying about 150 dollars for this session.”
He chuckles, “Well... Yes... I suppose it would be.”
Why is he laughing? My temper shortens slightly as I stare at the man.
He leans over a bit more, as if about to tell me a secret that could save someone’s life, “You know, I was once like you. Just a little sapling waiting to be pried open and blossom,” – What was this guy gay or something?—“I was a rebellious little one at that.”
I raise an eyebrow. Where is he going with this?
“I had to struggle through the low times of my life in order to really find out who I was. It was only a matter of time before I realized my calling, and who I was to truly be. But it took me a while to be able to grasp that concept, and that is what I’m here to help you do. To find your true self and to let go of all those negative emotions ya got bottled up in that head of yours.” He chuckles and my eyes dart back and forth slightly.
“Now,” He begins, grabbing his pen, “How is your family life, Miss Graham?” He asks and the interrogation process began. Slowly and painfully.
Once he was done, he grabs a sheet of pink paper from his perfectly white binder of wonders.
Pink?
I shrug mentally and he unfolds his glasses and slips them on – which, by the way, he also pulled from his shirt pocket. It makes me wonder what else he had in his magical shirt pocket. Maybe a tiny hoard of leprechauns living in a green handkerchief. I smile inwardly at the thought, a Mary Poppins pocket! He began to scribble down some things on the paper. He rips the pink page from a yellow one and hands me the yellow page.
“Here’s your prescription.” He says, “Now, the label will tell you what to do. I trust you’re old enough to understand and read. Also not to overdose.” He looks over his glasses, raising an eyebrow.
Yeah, me overdosing. I may suffer from this horrendous thing called depression, and I might live in a nice little place we like to call hell but I would never go to suicide.
I can give you the whole talk of how suicide is silly and I have so much to live for in this world and I am working at not being so depressed.
But the truth is, I’m a whimp. I could never take my life away. It scares me too much.
I nod, “Of course, Doc.” I say, tapping my foot.
“Have you ever thought of maybe doing a sport, it sometimes releases endorphins to help you feel better about yourself?” He says, looking through the Secret Life of Kariana again.
“I used to do swimming.” I say with a shrug.
He looks up, “Oh, my nephew swims!” He smiles brightly, “What stroke did you do?”
“Butterfly.”
“Oh, my nephew swims the breast stroke... Is that what you call it?”
I nod.
“That’s great!” He smiles, “I think, that if you wanted to, you could try out for the swim team again.”
I raise an eyebrow. Flamboyant doctor say what?
“Uhh, I don’t know about that.” I say, shaking my head.
“Maybe you should think about it.” He says, checking his watch, “Oh, listen, my next patient is coming in, but you should definitely think about rejoining the swimming team.”
Swimming team? Ew, who uses that terminology.
I stand, giving a friendly goodbye and a nod. Swim team? I had been on there for seven years; no way was I going back now. Plus, I was most likely out of shape and I would drown if I jumped into the water. As I walk out of the building, I try desperately to think of the perfect excuse not to start swimming again because I know my new doctor will probably ask me every day if I was thinking about rejoining.
Maybe it’s because I’m deadly allergic to chlorine.
Or my family dislikes me swimming.
Or how about I just use the excuse of ‘My depression is worsening, if I go near the water I might have thoughts of drowning myself’.
My brain must’ve been off because I couldn’t think of one legitimate excuse that didn’t make me sound like a lazy tub of lard.
God I hate this...
Me and my lazy lard-ness...
I drive back home and walk inside, throwing my prescription on the kitchen counter. My dad looks over his papers at me.
“How was it?” He asks his voice showing a slight heightened of interest. I decide to spare him the details.
“It was fine.”
“Good to hear.”
I nod and watch him put his nose hastily back into the newspaper. With a sigh, my feet trail down to the living room and I check the grandfather clock in there: 12:36 pm.
“Kari!” I hear my voice and my little sister looks up from her Barbie’s. I dread looking over at my sister. She was like a puppy, once you start paying attention to her, she doesn’t leave you alone. Once you even make the slightest bit of eye contact, you are sucked into playing Unicorns and Barbie’s for hours on end with her.
“Kari, will you play with me?” Her innocent voice melts me slightly inside and I give in, sitting down on the worn, cream colored carpet. Someday I hope we get new carpet in here, it was kind of dirty.
“Here, you can have that one, it looks like you!” She excitedly thrusts a Barbie into my hand.
NO way could this Barbie ever look like me. This particular Barbie was named Theresa I believe, brown hair, blue eyes. Pretty much Barbie’s twin, brunette form.
“Aaand I will have this one.” She pulls out a blue eyed, blonde haired Barbie and brushes a hand through her Barbie’s hair.
“C’mon! We’re going to go see my Fairy Godmother up in the woods!” She says through her Barbie, “But first, dress nicely because we’re having lunch at her house.”
She almost seems to be scolding me; I mean I’m sure my doll’s bright green bikini was socially acceptable for a lunch with a Fairy Godmother...
I roll my eyes sarcastically and she pulls out the wooden chest filled with shoes, dresses, skirts and pants. She fiddles through chest, finding a light fuzzy pink dress and dressing her Barbie in that.
I pick out a simple black dress for mine, and black heels.
“Kari? Have you seen the other bright pink high heel?” She asks, holding the shoe near my face.
I hold out my hand, “Here, let me check in the box real fast.” I say and she nods, handing me the wooden chest.
I search through it and frown, “I’unno, boo.” I say placing the chest down.
She shrugs, “It’s okay.” She pulls out a light pink shoe and places it on the doll’s other foot, “There, she looks pretty now.”
How could she possibly find these dolls pretty? Maybe it was just me, but I actually noticed Barbie’s imperfections. No one had perfectly blushed cheeks, or a perfect smile on all the time or bubbly blue eyes. She had stick legs, and boobs much too big for her own health – which I am sure she most likely had a lift, or an enlargement or two in her lifetime. I’m pretty sure that Barbie was an extremely unhealthy person in general. I mean, she’s got this on/off thing with Ken, and she’s got the rough and tough GI Joe around the corner as a backup boyfriend in case she gets bored with Fabulous Kenny. She definitely had some relationship issues goin’ on... Now I’m just taking a wild stab in the dark here, but this most likely spawned from early exposure of daddy-daughter issues. She always looks fierce, and has these fabulous cars, houses, planes, and whatever else you can possibly think of and, dare I say, she probably never worked a day in her life. In other words, she was just simply a slutty piece of plastic.
Yet the only thing that was wrong on Barbie to Lace was the two mismatched shoes.
I sigh, “Ready to go to your Fairy Godmother’s house, Barbie?” I ask with my doll.
Lacie frowns, “My dolls name is Tara.”
“Oh... My bad.” I say with a small laugh, and I put on my girly voice, “Ready to go to your Fairy Godmother’s house, Tara?”
If I’m playing, why not try to have fun with it.
“Yes!” She brings her doll up onto the couch, “Psst... Kari...This is where the Fairy Godmother lives.” She whispers to me and I quickly scramble my doll over to the couch.
I play along with her, bored out of my brains. I began to make up stuff as we played.
“Hey, Theresa, guess what?”
“What?” I ask, swinging my doll this way and that to show excitement. Can you show excitement through a plastic toy?
“My Fairy Godmother gave me the power to turn into a mermaid!”
“Wow! No. Way.” I over exaggerate the words, “Well, I have that power to, and I am secretly the Little Mermaid.”
“Well... I’m the Little Mermaid too.” Lacie says, almost competitively.
“Well, then I’ll be the big mermaid.”
“I’m the BIGGEST mermaid!” Her eyes narrow slightly.
“I’m super skank mermaid.” I say with ease and I feel my dad’s eyes narrow on me from across the kitchen. I unwillingly look over at him and he glares at me. My eyes drift back over at Lacie and she had let it swing by her with no questions asked.
I laugh lightly, wishing I still had that sort of innocence, to trust that people were saying only good things. To be able to believe in whatever anyone else says with no questions asked.
I continue playing with her for another hour or so, until eventually she grew bored of playing Barbies.
She looks over at me, “Kari...Can I have a grilled cheese?”
I nod, “Make sure you clean up your toys though first.” I say and she nods, grabbing all the Barbie clothes off the floor and shoving them into the wooden chest and placing her Barbies into the toy bin.
I stand up and walk over to the kitchen, searching through the fridge and taking out the cheese, bread and butter.
The wonderful meal of champions these days I suppose. Her new favorite thing was to eat it her grilled cheese with ketchup. Kind of like how I ate mine with BBQ sauce.
I don’t know, I guess I’m more like a pregnant lady when I’m hungry. I crave the most random shit in the world. It’s pretty disgusting. But that’s the joys of being a girl, Aunt Flo, strange cravings and food babies.
The good life.
My dad and stepmom come downstairs all fancied up.
“Kariana, we hope you don’t mind too much but we have a party to go to downtown. Would you mind watching over Lacie tonight?”
I eye up my stepmom for a moment, her perfect straight, reddish brown hair which hit around her delicate and even shoulders, her sun kissed brown skin and her chocolate brown eyes. In some ways, she reminded me of the Barbie. She had this supermodel body, which honestly made me feel like crap when I stood next to her perfectly thinned out self. I had always been lacking in the perfection department.
Then again, sitting in my room for hours on end pointing out how one boob was slightly bigger than the other, and one foot was a bit on the shorter side probably didn’t help my confidence level – which had been shot down by age ten ‘b-t-dubs’ [‘By the way’, in case you didn’t catch my teenage lingo].
I nod, “Yeah, sure.”
“There’s some leftover Chinese in the fridge, you can bring Andy and Nina over if you’d like.” My stepmom says and I nod with a smile.
“Thanks.” I say and they both wave goodbye and head out the door.
