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“Honey, you really have to eat,” my mother says. “Do you want me to make you something else? I can make soup or grilled cheese…”
“No, this is perfect. I just don’t have an appetite. Everything makes me feel sick.”
“If you’re still feeling this sick, maybe it means you need to be on your medication,” my father says. “This isn’t normal.”
Putting my fork down, I stare at him, wondering why he decided to wait until I was having a medical crisis before he started to show any real interest in me. “You’re right. None of this is normal. I was fine before I went into Tranquility.”
“Penny, if you were fine, the doctors wouldn’t have recommended that you go there in the first place,” he says. “We wouldn’t have talked you into admitting yourself.”
“I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I agreed to therapy. Which, to me, meant talking, not putting me on antipsychotic drugs. Do you know that two of the medications they put me on are for patients with severe schizophrenia?”
Impatience settles in the lines on his face. “The doctors wouldn’t have prescribed it if they hadn’t felt you needed it.”
“Really? I admit I was confused and overtired, but I’m not fucking schizophrenic. They made that diagnosis and started doling out pills before they even spent any time talking to me.”
“The doctors know what they’re doing. You were having delusions. You weren’t acting like yourself.”
“Yes, because I wasn’t getting enough sleep, and I had a few bad anxiety attacks. I haven’t had any so-called delusions at all since that day.”
My mother opens her mouth to speak but my father cuts her off. “Exactly. Because you were on medication to make them stop.”
“I’ve been off the pills for weeks and I’m not having delusions, Dad.”
“What if they start again? You’ve been severely depressed for months. You hardly ever leave your room. I was surprised to hear you actually went out today and bought a guinea pig.”
“It’s a hamster. And I’m depressed because the pills made me depressed. Trying to get off them is making me sick as hell, which is making me more depressed. I’m not going to stay on this endless carousel of pills and doctors while my life goes down the drain. None of it is helping me. It’s all making me worse. I just want my life back. I want to get through this horrible withdrawal phase and then I’m going back to New Hampshire where I was happy.”
My mother surprises me by nodding. “You’ve always been sensitive to medication. I don’t think what those doctors put you on was right for you.”
“I think you’re making a mistake,” my father says, then throws a look at my mother. “I don’t agree that you should stop your medication, and I don’t think you should go back to New Hampshire alone. You should be here where me and your mother can keep an eye on you and make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m not a child.”
“No, but you’re in a fragile state and you shouldn’t be off by yourself.”
“I’ll be fine once this poison is out of my body. I was happy in New Hampshire. I loved my job. I was painting and writing every day. I had friends, and a life, and goals.”
And Alex. I had Alex.
His lips press together as he shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back there. I never liked the idea of you staying behind. You were too young to be living with friends with no parental guidance at all. You can get a job here, go to college, and get back on track.”
“I don’t want to go to college. I’m going to take online classes.”
He sighs. “Then you can do that here.”
“I thought you and Mom were moving back to New Hampshire.” I look from him to my mother. “Wasn’t that the plan? When is that happening?”
“That’s still the plan, but things have been delayed with the company. We’ll probably be here for another year.”
My stomach plummets. “A year?” I repeat. “I don’t want to stay here for a year. I want to go back home.”
My mother reaches across the table and touches my hand. “I agree that Tranquility and their treatment plan wasn’t right for you. When you’re feeling better, I think you should go where you’re happy,” she says. Her eyes meet mine and I see a flash of understanding I wasn’t expecting. For once, I feel less alone here.
By the end of dinner, we’d reached an agreement. If I started to feel mentally off once the withdrawal period wore off, I’d tell my parents, and we’d pursue a different avenue of treatment here in California. But as long as I felt fine, I’d be going back to New Hampshire.
That night, when Alex sends me a photo of a dragonfly, I send him a poem in reply.
