Chapter 22 text

Saturday July 24

“Isabella Swan?”

My head shot up at the sound of my name being called by an elderly lady with a clipboard. I was sitting in the waiting room at Country Doctor Community Clinic, re-reading the email Edward sent me early this morning. I stood up, locked my phone and grabbed my purse before following the nurse into room four.

“The doctor will be with you shortly,” the nurse said robotically with little care and no empathy. She really should reconsider her career or take some classes on bed-side manners. I managed to squeak out a “thank you” before she clipped the paperwork I had filled out upon arrival onto a clip board on the door and shut it behind her. I was left in the quiet room with nothing but my worried thoughts to distract me.

It had taken me three hours to talk myself into getting into my truck and coming to the clinic this morning to get some help. Every time I would approach the front door ready to leave, I chickened out and went back to the living room to do some more research on things I could do myself to help, so that I wouldn’t have to admit how broken I was to anyone else.

But no matter how much research I did or how many ‘self-help’ pages I found, my symptoms checklist didn’t lie; I needed help. Professional help.

It was ultimately the re-reading of Edward’s email four times that got my ass in the truck and my truck to the clinic. He knew what to say without even knowing it.

Good morning beautiful,

You have no idea how much I wish I were there in bed with you. It’s 7 a.m. here, which would be about 4 a.m. back there at home, and we just sat down for a networking breakfast. And, let me tell you, I might as well have slept in. This has to be the most boring and pretentious bunch of people I’ve ever met.

Luckily, the breakfast only lasts another hour. I’m actually excited about today’s panel. A doctor from the Maryland Research Group is presenting his finding on the affects that different instruments have on children’s emotional and physical healing.

But no matter how interesting, or boring, depending on your point of view, this trip is, I can’t get you out of my mind. I miss you so much and can’t stop thinking about you. Are you doing okay? You seemed distant on the phone last night.

I know that you’re probably over thinking what happened the other night, and it’s unfortunate that I had to leave on this trip the next day, but please love, stop worrying.

Unfortunately, I have to run. Someone I went to College with just spotted me and is on his way over.

I miss you more than words can say. I’ll call you later tonight.

Yours,

Edward.

My eyes flashed up to the wall ahead of me as my brain registered something it hadn’t the first four times I read his email. “…but please love, stop worrying.”

Love. He called me “love”. He’s never done that before, has he?

I was in the process of filtering through my memory for another time when Edward had called me ‘Love’ when there was a knock on the door and a tall man with a carefully placed smile walked in the office.

“Miss Swan? I’m Dr. Garret Morgan. What can we do for you today?”

Dr. Morgan sat down on the chair beside me and typed some information into a computer. He had my paperwork in front of him and was entering some of it into a file.

“Um…” I began, not quite sure where to start. I stared at the floor while the doctor sat patiently waiting for me to continue. I figured the best way to start was to simply show him. I reached into my purse and pulled out my folded symptoms checklist. “I took this quiz yesterday and thought I should talk to someone about it.”

He took the folded piece of paper from my hand, opened it and proceeded to read. I kept my eyes locked on the floor until I hear him begin to speak.

“So, Isabella, you’re concerned about depression? Is this something recent or has this been bothering you for a while?”

“For a while.” I didn’t want to be so abrupt, but I knew that if I was going to make it through this consultation, and hold myself together, my answers had to be short.

“How long is a while?” I looked up and saw that Dr. Morgan was examining me closely. I was wearing tan capris and a black tank top and I could see his eyes roaming up and down my arms. I could only assume he was looking for any indication of self-inflicted injuries.

“Um…” I paused as the doctor’s eyes met mine. “I haven’t been happy in years.”

“So why are you just asking for help now?”

I didn’t really know what I was expecting, maybe a quick talk and a prescription for anti-depressants, but this consultation was definitely not going how I thought it would. The good doctor was being a lot more forward than I expected.

I thought about how to answer Dr. Morgan’s question. There were a lot of reasons why I was asking for help, but the main reason was because I was tired. I was tired of always feeling sad and worthless. I was tired of the rollercoaster of emotions I was constantly feeling. I was tired of feeling like I didn’t matter, even to myself. I was tired of feeling like I was never good enough for my parents, my friends or Edward. But mostly, I was tired of being the person I had become. My emotions had taken over and I wasn’t in control of my life anymore.

I took a deep breath, wiping the tear that had built in the corner of my eye and steeled myself to tell Dr. Morgan the truth.

“I’m tired of not being me.”

After that, we went through the checklist, mostly speaking about the emotional and physical symptoms and the ratings I gave them. Some I had no problem talking about, like my physical symptoms and lack of energy, but other things, like my emotions and sleeping habits were more difficult.

“You indicated an ‘8’, that you have other sleeping habits that are impacting your life. Can you explain what those are?”

“I tend to have nightmares and problems turning off my brain at night.” I really didn’t want to open up about Jake so I hoped that this answer was enough. We had yet to delve into anything deep. Dr. Morgan mostly asked questions and typed my answers into the computer.

After he finished typing, Dr. Morgan took out a prescription pad and wrote down a name and number.

“Isabella, this is the name of a therapist who I believe might be able to help you. Her name is Dr. Cook and her office is just on the third floor of this building. When you call her, tell her that you met with me and that she can call me for information about today’s meeting.”

There was a pause in the conversation while I took the sheet of paper and examined the therapist’s phone number. It took so much for me to come here today, I didn’t know if I could call a therapist, knowing that I would actually have to talk about my issues in-depth. It was hard enough just giving Dr. Morgan the simple answers that I did. Maybe I’m not as ready for this as I thought I was.

“Isabella,” Dr. Morgan started, interrupting the beginning of my panic. “I know it took a lot of guts coming here today and admitting that you need help. But I can’t make that call for you. You have to take that step yourself.”

I continued to stare at the paper as his words started to sink in. I needed to do this. I was the one who wanted to get better so I was the one who needed to make it happen. As hard as it was going to be, as impossible as it seemed I needed to make that call.

But as I walked out of the doctor’s office and into my truck, my resolve once again waivered.

I’ve been strong enough to handle everything on my own thus far. Wouldn’t it show how much stronger I am if I continued to fight on my own instead of relying on someone else to fix me?

I thought about everything that I had gone through over the years: all the struggles, the emotions, the obstacles. I figured that if I was going to ever get better, I needed to do it. It didn’t feel right dumping my problems on someone else and hope that everything would magically work out.

But what if I couldn’t do it? What if no one could help me?

By the time I got home, I needed Advil. My head was throbbing from the mental pro/con list I had made on the drive. Unfortunately, embarrassment and fear topped the long list in the ‘fix myself’ column while my ‘get help’ column was pathetically small.

I knew what I needed to do, and I knew what was right to do. But I also knew what I could and could not handle. It seemed that asking for help and divulging my pitiful life story to a stranger while asking them to fix me, was something I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle.

As I walked into the kitchen to get myself a glass of water, my phone rang from the coffee table in the living room. Edward’s name shone brightly across the screen as I picked up my phone and flopped down on the couch.

“Hello?”

“Hello, love.” I automatically froze at Edward’s term of endearment. He said it again. Apparently I wasn’t paying as much attention to our relationship as I thought. “How was your day?”

I didn’t quite know how to answer Edward’s question. I was still trepidatious about telling Edward that I was seeking help, especially now that I was wavering on my decision. But this was Edward, and I knew that I couldn’t lie to him.

“It was okay. I didn’t do much. I went to the clinic and actually just got home.”

“Why were you at the clinic? Is everything alright?” It was easy to hear the worry in Edward’s voice.

“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to check on something.” I knew I was being evasive, but I was in the position where I couldn’t lie to him, but couldn’t tell him the truth either.

I could feel Edward’s hesitation through the phone. I knew he wanted to press me on the issue but was fighting his desire to do so.

“So how was your day?” I asked, quickly changing the subject so that I wouldn’t have to expand on my day and he wouldn’t have to worry about me.

“It wasn’t too bad. The instrumental seminar was actually very interesting but the afternoon session was slow. The lecturer spent two hours talking about the benefits of improvisation.”

Edward continued to tell me about his day and what was on the docket for tomorrow before he had to leave for a ‘dine-and-dish’ where each participant had to share a success story they had about how they used musical therapy to rehabilitate someone.

The line was quiet for a while. Neither of us wanted to stop the conversation. There was so much more to say but both of us were resistant to broach the topic of my journey to the clinic. Finally after a large breath was let out through the phone, Edward spoke again.

“Bella, are you sure everything is okay?”

“Yeah,” I answered, somewhat relieved that Edward cared enough to press the issue. “I’m fine. It’s just something that I had to do.”

“Okay, well I have to go, everyone’s taking their seats, but I’ll call you later tonight. Night, love.”

“Goodnight, Edward.”

As I hung up the phone, guilt overwhelmed me. I hadn’t lied to Edward, but I had omitted something pretty big. I wanted to tell him why I had gone to the clinic and that I had finally asked for help but I was afraid that if I told Edward about going to see Dr. Morgan, especially if I told him about the therapist’s phone number, it would change everything. If he knew about the depression survey, or that I went to the clinic today to ask for help, I would feel pressured to follow through to make Edward happy. I would only be calling Dr. Cook’s number because if I didn’t, I’d be afraid that Edward would be disappointed in me. I would no longer be asking for help to get better. I’d be asking for help to appease someone else.

I loved Edward and a large part of me wanted to get better so that I would be good enough for him. But I was starting to realize that as much as I did love Edward, I needed to love myself also. I needed to do this for me, not because there would be pressure from Edward. So, as much as I hated the idea and as much as it was now making my stomach turn, I needed to take this step on my own.

I pulled out a blank piece of paper as well as my depression questionnaire and began to investigate. I broke the blank page into sections, corresponding with the six categories on the checklist: emotions, fatigue, sleep, weight, unexpected aches and pains, and thinking and concentrating. For each section, I made a list of why I answered the way I did.

Why did I score myself an 8 for ‘sadness and hopelessness’ under the emotions section? Why did I constantly feel sad and hopeless? I wrote down examples that I could think of where I felt the emotions the most.

If I was going to call Dr. Cook, I was going to be prepared. I was going to make sure that when we spoke about these issues, I would at least be able to steer the conversation to what I was comfortable divulging.

It took me the rest of the afternoon and five pages to finish my analysis of the checklist. Not surprisingly, most of the answers revolved around my feelings of inadequacy and memories of Jake. Unfortunately, making this list didn’t help my resolve in actually calling Dr. Cook or not. I was still on the fence.

It was when I went to the kitchen to make dinner that my answer was made. It was 6:13pm and I reasoned that Dr. Cook’s office would be closed.

I stuck the piece of paper that held her name and number to the fridge and finished making dinner without another thought about my impending phone call. I felt somewhat lighter knowing that I didn’t have to deal with more admissions today because Dr. Cook would still be there tomorrow for me to call.