The Forgotten Wolf

“I am not crazy!” The words almost escape from behind my lips. I bite on my bottom lip, and I shift my weight in the ugly and uncomfortable brown leather chair that I'm sitting in. I’ve sat in a what feels like thousands of these uncomfortable chairs in these bland, muted colored offices. Sitting across from blank, staring eyes analyzing my every movement, every facial expression. I glance at the clock hanging on the wall above the bookshelf displaying medical degrees and varying mental health books published by world-renowned psychiatrists. Thirty minutes left of a forty-five minute session. This is hell. I imagine that when I die, I will forever be stuck in an endless therapy session because this is torture. Dr. Kim, my psychiatrist, makes another note on his computer. I realize I haven’t answered his last question. He was asking me about my medication levels and how I have been feeling. “Honesty Dr. Kim, I feel terrible. The medication you have me on makes me feel so lethargic all the time.”. He has heard this complaint from me numerous times before, so this is not something new. “ I’m going to be 18 in a few months, and I would like to start the process of reducing the dosages of medication.” I say. I can’t say that I want to stop them all together yet, that will just have him running to my parents. Well, my adopted parents. I don’t remember my biological parents. I was adopted as an infant. My adoptive parents, Jim and Kathy Taylor, told me that the adoption agency wouldn’t give them any details on who my biological parents were, that it was a closed adoption. They’ve always questioned, like I have, if my ‘mental condition’ was a genetic disorder passed down from my unknown relatives. What is my mental condition? I guess the best way to describe it would be that I hear voices. Actually, just one voice. I was 12 years old when I first heard it. The voice in my head said that her name was Orla and that she was my other half. At first, my parents thought I just had an overactive imagination and created an imaginary friend out of loneliness. They started to become concerned that it may be something more serious when at 13 I got lost in the woods behind our house. I remember telling my parents after the firefighters found me and brought me to a waiting ambulance that Orla told me I needed to go into the forest. That’s why I am here sitting in this uncomfortable chair, in this color deprived room, being analyzed by yet another psychiatrist. For the past 4 years, I have been bounced from doctor to doctor trying to decode the mystery of my brain. Most of them were unsuccessful with establishing any diagnosis. Dr. Kim has been my doctor for the last year and has me on a cocktail of different medications. He says the treatment has been successful because I can no longer hear Orla's voice. The side effects I have are almost unbearable. I feel lethargic and nauseous constantly. It feels like I'm being poisoned slowly. Dr. Kim observes me over his half-moon glasses he uses for reading and writing. He takes a few moments before he responds “Maeve, your treatment has been such a success I’m surprised this is what you want to do. You are no longer hearing the voice that has been plaguing you all these years. With decreasing your medication dosages, there is a possibility that it may manifest again. I'm not sure this would be in your best interest. Have you discussed this with your parents?”. This is just as I had expected him to answer. “Yes Dr. Kim, I am sure that I want to do this. I’ve thought about it a lot the last couple of weeks, and I think with a regular routine, reduced medication, a healthier diet, and exercise, I'll be able to manage it. I may even get to the point that I don’t need the medication at all.” I calmly reply. Instantly regretting my last sentence as I see the corners of his mouth turn down. How could I be so dumb to word vomit the exact words I’ve been avoiding the entire session? "I mean, I understand that may not be entirely possible, and that I may have to be on medication my whole life, but I do want to try a more holistic approach to my treatment." I quickly backtrack. "Maeve," Dr. Kim says, "I want to support your decisions, but as a licensed psychiatrist, I have to disagree medication is what is keeping you balanced. When you turn 18, I won't be able to consult with your parents, and you will be free to make your own choices when it comes to your care. Until then, we will continue with the current medication and dosages." “Fine” I thought to myself, “Only a few more months of a drug induced haze, I’ve been heavily medicated for years. I can endure a couple more months feeling sick and tired.” Dr. Kim checked the expensive watch he wore on his wrist to check the time. “Well, it seems like we only have a few minutes left in this session. Let’s end the session here if that’s alright. Can you do Friday at the same time in two weeks? I know you seniors are busy this time of year with graduation coming up.” He asked. “Yeah, I’ll be here. Thank you.” I stand up and stretch my body, getting ready to leave this mini version of hell. My legs feel heavy as I take a step towards Mr. Kim’s desk, and I start to feel tingles like pins and needles stabbing them all over. I reached out my hand to take the prescription refill forms for my drug cocktail from Dr. Kim. I walk out of his office feeling frustrated and unheard. I wave dejectedly to his preppy office receptionist as I pass by. As I open the front door that leads to the parking area I’m overwhelmed by bright sunlight and brilliant colors, and my eyes start to water sensitive from the drastic change. The green grass, the blue sky, the multicolored tulips in bloom along the stone walkway. It's all so drastically vibrant compared to the dull, muted colors of Dr. Kim’s office. “I bet he’s a Kim Kardashian fan with his love of bland color schemes in interior design.” I wondered to myself. My thoughts soured slightly “he said I was ‘plagued’ by Orla’s voice.” I half snorted thinking to myself. “If anything, Orla was the only friend I ever really had. As crazy as that sounds. Even if she was a figment of my imagination or a chemical imbalance. I felt complete and whole when I was able to hear her. Who knows, maybe I really am crazy.”