walmart and other well-lit purgatories

This is the non-fiction piece that I submitted with my Oxford Summer Program application in 2019. I usually only work with fiction, so this was a unique learning experience for me.

You wring your hands, turning them white in your lap. Your eyes look everywhere, anywhere – the counterfeit Van Gogh paintings, colorfully contrasting with the drab beige walls; the modern clock outlined in silver – everywhere, anywhere but your Therapist.

Tic.

Tic.

Tic.

Your new Therapist. You’ve only known this woman for fifty minutes, which made it incredibly difficult to answer some of the questions that she asks you.

Do you have little interest or pleasure in doing the things you used to love?

Are you feeling tired all of the time, like you’re short on energy?

Have trouble concreting on things, such as reading or what’s on TV?

What kinds of questions are these, you wonder in the snide voice of your Mother.

And should you be more concerned that all of your answers are the same?

Tic.

Tic.

Tic.

The Therapist nods, face natural and voice non-threatening. You know it’s a part of the job, but it makes your skin crawl. You need the warning sign a face gives before the scolding. The tone switch before a verbal lashing. Your heart is beating in your throat.

When she gives you the diagnosis, relief washes over you. You’re not crazy! You weren’t making it up! Milliseconds later, the feeling fades. You aren’t neurotypical, for sure. What would your Mom say? What would your Dad say?

Nothing.

They would just look at you. They would just stare at you, their eyes drilling holes –layers and layers of skin shavings spiraling from the wound – right to your heart, chilling it with their disappointed gazes.

And then the face of your lover flashes in your mind. What would they say? You’ve been dating for a while now, and it’s been going pretty smoothly. You don’t want to mess that up.

Tic.

Tic.

Tic.

You thank the Therapist for her incredibly valued time and politely assure her over the dull, even note in the back of your head that you’ll be here next week, same time. You know you’ll need to, with all the work that needs to be done.

When you get into the car, you look out the window at the half-dead palm trees. Palm trees like these shouldn’t even be in this desert town – they’re short and hunched over, leaves half dried. You turn on the radio

Thank you, next (next) ,

Thank you, next (next) ,

I’m so fuckin’ -

Grateful for my e-

Immediately you turn it off. You can’t hear anything. You feel as if water is filling the car. The little solar powered nodding dog, still nodding, floats from its pace on the dashboard. The crystal hung around your review mirror flows with the tide. Bubbles rise from your nose, wriggling to the surface, catching the sunlight.

I need eggs, you tell yourself. (You don’t.)

So you go to the fluorescent wasteland and stick yourself to the side of the isles, dropping in the essentials – a smushed loaf of bread, brown eggs, half-green bananas. People walk past you, oblivious to your recent discovery.

What’s for dinner, Mom?

I really don’t like it when she talks to me like that. I know she’s my mother –

Turkey hot dogs… turkey hot dogs… where are the –

It’s a wonder, you think, how the world continues spinning even when a person is drowning. People simply step over you. Sometimes, they build an entire bridge just so they don’t have to look you in the eye.

Your wristwatch vibrates. It’s a text from your lover. How’d it go?, they ask. There’s a cute, blushing emoji with a soft smile and hands outstretched for a hug. You pretend not to see it at first, ignoring it for a few isles. It went fine, you say. The little periods jump to the beat of your heart in your ears.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Okay! They say. You still up for takeout and Killing Eve? Yeah, You send back. Can’t wait! They reply, with another blushing emoji, this time surrounded by hearts. You sigh.

You roll the basket to a stop next to the forest of cloths. If you were really committed to wasting time, you would venture in looking for a new shirt. Finding a new shirt was a task that sometimes took an entire day.

Cleanup on aisle seven. Cleanup on aisle seven.

But I don’t like broccoli, Moooom!

I need some roast beef, pepper jack, and ham -

But you weren’t committed enough. You weren’t enough committed to anything. You wanted to drop to the floor and huddle into a ball like your only child, an adopted dog who you had ironically named Mr. Right.

So you check out your groceries and load them into the trunk of your car, unsure of what to do next. You just – you’d just drive. Gulp the gas like the ambrosia it was. You’d take the scenic route with all the bends and turns and try not to think of violently veering to the right. You try not to imagine the car tumbling down, down, down, becoming one with a rockslide. You try not to think of the car upside down, the windshield raining on the cacti at the foot of the mountain, piercing their skin, the shards glinting as they catch the sunlight.

A tire spins lazily in the shrubbery a few feet away.

No, you won’t think of that.

To make sure you won’t think of that, you connect your aux cord and pick a song with a that still slap, but the lyrics still fit the mood.

And I don’t want your pity,

I just want somebody near me -

Guess I’m a coward -

You still reach your street too soon, rolling up the slightly slanted driveway. You only need one trip for the groceries, splitting them between both hands.

Hi, babe, your partner greets you warmly, looking up from their book.

Mr. Right meets you in the doorway happily licking your fist.

You stand in the doorway staring at them for a long time.

Worry starts to crease their forehead.

I have depression, you say.