12. SUBJECT: LENA

to: [email protected]

from: [email protected]

subject: Lena

sent: February 28, 2017 at 10:43am

Dear Cass,

When I met you at that party, I admit that I noticed you for the way you look. But I have to say, the more I write to you, the less I think of you as a pretty girl I saw at a party. Now you're more like the smartest voice in my head.

Not that I hear voices.

Don't worry about what Mel said. She didn't mean anything by it, she just doesn't know you.

She and I were supposed to shoot pool and grab drinks at The Litigator last night, but I ended up having to cancel. I was about to leave for the bar when Lena called. She was crying. I couldn't make out all the words, but I've known Lena for most of my life and she rarely cries.

Obviously, I had to go over there. Mel was nice about it, but a little annoyed. Which is fair, I guess. Nobody likes to be bailed on, especially if you're a girl being abandoned for another girl (doesn't matter that the other girl is your best friend and not attracted to men, right? Still sucks.) We're going to have lunch today though, so I'll make it right.

Peter and I got to Lena's less than twenty minutes after I got her call. We let ourselves in the apartment, not even bothering to knock.

She never locks her door. It's a problem, especially since Lena is the size of a fourth grader and lives alone. It really makes her the ideal victim of a break-in.

We heard her before we saw her. She was drowning in tears and a giant sweatshirt that I'm pretty sure belongs to Peter. Her eyes were smudged with black makeup and her dark hair was very knotted and wet around her face from all the crying. Lena's gorgeous, but she's an ugly crier.

Peter sat beside her on the bed and scooped her into his lap like she was a kid or a small dog. He smoothed her hair back---which did nothing for the mess and asked her what happened.

She was crying too hard to make any sense, so we let her scream/cry for 15 minutes.

I tried to tidy her room and make myself useful. I straightened up her desk and gathered all the loose change into an empty jar while Peter stayed on her bed, awkwardly patting her back while she shrieked. Eventually she caught her breath long enough to talk.

It was Taylor. They'd had a big fight. I mean, it's weird enough to see Lena so upset, but I've never seen her so torn up over relationship stuff. She's pretty private.

Lena met Taylor at the beginning of last summer. Taylor, who is very quiet compared to her girlfriend, worships Lena. She thinks Lena is so funny, and charming, and driven. Which is true. Lena is just as crazy about Taylor, though. She's just less obvious about it.

Apparently, Taylor wants things from Lena that aren't in my friend's five-year plan. Taylor wants to get married, have some kids, and live out in Connecticut, while Lena wants to travel all over Asia and drink coconut water while she lives in a boat or something equally wild. She's just... unconventional.

Taylor used to find Lena's wildness adorable, but lately, things have been different. Earlier, she had asked Lena where things were going, and Lena said something like "I'm too young to know where my life is going."

Which led to Taylor asking if she was even serious about their relationship.

Lena argued that the two were unconnected.

Anyway, the fight got a little bit out of control, and Taylor said there was no point in loving someone who didn't share her priorities and left.

Peter and I listened quietly. Her voice was still shaky, so I didn't ask if it was a big fight or an actual breakup.

"Thumbelina," Peter said. He stood up from the bed and lifted her with him (she's 4'11 but likes to tell people she's nearly 5'1.) "We are going to take very good care of you."

Peter walked out of the bedroom and dropped Lena on her couch. He told me to stay with her and jogged out the front door and across the street to the gas station, leaving us alone.

Lena is one of my best friends, but in times like these I forget how to talk to her without Peter. He's better at this stuff. I'm not made of ice or anything, but I can be a little stupid about emotions that aren't mine.

Lena was still sniffling, but she'd stopped crying. "How did things go on your date the other night?" she asked me.

"It was okay," I said. "Do you really want to hear about that stuff?"

She snorted. "Oh, come on, it's not like I'm the only person who has a life. How did it go?"

I told her about Mel.

"Think it'll turn into something?" Lena asked.

"Yeah, maybe. She's cool."

Lena was asking me if Mel was mad that I bailed on her when Peter came back. He was holding two full bags of junk food. It looked like he had grabbed anything with a high sugar or fat content.

Lena gaped at him. "I can't eat any of that! If I'm going to be single, I need to get my ass to the gym."

"It's one night. Shut up and eat the fucking Doritos," Peter said.

For once she listened.

We were sitting in Lena's living room eating shit and talking shit when I thought about your last piece of advice---you know, about how to take care of Peter.

It was so obvious how Peter tried to be there for Lena, how he took care of her. So, I listened to what you told me last week and asked Peter if junk food and conversation helps him feel better when he isn't okay.

Peter twisted a chocolate bar wrapper in his hands and shrugged. "I never thought about it. I guess it depends, y'know, if I'm just sad or actually depressed."

"What do you mean?" Lena had shoved a whole Twinkie in her mouth, so it came out more like "Wha da oo mee?" It really lightened the mood.

"I mean that feeling sad and being depressed are just different."

It was strange to hear Pete say the word 'depressed' out loud. It's not a secret, but he rarely acknowledges it. We don't talk about his stuff, I guess.

"There are reasons for being sad. Sometimes it's bad news or a shitty day or whatever. When I'm sad I can be cheered up, like anybody else. Depression is, I don't know, bigger. It's not the same." He hesitated, thinking. "I have to be pulled out of depression, or wait for it to leave, and that can get... complicated. I don't know. Being sad is like being in a dark room where you can turn on the lights when you're ready, or sometimes someone else can do it for you. It's a feeling, same as being pissed or excited. But depression isn't like that. It's more like a power outage, one that you don't know how to repair, and you don't know how long it'll last. You end up waiting for the electrician to show up and fix it for hours or days... sometimes longer."

I didn't know how to respond. What was I supposed to say? I started talking about how potatoes can power clocks, so maybe we could start looking into alternative power sources---it was so fucking stupid.

But Peter is a saint, and he gave me a break. He grinned madly. "And then, there are the antidepressants. I guess they're like the tools or whatever that you get from the electrician, who in this analogy is the doctor, maybe. Anyway, the meds can help, but they make your mouth dry, you're constantly tired, and some of them even make your dick stop working."

"Like no function at all?" Lena asked, his eyes wide.

"Not exactly, it's hard to explain." Peter seemed done with the topic. "I hear some of them make you shit, like a lot."

I chuckled and reached for the tin of frosting. Yes, I ate it with a spoon. I know, I'm disgusting.

We put Lena to bed around 3am. She was still sad, but she managed a few laughs and jokes.

On the short drive home, Peter asked me why I brought up his stuff. He wasn't mad or anything, just curious. So, I told him what you told me. Which meant I had to explain how you and I have been emailing. It was cool actually, to talk about it. Sometimes things don't feel totally real until I talk about them with Peter. He didn't mind that you and I had discussed him. I was a little worried he would get upset about that, but he said that it made sense I went looking for advice. He told me you sound smart and nice. I agreed: you're definitely smart. But I'm still trying to figure out if you're nice.

I'm only kidding, Cassie, don't worry. You're great.

This whole thing has been surprisingly helpful to me. I was wondering if you might want to hang out sometime? I know Simon is your only friend, but maybe I could be... friend-adjacent? Or we could strike up an acquaintanceship? Emails are great, but all this typing is time-consuming. We could study sometime, or you could meet Peter and compare notes about therapy. No charge, just for fun.

Wes

. . .

Texts sent on March 1, 2017 at 1:26pm:

Cassie Belford: Can you and Sarah pick me up on your way back from the mall?

Simon Idzik: Sure. We decided to hang out at the apartment anyway, so text me when you're done.

Cassie Belford: If you two have sex on any of the shared furniture, I don't want to know about it.

Simon Idzik: The leather makes my ass sweat. No worries there.

Cassie Belford: Maybe I can skip my appointment and hang out with you guys?

Simon Idzik: No way, Cass. You need to go. It's for your own good.

Cassie Belford: You don't like hanging out with me as much as you used to like hanging out with me.

Simon Idzik: Don't be an idiot.

Simon Idzik: You need to talk to someone. A professional with the skills to help you cope.

Simon Idzik: You've hardly spoken about everything that happened. I can feel you protecting me, you know. Open up to somebody. I thought you liked this one, you said she's smart.

Cassie Belford: She's fine, I guess.

Cassie Belford: But I still think this is an excuse, so you and Sarah can fuck as loud as you want in my house.

Simon Idzik: You're going, no excuses. We'll be outside when you're done.

Cassie Belford: Fine.

. . .

to: [email protected]

from: [email protected]

subject: Notes on counselling

sent: March 3, 2017 at 4:08am

Hi Weston,

Here are some notes about therapy you can pass on to Peter for me:

1. Believe reviews online. If people say a doctor is a quack, he's probably a quack.

2. Double check what kind of insurance they accept before you book the appointment.

3. CBT is all the rage right now. Keep an eye out.

CBT, or Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, is pretty common when you see a counsellor for an anxiety disorder or depression. The doctor I've been seeing most recently has coerced me into CBT "for my own good." I've seen her a few times, and I guess she's not terrible, but she has a habit of showing me how she feels.

For example, she made me talk about my relationship with my mother in our last session, and when I finally started to open up about it, she became so uncomfortably emotional. She cried. And not subtly. Her eyes filled with big heavy tears that I couldn't ignore. She's clearly doing her job wrong.

CBT involves worksheets that look like a fourth grader's homework. Lots of charts. You start with something that you're struggling with, rate the emotions you feel, plot your thinking, and then you point out everything destructive in those thoughts. Finally, you re-rate your emotions. I will give you an example:

Simon and Sarah want to go out instead of watching TV with me like we always do on Tuesday nights. They don't like being around me because I am kind of a dick and they're starting to grow up and move on with their lives.

I am 72% upset about this. I am 67% pissed off. I realize these numbers do not add up, but math is not important in the healing process.

So, you see, I am assuming that the reason that Simon and Sarah want to go out has something to do with their opinion of me. Also, we do not always watch TV on Tuesday nights. Last Tuesday, for example, they watched TV and I read Hank my rewrites for the second arc of my book. I am mind-reading when I say that Simon and Sarah do not like to be around me. Simon and Sarah are growing up, but so am I... I'm also catastrophizing.

Now, after the process, I am 40% upset and 32% pissed off.

At least that's how it's meant to work. I'm still determining whether or not it does anybody any good. My counsellor thinks that it's good for me to look at things through more than just my own perspective. Apparently, the way I see things are not the only way in which to see them.

I got a little defensive and told her about how I write to you. I explained that I'm utilizing your voice and our correspondence to broaden my perspective.

She said that it would be good for me to do that outside of my writing.

I'm trying to give this woman a chance, but I'm getting a little sick of her going on about what would be good for me.

It might be time to end the relationship. I hate breaking up with doctors. I think I make them doubt their skills as mental health professionals. It's as if they want me to be reassured that it isn't their failures, only mine. I'm the problem. I'm too fucked up to be your patient. Really, you're such a good one, I'm jealous of the girl who gets to do sessions with you.

When Simon and Sarah picked me up after my appointment, he handed me a pack of skittles and told me he had found a psychologist who had opened a private practice. If I wanted to stop seeing the crier, I could give her a call.

"Her name is Dr. Maharaj. She's pretty well known. She does a lot of work at the community centre and on campus for people who can't afford to pay high private fees."

"So, she's a do gooder. Don't you remember the last one of those I saw?" That woman told me the solution was always through God and Jesus Christ His Son. I stayed 11 minutes of the hour we had.

"No, no, she's cool, sounds like a badass. I think she might be the one." Simon talks about counsellors the way other people might talk about soulmates.

Sarah, who was trying to focus on making a left turn, snorted in disbelief. She thinks Simon can be a little corny.

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I just got off the phone with her."

"And?"

Simon put on a weird accent. "She said things like, 'beg pardon' and 'thank you for your phone call'. She told me that she chooses to focus on addressing a root problem, finding ways to cope and accept the past, and building resilience as a team." He dropped the accent. "I think she sounds very promising."

"Simon!" Sarah said, laughing. "She wasn't British!" She met my eyes in the rear view mirror. "She wasn't British," she repeated, still laughing.

I smiled. Sarah and I have been friendlier lately. She's always been nice, but it turns out she's also very funny.

Simon huffed. "I know. I was trying to talk like a proper lady. You know, like Cassie when she's being annoying."

Whatever.

I told Simon I would think about calling her.

He wasn't having it. "You're either seeing Dr. Maharaj or we're finding someone new."

"Simon," I started, getting slightly frustrated. "You do understand that I am a functioning adult, yes? I get good grades, even better grades than you. I display proper manners when I meet new people, and am, in fact, on my way to becoming a published author. I'm fine."

Simon dismissed this. "You need to find some solutions. Make friends, go out, get excited about shit. I don't know. Back me up here, Sarah."

It drives me crazy when Simon calls for reinforcements like that. It's as if I'm a wild horse he needs help taming.

"Sh, I'm driving," Sarah said. "Also, I think you're getting a little preachy here, so I'd prefer to stay out of it."

"Staying out of it isn't going to help her. Come on, Cass you need to take care of yourself. Talk to someone." I opened my mouth to argue, but Simon cut me off. "I don't count."

"Ugh. What an ego," I muttered. Then, just as I had during my appointment, you were my hail Mary. "I talk to Weston."

"Who?" Simon asked. I hadn't realized that your name had never come up before.

"You know, the guy I've been writing to for my book. The one I'm emailing for peer character-research, for my book, remember?"

"You've been writing him back?" Simon was genuinely surprised.

"Yes," I said impatiently. "We write a couple times a week." To prove it, I started to list random facts about you. "He writes for the sports section of The Journal. He's a history major. He plays hockey, and he's really good. We're friends."

Yes, Weston, I've decided that we're friends.

"Hold on, Weston Maguire?" Sarah asked. "I've heard of him. He used to go out with Rachel Turner. I heard he might get drafted by a major hockey team."

See, you're practically famous.

Simon told me that it's great I have a new friend, but it doesn't negate the value of a licensed therapist.

Oh well. I had to try.

We argued a little more and I could tell it made Sarah uncomfortable. I only relented when Simon got emotional. He gave me The Speech. He's been stringing different patterns of the same words together for the last few years; always about caring, and healing, and other phrases intended to make me feel compelled to do whatever he asks. Always for my own good.

All that was yesterday. Today I had a meeting with Julie. She and I meet at least once a week to go over the progress of my book and the editing process.

Julie is a pretty well-established writer and has been lending me her input through my rewrites. She's been a godsend, really. Julie (never Jules) is in her 60s. She has frizzy grey hair that hangs to her waist and big round glasses.

Most people would consider Julie eccentric. She's a bit of a hoarder, and a proud one at that. Her office has wall to wall shelves that hold statues, jars and vases that are too small to be useful, sometimes her cat, and of course, all kinds of books.

Julie read over my notes and told me that my character development keeps improving but I need to create a little more depth within the dialogue.

"He needs to sweep me off my feet!" she practically yelled. Her office is small, so her already loud voice can be overwhelming during our meetings.

"It isn't a love story," I rolled my eyes. Julie pursed her lips at my attitude, but she didn't say anything.

"No, no, no. I don't want to be romanced... I want to be captivated. Make him captivate me. Give yourself to the character and indulge!"

I told you, she's a bit strange.

We talked about more improvements and I asked her when she thinks I should plan to be finished my rewrites. As usual, she didn't have a real answer.

"You will stop rewriting when it's written. Please, Cassandra, you know this is a process, so stop giving yourself deadlines. The words are on the page, now make them into something great." Julie should design motivational posters. She consistently forgets the fact that, as a teacher and my mentor, she needs to give me deadlines.

She also pronounces my name Cah-SAHN-dra.

Still, the meeting was helpful. She pointed out some awkward sentence structures and made some good notes on some new dialogue I'd written. As scattered and loud as she is, Julie is a phenomenal writer.

On the way back home, I stopped by the SRC and left you something.

Don't get too excited. I just wanted to offer a sincere thank you for not letting Mel cloud your impression of me last week on your date.

Simon was so happy that I agreed to call Dr. Maharaj that he and I hung out tonight, only the two of us.

I read him my new edits, he did some homework, and I emailed you back. I know it sounds dull, but time with Simon is never dull. I always feel so happy after Simon and I hang out. It's late now, almost 4am so you'll be up soon. It's weird that you wake up so early.

Best,

Cassie

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