Symptoms of Being Human (8 page)

WE PULL OFF THE FREEWAY,
and the wind rushing past the window fades to a gentle breeze. It's the first cool evening of fall, and the air on my face is exhilarating. It feels good to be driving on a Friday night with the windows down after ditching school for video games and french fries, and I look over at Solo and feel a sudden rush of affection for him.

“Thanks for standing up for me today,” I say.

He nods. “You needed it.”

“So.” I glance out the window, then back at Solo. “What happens on Monday?”

We turn onto my street.

“You could come sit with us,” he says.

“And get verbally abused by the entire football team? No thanks.” I expect him to reply, maybe even get defensive, but he just pulls up in front of my house and sets the parking brake.
And then we're quiet for a while, listening to the irregular idle of the old car.

“Are you going to get it for ditching?” Solo asks.

“Probably. You?”

He shrugs. “Half the time my mom yells at me, I can't understand what she's saying. Plus, I have a really good shame face.” He tilts his head toward me and his massive cheeks fall forward. He looks like an enormous sad bulldog.

“That
is
a really good shame face.”

I glance out the window at my house; if the attendance office called my parents, I'm probably in for a talk when they get home. In the meantime, I feel . . . good. Maybe for the first time since I started at Park Hills.

After a moment, I get out of the car.

“Have a good weekend,” I say, carefully closing the rickety door.

Solo bows. “May the Force be with you.”

My parents won't be home for another hour and a half, so I sequester myself in my room, fire up my laptop, and log in to Bloglr. When my dash appears, I lean back in my chair and stare at the numbers on the screen:

MESSAGES: 27

FOLLOWERS: 568

Five hundred sixty-eight followers
?
Last time I checked, it was fifty something—and it's been less than a week! I click Refresh, but the numbers remain the same. How did I gain
so many followers so quickly?

I start clicking on their avatars and browsing through their profiles, paying particular attention to the connections we have in common. When I notice that the first dozen or so also follow QueerAlliance's Bloglr feed, things start to make sense. QueerAlliance is a popular site; it probably gets thousands of hits every day. All these people must have found me because I was featured in the “What's New” section on the home page.

I run my fingers through my hair. These five hundred new followers—these strangers—have read my most personal thoughts. My most embarrassing feelings. My secrets. All at once, I feel naked. I know it's practically impossible . . . but what if someone reads this and knows it's me? I glance at the window to make sure my curtains are closed. They are. Then a nervous laugh escapes me, and I shake my head; I'm just being paranoid. Bloglr is anonymous. There's nothing anyone could use to connect Alix the blogger with Riley the congressman's kid. I let out a long breath, and then I scroll through the comments.

People appear to actually like what I've shared. More than that, they seem to take comfort or inspiration from it, and that makes me feel . . . I don't know. Like I matter. Like maybe I'm not so alone after all.

I click on Messages and start reading.

Anonymous: Love ur blog! XD

yell0wbedwetter: Moar pleez!

Anonymous: OMG. Thank. U. So. Much. I came out to my mom over the weekend & she cried & couldn't understand. Kept asking if I was trans, and I couldn't explain.
After I read ur post I told her your line “it's not a switch it's a dial.” I think she finally got it! U have no idea. Thank u!!!!

MiMi_Q: Oh, Alix, I don't envy where you are, but you will make it. You are an inspiration. Keep writing.

I scroll down. There are more messages like the ones above. I start replying, thanking the senders, and welcoming my new followers. And then, after about twenty minutes, I come to a more substantial message, and I start to read:

Anonymous: Hi Alix. I totally started crying when I read ur story about being in the toy store with ur dad. That is what I've been feeling my whole life. Exactly that. Anyway thank u so much. I want to come out to my sister but I don't know what to say. Any advice?

I reread the message. My heart physically aches at the thought that something I wrote helped this stranger figure out what they're going through. I start to type out a reply, tentatively at first, but with increasing velocity. Soon, my hands are flying over the keyboard; I'm surprised how much I have to say.

And then, just as I'm about to click Post, I hesitate. Because the message is anonymous, I can't reply privately; anyone who follows my blog will be able see this. I reread what I've written. It all sounds . . . wrong. False. Arrogant. Who am I to give this person advice? For one thing, I don't know
anything
about coming out. I'm still in the closet myself. How am I remotely qualified to advise this stranger on something so big?

I delete my reply and type a new one.

Alix: Hi, Anonymous. I wish I could give you advice, but the truth is, I'm just a big fat coward. The only person I've come out to is my therapist, who is oath-bound not to judge me and required by law to keep my secrets. In my own searching, I've come across a couple sites that might help: try Bloglr.com/genderbender, and also QueerAlliance.org. Sorry I couldn't be more helpful.

I reread my response, consider deleting it again, and then finally click Post. I sit back in my chair and frown at screen. I feel unsatisfied, like I just brushed someone off. I find myself second-guessing myself, wishing I had shared my original response after all.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the garage door.

My parents are home.

They're waiting for me in the living room when I come downstairs. My mother is stationed on the long sofa, her face tight with worry, her arms and legs crossed as though she's trying to tie her whole body in a knot. Dad paces in front of the coffee table, stopping when I enter.

“Riley,” he says. “We need to talk to you. Sit down.”

His voice is even, but I can tell by the set of his jaw that he's really angry. I approach and sit in a chair facing them.

“We got a call from school,” Dad says. “They said you weren't in class after lunch.”

I nod.

“You want to tell us where you were?”

“I ditched with a friend. We went to Fullerton.”

“Were you drinking?” my mother asks.

“What? No. I had water. We were just talking.”

Dad moves toward me. “Let me smell your breath.”

And just like that, we backslide. The trust I've worked so hard to rebuild over the last month is gone in one afternoon. And the stupid part is, I was never even into drinking—it was just that one time.
The
time. But even after six weeks in Pineview, they've never forgiven me, and they've never forgotten.

Dad leans forward, and I exhale in his face. He nods, satisfied, and moves to sit next to my mother.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I know I shouldn't have ditched. But I needed to get out of there.”

“We're going to need more of an explanation than that,” Dad says.

I look down at my lap. “I was having a bad day.”

Dad exhales through his nose. “You can't walk out of school just because you're ‘having a bad day.' You have to—”

But Mom lays a hand on his knee to cut him off. “Tell us what happened, honey.”

I think about Vickers demanding to know whether I was a dyke or a faggot, but I can't tell them that. So, I say, “Some kids were making me fun of me.”

Dad throws up his hands. “And?” His face is the color of beets, and I feel myself shrink from him. At my reaction, he folds his hands and softens his voice. “Riley, listen. Words can hurt. I get it. Jesus, right now, there are consultants being paid
thousands of dollars to write bad things about me. But you can't just walk out. You have to keep your chin up.”

I feel tears stinging my eyes, and I clench my jaw. I don't want to cry. I don't want to break down in front of them.

“What did they say to you?” Mom asks.

I shift in my seat. I have to tell them something. “They were making fun of the way I dress.”

Dad shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling. Mom reaches out to put a hand on his knee again, then thinks better of it and folds her hands in her lap. “We're just concerned,” she says. “You spend all your time shut up in your room on your computer. And . . .” She looks me up and down, and I just know she's about to make a comment about my clothes. “When you were at Immaculate Heart, we thought . . .” She glances at Dad. “I mean, we thought you were just rebelling against all that structure. The uniform, and the strict rules, and everything.”

“But now we don't know what it is,” Dad says.

I hear Doctor Ann's voice in my head, telling me to take a slow, deep breath. I try, but find that I can't; my chest is too tight. My fingertips are beginning to tingle.

Mom picks nervously at her cuticles. “You know,” she says, “not having a uniform can be really liberating. It's a great opportunity to wear what you want. To stand out from the crowd.”

I want to scream: That's exactly what I
don't
want to do.

Dad gets up, thrusts his hands into his pockets, and starts pacing again. “We're not dinosaurs, Riley. We remember what high school is like.”

He has no idea what it's like.

“And I know you think this is superficial,” he says, “but the fact is: appearance matters. People
do
judge books by their covers; it's human nature. They react to the way you look before they hear a single word that comes out of your mouth.”

I don't respond. The tingling spreads to my face.

“If you don't like the outfits I bought you,” Mom says, “we could go shopping together. We could make a day out of it.” She smiles, but it withers when she sees the look on my face.

“You think I wouldn't rather lounge around in sweats all day?” Dad says. “Believe me, I would. But you have to dress for the life you
want
. Is this how you want to live?” He stops, pulls a hand out of his pocket, and makes a dismissive gesture at me. “Is this who you are?”

My vision starts to tunnel. I grip the arm of the chair and stand.

“I need to go lie down,” I say. My voice sounds distant.

“We're not through talking.”

“I can't—I can't talk about this.”

“You can, and you will.”

“Riley—” Mom begins, but now it's Dad who interrupts.

“Let me handle this, Sharon.” He turns toward me. “Don't pretend we're the bad guys here. You want to dress this way? Fine. But don't use other people's reactions as an excuse to walk out on your obligations.” He holds up a finger. “First, you cancel last-minute on a very important fund-raiser. And we supported you, because we want you to have friends. We really do. But the very next day, you turn around and ditch class?”

“Please stop,” I say.

“Sean—” Mom says, but Dad cuts her off.

“I'm trying to run a very public campaign about education reform. You don't think the media will hear about it if my kid starts racking up truancies? How do you think this reflects on me?”

And then, it's as though a dam breaks in my head, and the tingling floods through me. I feel like I'm in someone else's body. My father is still talking, gesturing emphatically, but his voice and his movements seem far away.

“Stop,” I say, covering my ears with my tingling hands, holding my head so it doesn't fall apart. My voice sounds like it's coming from someone else. Someone talking in another room. “Stop talking,” I say, more loudly. “Just—please, shut up.”

“Do
not
speak to me—”

“SHUT UP!” I scream.

Mom's face goes white. My father's mouth falls open, and suddenly he looks like a little boy. I can't stand to look at him.

I feel my body turn and move toward the stairs. And then I'm in my room, and I feel the comforter on my face, and the tingling is everywhere. I bury my face in the pillow, and I scream.

And I scream.

When I come back to myself, I'm lying on my side in bed, facing the wall. I can hear my parents talking softly behind me. I start to roll over. Mom senses me moving and lifts the cold cloth from my neck.

“It's okay, honey,” she says. I blink up at her.

Dad moves to stand in the doorway. “You have your regular appointment with Doctor Ann tomorrow.” He's still angry, but the heat is gone from his voice. “In the meantime, you're
grounded.” He holds up my laptop.

I want to yell and punch the wall. I want to scream again, and say I'm sorry, and cry and push my mother away. I want to do all these things, but instead, I roll over and press my face into the comforter. After a moment, I hear the door close.

THERE ISN'T EVEN A COUCH
in Doctor Ann's office; just a big Pottery Barn desk and two ugly leather armchairs that always make me feel like I'm sitting on a dead cow.

Doctor Ann sits across from me wearing a blue dress, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. She doesn't use a notebook or anything during our sessions, which somehow makes me feel even more scrutinized, because her eyes never leave me. But all I can think about as I stare at the pale-green wallpaper is my dad's blank look when I screamed at him to shut up, and my mother shrinking into the couch.

“What's going on over there?” Doctor Ann asks. “Are you replaying the confrontation from last night?”

I stare at her. “How did you know?”

Doctor Ann nods toward the wall of diplomas behind her desk. “I have very expensive degrees,” she says.

I laugh, then run a hand through my hair. “I didn't mean to yell at them. It was like . . . someone else was using my mouth to do the yelling.”

She nods.

“My face was doing the tingling thing, and I couldn't breathe.”

“Has that been happening a lot?”

“I guess. I mean, it's been worse since I started school.”

“Are you taking your meds?”

I scrub at the carpet with one foot. “Yeah. Dad's doling them out.”

Doctor Ann steeples her hands and touches her two index fingers to her lips. “Why don't you tell me something
good
that happened this week?”

“Something good?”

“Yes.”

I think for a minute, and then I just start to babble. I share about meeting Solo and our subsequent fight. I describe my fluctuation episode in the hall, my panic attack the next day, and finally conquering the Gauntlet. I tell her about ditching the fund-raiser to study with Bec, and how I thought there was sexual tension, but it was probably all in my head. I tell her about going to the Reagan Years with Solo and making up. When I finally glance at the clock above the door, I've been talking for almost thirty minutes straight, so I stop. Doctor Ann watches me, waiting to see if I'll continue. I don't.

“Have you thought any more about starting that journal blog I suggested?”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “I almost forgot.” And I fill her in on
everything—from my first post to the anonymous “your a fag” commenter, to getting five hundred followers in a week.

“Wow,” she says, and then actually laughs out loud.

“Are you laughing at me?”

Doctor Ann recovers, shakes her head. “No. Psychiatrists aren't permitted to laugh at our patients.” She smiles. “I'm glad you started the blog. I think other teenagers will benefit from your insight.”

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding; I guess I wanted her validation—not just for the blog, but for the way I've been thinking and feeling.

Doctor Ann glances at her watch, and I sit up straighter. We're just getting started; I'm not ready to go yet.

“We haven't talked about my dysphoria,” I say.

“Would you like to talk about your dysphoria?”

“Not really.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Just okay?”

Doctor Ann frowns. “I get the impression you want something from me. Do you want to tell me what it is?”

I open my mouth, then close it. Then I say, “I don't know. I feel like you listen, but you don't do anything to fix what's wrong with me.”

“Well, okay,” she says, “but I don't think there's anything wrong with you.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Why do you think you're here?”

“It's really fucking annoying when you do that,” I snap.

Doctor Ann exhales heavily, then nods.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“Riley, I don't know what you want me to do for you.”

I lean forward. “I want you to fix my anxiety. Make me feel like it's okay to be who I am. Help me figure out how to . . . how to tell my parents in a way that will make them okay with it.”

Doctor Ann folds her arms. “That's a lot.”

I throw up my hands.

“All right,” she says. “Let's start with the anxiety.”

“Okay.”

“So, first, I want you to know that everybody experiences some level of anxiety. It's a normal human response to stress. It's like your body's smoke alarm. If there's a fire, you want to know so you can put it out or call 9-1-1, right?”

I shrug. “I guess. But it feels like my alarm is going off all the time.”

Doctor Ann nods. “Some people's systems are more sensitive than others'. For you, maybe all it takes is burning a piece of toast, and your alarm thinks the house is on fire.”

I nod.

“But there's no doubt you're experiencing a lot of stress. You just changed schools. Your dad is running for office. That's enough to give anybody a little anxiety. But when you add the bullying at school, and the gender dysphoria you're experiencing, it can be overwhelming. And if we take your sensitivity into consideration, it's not surprising that you're having more frequent, intense episodes.”

I sit back. I hadn't thought of it like that. And she's right—it
is
overwhelming.

“So how do I cope with it?” I say.

“You are coping. You're taking meds. You're going out with friends. Standing up for yourself. Writing about it. Screaming at your parents.”

“And that's normal?”

“For a teenager in your situation? I'd say so. It's better than”—she pauses, as if catching herself before saying the wrong thing—“doing something extreme.”

I fold my arms. “You mean like washing down a dozen Xanax with a bottle of whiskey?”

Doctor Ann's mouth drops open slightly, but then she recovers. “Yes,” she says. “It's much better than that.” She looks like she's waiting for me to say something more about it. When I don't, she leans forward in her chair and speaks again, more softly this time. “As for wondering if it's okay to be who you are—that's not a symptom of mental illness. That's a symptom of being a person.”

“What about my parents?”

“Are you ready to tell them?”

“No. But I'm kind of afraid I will. Like, in a moment of anger.”

“Do you know what you want to say?”

“No. Hell no.”

“All right. Well, let's make an agreement. You won't tell them until we have a chance to talk about it first. How about that?”

“Okay,” I say. And instantly, I feel a weight lifted. I put my face in my hands, and my shoulders start to shake. I hear Doctor Ann pull a tissue out of the box on her side table, and I take
it from her, blow my nose, and look up.

“I feel like you should give me some deep advice or something.”

“About what?”

“Like, I don't know, about life. Or how I'm supposed to deal with all this.”

Doctor Ann scrunches up her face in concentration. She's quiet for so long that I wonder if she's forgotten I'm there. Then, finally, she speaks.

“Find a cause.”

“Find a cause? What does that mean?”

“Take a stand for someone other than yourself.”

“You mean, like, demonstrate for animal rights or something?” I squirm on the leather chair.

Doctor Ann raises an eyebrow. “If that appeals to you.”

“How will that help?”

“Maybe it will get you out of your head. Get you to stop thinking about
you
so much. Get you engaged with other people.”

Stop thinking about
me
so much? What's that supposed to mean? I want to say it out loud, to snap at her; but instead, I just sort of deflate in the chair. She's probably right—she usually is—but the last thing I want to do right now is engage with other people.

“Find a cause. That's your deep advice?”

She shrugs. “Take it or leave it.”