7. Moody Chameleon

Moody Chameleon

M ara

I read.

A lot.

I’m amazed mostly that the characters in my beloved books have such distinct personalities, complete with unique quirks and their own developed sense of style. I, myself, as a character am not fleshed out really. I couldn’t begin to define myself as a type, like cute and sassy, or classy and refined, or edgy and assertive. I’m some of those things but not all the time.

I’m broody really.

And changeable.

Like a moody chameleon. Camouflaging myself to fit in temporarily, to meet someone else’s need, to protect myself by hiding my true self, whatever that is I know instinctively it’s unacceptable.

I’m unacceptable.

I finished writing in my journal then flipped through the past few weeks of entries. Up, down, happy, sad, angry, despondent, they fluctuated more than the weather. I could not understand what was happening with my moods. Good thing I had my psych appointment today. I looked at my watch. Willa should be here soon. She wouldn’t be late for this. On that thought, the doorbell rang.

I looked to the front door and thought of what others saw when they entered our house. A house we’d moved into when I was almost eight months pregnant with Olivia, something I would not recommend! With our first baby on the way, Zale wanted us out of the apartment and settled into what he called our starter home. Twelve years later we were still here, not due to a lack of affordability, but because keeping Olivia’s environment stable and calming for her became our priority. Staying here did not upset me in the least.

Grey-blue board-and-batten, a sweetly peaked roofline, and beautiful stained glass topped every window, including the top third of our heavy front door. Huge square brick piers topped by tapered columns supported the roof that extended low over a spacious and inviting L-shaped porch. White trim, brick in multiple shades of earth and sand, combined with the grey-blue board and batten reflected the colors of the beach on a windy, storm-swept day.

By the water, hearing the waves and smelling the sea, was probably the only place I ever felt a true sense of peace. I loved that my house was a reminder of that for me.

Inside were light grey walls, exposed wood beams, heavy baseboards, warm, wide-plank wood floors, and subtle reminders of my favorite place scattered throughout. Driftwood spheres perched on tall wooden candlesticks, a kitchen backsplash shone in shades of sea and sand, a beautiful candle holder made of layered sea glass, a single grouping of transparent blue vases, an iron octopus with elegant legs that stretched up to support a tempered blue glass bowl on the coffee table, gorgeous eye-catching pebbled glass pendant lights over the sink and dining area, wide mouth jars filled partway with sand supporting well-utilized candles, and a bronze pelican with its gigantic beak open, ready to hold our keys, cell phones, and wallets, perched on a table by the front door, all grounded me in memories of my favorite place.

The front door opened into a small vestibule that widened out into an open space consisting of a large family room directly in front, furnished with wide comfortable couches and a white mantled fireplace, the kitchen and dinette extended to the right of the family room, and the dining room lay off the kitchen at a ninety-degree angle.

The laundry was situated behind the kitchen and led to the attached garage. Another door, an inside door on the other side of the family room led into a small hallway off of which was a full bathroom, two smaller bedrooms and our master with our spa-like ensuite, walk-in closet, and double doors opening onto the back deck.

A stained-glass door in the kitchen led to the sunroom addition Zale had decided to build to ‘house my jungle’ as he called it. Rhys built it, many years ago. Comfortable seating, a curvy, feminine desk topped with my laptop, scads of plants sitting on shelves and hanging from the cross beams, and this being my own personal space to work, I set my beach fetish free.

Built-in storage topped with cushions in one corner was Livvy’s spot. Square wicker baskets tucked beneath the seating held her toys and a bookshelf against the one wall housed some of her books.

In here was the indoor fountain, in here was the Zen Garden, in here, the stuffed whale, the plush seagulls with their long legs dangling from the shelves. In here was where I had corked bottles of sand and seashells collected on vacation. In here I had a large driftwood clock, a glass orb encasing a wave frozen in time, a framed map of Port Stanley on the wall, and pictures of us, mostly Zale and Olivia, on the beach, scattered across my desk, the bookshelves, and the side tables. A cafe table held the Zen Garden as its centerpiece, and Livvy sat at it for hours raking lines in the sand. She always had the fountain on when we were in here, the sound of the water soothed her as well.

Outside, my gardens, now Olivia’s as well, were prolific. Beds of herbs and cut flowers, a butterfly nursery, a hummingbird garden, perennial gardens, and pots, too many pots to count, nestled into every nook and cranny, front and back.

Life.

Life and beauty all around me.

For me. For me to give to my family.

A family that included my beautiful sister Willa.

“Auntie Willa!” Olivia’s feet charged the front door that Willa had unlocked with her key.

“Hey, Birdy!” I could hear the smile in my sister’s voice. How she came from my mother I will never know. Me? I could be uptight, grumpy, snappish. Willa? Just easy, breezy cheer. Like a summer holiday. Beautiful like summer, too.

I watched Olivia hugging Willa around the waist, Willa’s hands held Olivia lightly at her back, her smiling face tilted down toward her niece. Willa and Olivia could easily pass for sisters or even mother and daughter at a stretch. Both had fine, curly, chestnut hair they wore layered to their shoulders, straight, thick, eyebrows that slanted over long-lashed eyes, and we all three had the same delicately formed downturned lips with their perfect bows .

Willa was blessed with freckles and four extra inches of height than I had, and legs up to her neck. Olivia got those too, but she got hers from her dad. It was a mystery where Willa got those fantastic legs. She was curvy like me, however, her curves stretched out over an extra four inches, which made her va-va-va-voom instead of dumpy.

Olivia released her and skipped back to the family room. Willa hung her coat on a hook, slipped off a stylish pair of brown suede ankle boots, and wandered toward me in her socks. Wearing black leggings, a plain white V-neck tee, and an open plaid shirt with rolled sleeves, she looked sweet and sexy and stylish all at once.

“I swear it’s your legs that allow you to wear anything you want and still look like a fashion plate.”

I hugged my sister. I loved her like my own child. I babysat her, a lot, from the time she was born, and all through her childhood years when I still lived at home. In fact, that did not stop even after I moved out. With thirteen years between us, she was like my own baby.

“If I wore that I’d look like a lumberjack ballerina.”

She gave me a good squeeze, her lightning eyes reprimanding me. “Mara, you need to be kinder to yourself. Sometimes, and I hesitate to say this, but sometimes I swear you're channeling Mom. She doesn’t need to be here to put you down because you do it for her. ”

She kept her arms around me but leaned back to look me in the face. “You are the most beautiful person I know.”

Wet hit my eyes but I beat it back. Wet, not because I was touched by her remark, though I was, but because I really wished I were beautiful on the outside. Shallow, and of course I knew beauty inside was more important, but I wasn’t exactly confident I had that either, and I so longed to be beautiful. I didn’t begrudge my sister her beauty. There was no jealousy, I wanted every good thing for my sister. I was just tired of feeling like wallpaper.

“I love you, sweet Willa. Thank you for being here with Olivia today.”

“Always happy to be with my birdy.” She smiled, then yelled to Olivia, “I’ve got good animal stories for you today!”

Working part-time at the animal shelter, Willa always had new stories, which would be even more interesting to Olivia now that she already knew, or would meet, the animals in question.

Willa also donated her time and talent providing free graphic design for their website and fundraising events. Along with her partner and friend, Junie, and their assistant and friend, Minty, she ran her own graphic design firm. They had office space in downtown Milltown, but she only worked from the office a couple of times a week, allowing her free time which she used to manage the volunteer roster at the animal shelter, and get her fur baby fix at the same time. She also made herself available to me when I had a doctor’s appointment or had to go somewhere without Olivia .

Unsurprisingly, I got out of the house with little fanfare. Auntie Willa and Olivia were part of our mutual admiration society, and they held each other in high esteem.

It was only a short while later I learned there was a world of difference between a psychiatrist and a psychologist.

A psychologist is trained to help you unwind yourself from the ropes of mental entanglement.

A psychiatrist is trained to strip your skin off and painstakingly peel back each of your layers starting with your outer layer of protective fat and moving inward to cross section your muscle and sinew, map your nervous system, and extract the marrow from your bones.

By the end of the appointment, I felt battered, raw, and shamefully exposed.

The questions came one on top of the other.

What brings you here today?

Do you ever hurt yourself?

Do you feel empty?

How often do you get angry?’

“You seem to be angry at your mother. ”

I hated that question. I felt judged. Just that simple question. I felt like screaming, ‘Wouldn’t you be? Am I not allowed to be angry with my mother?’ I realized later that he never implied that my anger was negative, but I felt the judgement deeply, nonetheless.

“You said you yell sometimes. Do you yell every day?”

“I get frustrated. I don’t yell hard or mean, just things like ‘for the love of peace can you please brush your teeth?’ after asking six times. I don’t yell hard at her.”

“You said a relative abused you. Can you tell me about that?”

I looked away. “No, I don’t talk about that.”

“Is there anything you can explain about it?”

I got angry then, thinking he’s probably a sexual deviant and he’s going to get off on this. I felt violated all over again.

“I don’t talk about that.” I met his eyes then and he changed his direction.

“Do you ever hurt yourself?”

Oh, God. If he finds out I’m insane he’s going to take my child. Be brave, Mara. If you’re not good for them, they should take them away from you.

“Sometimes.”

“Do you feel empty, Mara?”

Something about that rang true but it wasn’t quite right .

“I don’t know. I feel like water. I don’t have my own skin; I’m defined by whatever contains me. I don’t have a solid substance. I change to suit the containment. Not empty, exactly. I reflect.”

“Tell me about your sadness. When was the last time you felt happy for months at a time?”

“Months?” I thought about it. Who’s happy for months at a time? “For months in a row, I think it would be back when I was first dating my husband.”

By the time the appointment ended I was once again composed, but that was to be short-lived. Leaving behind his outer scientist, he sat back and studied me with kindness.

I relaxed back in my seat. I enjoyed kindness. I could roll around in kindness. Turn my face to it like it was sunshine in April.

I revered kindness.

“You have moods,” he paused, “but I’ll get back to this. You don’t have major clinical depression; you have Persistent Depressive Disorder. You’ve been sad for a long time. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

I was startled; startled, scared and a tiny bit thrilled.

He sees me.

I’m here, I exist, I am seen.

I couldn’t remember the last time I felt seen. He saw my sadness. My sadness was my failure. My job was to make a happy home, set the tone, create warmth and happiness within our walls. Why should I even be sad? I had everything.

“There’s no medicine for this. The antidepressants do not work with this type of depression. If you’re suicidal…”

“I’m not.” I cut him off. He’s going to put me in the hospital. Oh, my Lord!

“I'm just saying if you were…”

“I’m not. I wouldn’t do that to my family.” I leaned toward him, looking directly into his eyes.

“I believe you. I believe you, Mara. I’m giving you information only, in that if you ever were, I could give you medication.”

“Okay, but I’m not.” I wanted to be sure he understood this.

“I believe you.”

I took a breath. Leaned back into my chair again. Took another breath.

“About the moods, I believe you have Borderline Personality issues. Not the full-blown diagnosis…”

Whatever else he said was lost to me in that moment. Buried by an avalanche of shame, I turned my face away. My eyes welled with tears and heat suffused my face, I couldn’t look at him.

“This is difficult for you to hear. There is help. And I believe you will do well. ”

Fuck me but the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. More like your mother than you’d ever want to be. Personality disorder. Unworthy. Burden. A weeping boil on their lives.

“You need counseling, and not just for a little while, but for a long time. Ongoing.”

“Borderline Personality?” I whispered.

“Issues,” he stressed. “Issues with identity, moods, look it up when you get home. See what you think.”

I was reeling, arms wrapped tight around my waist, protecting myself, but I was too late. I was eviscerated, and he could see everything.

“You’ll do well Mara. You’re strong and determined.”

I turned my face to look at him. His face softened further.

“You’re full of pain, aren't you?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I can see it in your eyes. You’ve been in pain for a long time. There is help and you can feel better.”

“Why do I have this?”

“It comes from your family of origin; a history of abuse is common in people who have these issues...” He trailed off. “Are you angry?”

“No,” he showed me kindness. I was a sucker for kindness, so I gave him more. “I am ashamed. ”

He dipped his chin. “That’s common, too, with people who have this. There is help. I believe you can feel better. I believe you will do well.”

I wasn’t sure how he wrapped up the appointment. I was positive, though, that he was experienced in shifting shell-shocked people out of his office to usher in the next poor unsuspecting soul. He told me to call the office in the next few days, that he’d get me set up with counseling and started with DBT. I was to see him in a month for an update.

Phrases rolled around my head, ‘family of origin.... borderline personality… look it up and see what you think… sad your whole life…. Do you hurt yourself? … you have moods… identity issues… I see it in your eyes… you’ve been in pain a long time…’

I drove home in a daze.

Willa’s big blue eyes lifted in question as soon as I walked into the house. I told her I was exhausted by all the questions, explained that I had Persistent Depressive Disorder, as it was the lesser of the two evils.

Withheld the rest.

Withheld the shame.

The sea of Olivia’s therapy, homeschooling, depression, confusion, my writing, Zale, my mother, all of it swirled around me, I felt the pull of the current and it was sucking me under. I pushed it all aside, put on my happy face, and focused on visiting with Willa .

When she left I made Olivia a vanilla milk steamer. She cuddled into me on the couch, prattling on about all the pets in Harry Potter, their names, who owned them, and which ones were her favorites. Willa’s visit, and the resulting chat about the animals in the shelter, had triggered a renewed interest in the fantastic beasts of the Harry Potter world. So, of course, we put on Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and she sat and watched, enthralled once again with the action unfolding on the tv, while I stared straight ahead, unseeing, my attention directed inward.

When Zale came home I said nothing of my appointment.

I felt desperately sorry for him.

Desperately unworthy.

I wished he would just leave.