My chart
I have to admit something. I haven’t always been mentally balanced. Actually, it’s a fairly recent thing in my life. Only about five years. If there’s one thing I can say about my mental breakdown it’s this: I’m lucky I did it when I was young. It gave me the privilege of having a lease on life, not taking it for granted. I don’t think of those few years of my life often, but because of the movie I just watched I was reminded of something.
I always wanted to read the chart with all the notes in it from my therapy sessions.
When I was eighteen my eating disorder and various other psychological ailments came to a head. You know, suburban psychological disorders (excuse the term, it fits me, it might not fit you), EDNOS, acute panic and anxiety, depression. Because of all these I had to drop out of University. I knew more about the bathrooms on campus than the classrooms I was assigned to. I had to move back home with my parents, in a bedroom that belonged to my brother for fifteen years. I had to be hospitalized. Twice. Both for less than forty-eight hours. But they were hospitalizations nonetheless.
After the hospitalizations my parents exhausted every resource they had to find me the best therapist in the area. For years I’d seen this shrink or that, usually hippy-dippy women who had macrame bullshit all over their offices. They weren’t relatable enough, intellectual enough and they certainly didn’t have anything invested into my care. When my parents sent me to the office of a Dr. Franklin Otto Bernhoft (don’t be a creeper) I was pleasantly surprised. If anything in my life could be called pleasant at the time.
The man stood well over six feet tall, wore impeccably pressed khaki slacks, fine woolen sweaters and crisp white undershirts. His hair was none like any I’d ever seen. Shiny, the perfect color of chestnut, not particularly thinning, parted and combed to the side in the most distinguished manner. His mustache was perfect in every way. The same color of his hair, meticulously groomed, not too thin and not too thick. He spoke with the air of an educated man and a slight gurgle in his throat. He sat in a big black chair with his ankle resting atop his knee, showing the argyle socks peeking out of his shined Italian leather loafers. He’d served in the military, had his own radio show, was an opera and jazz singer, had a large family. Franklin was a dream.
I spent three days a week with this man. Always in the same chair in his office. (I felt like therapists judged you based on the seating choice you made. I decided to sit there the first day and never varied once.) We spoke about so many things, from art to war. From home to dreams. From life to what comes after.
I couldn’t actually recall a conversation from one of our sessions if I tried. I’ve conveniently forgotten everything from that treacherous time period in my life. Thankfully.
But I always thought it would be so amazing to go back through his notes and read what he wrote about me, to relive what we discussed. Alas, I know it is a terrible idea. Not too long ago I thought it would be fun to go through all of my journals from high school. They just made me sad, angry and depressed. I’m glad I read over them, I know I’ve come a long way.
Seeing what Franklin wrote, it would all be too real. I’d rather focus on the positive in my life. How I’ve been depression, anxiety, panic and eating disorder free for almost three years now. I’m blessed.
The only way I’d like to have that chart now is to put it in my hope chest without looking at it. It would be a comforting feeling knowing that all of those things are in my possession. Safely locked away in my hope chest, in a closet in my parents’ house along with all the memories I have from there.
