the test

when i was fourteen, i started seeing a shrink. my mom didn't want anybody we knew to find out that i was seeing a psychologist, so we drove two hours away to the next big city. "people talk," she told me. "there's nothing else to do so people just talk about other people. it happened to mrs. portillo when she took james to see dr. cavazos."

i personally didn't care if anybody found out. the thought even sort of excited me. i felt important and deep. i thought my problems were complex and that seeing a doctor gave them credence. i imagined that after my sessions, my doctor would step into her office and call a coworker, perplexed over what i'd told her. "it's unlike anything i've ever heard," she'd say. "she really has a hard life," she'd sympathize. i wore my depression like a badge of honor.

during my allotted hour, i'd tell my doctor, "dr. josie," about how i wanted to have sex with my fabricated boyfriend and how glorious i felt when i smoked weed. i told her that my mother hit me with her hairbrush and that she never let me borrow her clothes. when she administered the rorschach test, something i thought was only done in the fifties, i carefully examined the pictures and claimed to see things that i knew very well i didn't, like ponies mating or a baby with a club foot. "hmmm," she'd say as she jotted down notes and i'd smile, sure that i was impressing her.

on the drive back home, my mother would always try to ask me what we'd talked about. looking out my window, i'd tell her that the doctor thought i was very smart for my age and thought that i didn't need to be there, and that it was probably my mother that needed to be on the couch. i'd sneak a glance at my mother, her eyes brimming with tears, and suppress a smile. then this woman that i'd called a monster behind her back would stop to fill up her car and get us hot dogs from diamond shamrock. we'd ride in silence the rest of the way home, me with my walkman, she with the thoughts i'd implanted in her head.