Kaleidoscope (3 page)

I sighed. “Well...trying to. It's been a long time. I spent about fifteen minutes just trying to find my acrylics...but uh, I bought some new paintbrushes today, thought I'd give them a try.”

“It
has
been a while!” She sat down on the edge of my unmade bed and gazed with admiration at the canvas, still too new and abstract to resemble what I had in my head.

“I'm no artist, but it seems like you're off to a good start. What is it going to be? Scenery?”

“It will be actually. Good guess. I uh...I feel so cheesy talking about art. But I wanted to capture fall before all the leaves disappeared.”

Mom straightened up, folding her hands in her lap. “Well, I think that's just magnificent. I can't wait to see when it's done!” She paused. “You know, there's some painting classes as the rec center down the street, it's one bus stop before the grocery store. I'm sure you've seen it?”

I nodded, though I had no clue that our town even had a recreation center.

“Well, I think it might be fun for you to go! I know how much you love to paint, and the classes are cheap...you might meet some friends there, some people that you have something in common with--”

I snorted. “I don't know about that. Ms. Orowitz might have a fit if I did anything without her watchful gaze...it might interfere with her
methods
.”

“Oh, it's just a suggestion!”

“I don't really like to paint around other people--” I continued to protest. Mom just stood up, patting me on the back as she turned to leave the room.

“I'm serious, just think about it! It might be good for you. I won't pressure you though, I'm just glad to see you doing something you enjoy.” She prepared to close the door behind her, but peeked her head in once again. “And I hate to interrupt, but I've had a long day today. Want to help me make dinner?”

I knew better than to pretend her request was anything less than a motherly command. On the weekends, if I wasn't feeling up to helping, my mother's meals ended up turning for the worst, as if all of her pent-up frustrations unleashed themselves within the food, which ended up in turn seeking revenge from the inside out. I nodded and she disappeared down the steps, which squeaked in protest. I began putting my paints away, and I gazed at my canvas.

Well, it was no Van Gogh, but I guess it could have been worse. “Hopefully I'll actually finish you sometime,” I muttered to it.

CHAPTER FOUR

It had been an uneventful weekend, filled mostly with the struggle between my brushes and canvas to create something with at least some resemblance to what I'd hoped it would look like, broken with occasional stares out the window at the somewhat warm days. Days like these were ones I remember often spending outside before we moved, and while I had thought about stepping outside for them now, I couldn't bring myself to actually do it.

October 21

Looking outside from my bedroom window today, I remembered how much I used to love being outside when I was young. In fact, most of what I can actually remember that's good ends up taking place there. I thought about going out there today, but I know it wouldn't have been nearly as fulfilling. This fact made it depressing to think about going out there...and it also made me very angry.

I didn't always used to be the way I am now. They call it a mental “illness,” I call it a change of perspective...but either way, I do wish it was possible to just wake up  one day and be totally happy like I used to be as a child. Things were so much simpler...the world hadn't lost its magic, and I was a stranger to the evils of the world. Innocence and ignorance keep the magic of joy alive, but I no longer have either of those things.

Instead, I just have this picture in my head that I'm trying to paint.

As I sat in Ms. Orowitz's office, my head miles away from it as usual, I thought about the last entry that I'd written in the small, leather-bound journal. It was a depressing thought, wondering if it was possible to experience the wonder of the world through a child's eyes as an adult. Was it possible after witnessing what the world truly was really about? Not all of it was good; in fact, the world was sometimes a terrifying, horrible place. I believe one's attitude of these negatives, and a person's strength to handle solid reality, shapes their perception of the world around of them...and inside of them, too.

In my head, though...in there, not all the magic was lost. I was told it's an unhealthy side effect of my “illness” to constantly prefer the dreams, landscapes, people, and places in them to those in real life, but that's just how things were for me. In my imagination, I chose how events would play out, and kept only the most beautiful things, tossing out anything unpleasant or harmful. I could see things there that no one else could, things that wouldn't be seen anywhere else. It was so much more peaceful there, so calm, like when I looked into the tiger's eyes...

But how was it possible for me to see the real world so negatively, full of loathing and distrust, and still find hope in my perception of the possibilities inside of my own mind? Maybe there is something wrong with me, after all.

The door opened softly, and Ms. Orowitz waddled into the room, closing it just as softly behind her, as if she would wake some imaginary beast if she were to just use the door as intended.

“So sorry about that dear, I had to grab some files for my sessions tomorrow.” In her arms, she held a small bundle of manilla folders, cradling them as if they weighed far more than they did. “I hate cutting into our limited time together.”

“Yeah, it's...sure limited...” It took everything in me to not bite back with sarcasm. I don't know what it was about this woman, why her every breath got on my nerves, but I had to just keep reminding myself that she was trying to help. Regardless, the ten minutes that ticked off the clock in her absence were a welcome relief.

Ms. Orowitz sat down in the imprinted spot of her red armchair after placing the files on her desk. She adjusted her large glasses, leaned back, and smiled at me.

“So, how was your weekend?”

I sighed, reclining back and placing my feet on the arm of the sofa nonchalantly. “Pretty uneventful,” I replied.

“Your mother called the other day to tell me you've been taking up some old hobbies. That's wonderful news!”

“Really? Mom actually called you to tell you about that?” I was nonplussed, and a little confused.

Ms. Orowitz's face squinted into a smile. “Well of course! It's great to know that you're getting into some hobbies in your free time...and art is a great means of self-expression. I myself dabbled a bit in bead-making when I was in college. It was a very fun and creative experience!”

I just couldn't bring myself to care, but I pretended nonetheless. “Making beads...sounds interesting. I'm more of a painter myself.”

“Oh, I never was a very good painter, Jade. I can't even draw a stick figure!”

“A lot of people have told me that, actually.”

“Well, it takes quite a bit of talent, and a special kind of it too.” The therapist smiled, adjusting a poof of her curly auburn hair, reigned in today by a green headband that made me think of Christmas.

There was an awkward silence as I fidgeted with my fingernails. I could hear the clock ticking in my ears, threatening me in the relative silence. When I was in this room specifically, it always seemed as though there was a spotlight on me, and every object in the room was waiting for me to reveal my thoughts. I often kept them waiting a long time.

The clock continued ticking along, and I felt compelled to say something. “Mom thinks that I should take a painting class down at the rec center. I told her that I wasn't sure because it might interfere with our sessions or something.”

It was as if a lightbulb blinked on behind Ms. Orowitz's eyes—they filled with a warmth that, although genuine, also seemed cunning, almost as if whatever blessed advice she was about to give me was coming from a product of her own ingenious ideas, and not my mother's suggestion.

“A painting class? Jade, that is an absolutely fantastic idea!” Her hands clasped together as she rejoiced in the thought. “I truly believe that socializing with a few people your own age would be wonderfully healing for you! Especially if they're people that you already have a common interest with. It will also open you up to the possibilities of what you can achieve as we continue working through your illness. I think it'll be a great motivation tool!”

I wasn't at all surprised that she'd been receptive to this idea. To be honest, I'd hoped that maybe she'd be more cautionary and give me a reason not to go. Painting was wonderful and all, but socializing and making friends was never my strong suit. But, if I hadn't really wanted to go, why would I have even mentioned the idea to her, of my own volition? Ugh, now I was analyzing myself. Wasn't that
her
job?

“Honestly,” I ventured as a solution to my inner quarrel, “I don't know that I want to go.”

The therapist calmed down, folding her hands neatly in her lap and crossing her legs, which was no delicate task with the size of her rump, especially in the long, evergreen-colored corduroy skirt that she wore to coordinate with her headband. She adjusted her glasses and smiled knowingly at me.
What did she know, anyway?

“Oh? But it sounds like so much fun! Why wouldn't you want to go?”

I hated the way that she phrased it, as if there was something
wrong
with me for not wanting to go. “I don't know...you're the therapist.” I smirked.

Ms. Orowitz leaned forward, her hands lost temporarily in the folds of her oversized, cream-colored sweater. “Darling, I can't tell you why you would or wouldn't want to do something. But, I can venture a few guesses?” She paused, looking for confirmation to go ahead with her little scientific theories of my personality. I shrugged,  beckoning her on.

“Well, it could be that you're insecure in yourself or your talents...but of course, painting is something that comes from the imagination and is based on one's perception of the world around them. There is no right or wrong when it comes to that kind of self-expression. Perhaps you're self-conscious of people judging you and your ideas as harshly as you judge yourself...which I can assure you dear, you are your own worst critic in life. It can be scary doing something new, putting yourself intentionally in a social environment, when you're very self-aware of your flaws and afraid of others seeing them as well.”

Ms. Orowitz pierced me with her gaze through those magnifying glasses on her face, almost challenging me to prove her wrong.

“I--” I sat up, ready to pull the plug on all of her theories as heat bubbled under my cheeks. And yet...ugh. “I...hate when you go all psychobabble on me.” We both knew she was right—about everything.

“Jade,” she said softly. Here came the advice. “There's nothing to be afraid of out there. We can't all be perfect at everything right away; we have to learn it and practice it. The skill of talking to people is no different, if not a little more hands-on. It's something that we only get better at with practice.

But just think—these creative minds are a lot like yours, and you might be able to learn something from your time with them, or even teach someone else a thing or two. I know that you put on this shell with me that you don't care what others think, but of course you do...we all do, to some degree.” She swept her hands around the room, as if representing an invisible audience. “And that's okay. If not everyone you meet likes you, that's okay too—and normal. It happens to the best of us.

But please, don't think for a moment that the way you see yourself is anything like how anyone else will see you. We all see different things. Where we see something tarnished, others may very well find a great treasure, if given the opportunity of course.”

I imagined myself as a bronze statue, frozen in place under the critical eyes of the masses, each creating their own perception of me as a critic would do with a piece of art. When bronze is exposed to water and oxygen, it becomes oxidized—tarnished. That's what I'd become. I was irrelevant and out of place amongst the gleaming mass of bronze jewels around me, sticking out like a sore, laughable thumb.

Who would make a close enough examination to ever wish to remove my patina and see me shine? I shrunk in my seat at the answer that awaited me. The worst part is that a statue has nowhere to run to—immobile, it was under the constantly watching eye of the world that

it was forced to be a part of, even when the statue was no longer appealing.

“Have you written anything in your journal yet, Jade?”

Reality swirled back around me again, engulfing me like an ocean. I stared at Ms. Orowitz blankly for a moment, before I stammered a reply. “Journal? Oh...oh! Yeah. Actually, I have.” This time it was my turn to challenge her; I knew she hadn't expected much from me in the way of writing endeavors.

However, it turned out that I actually enjoyed writing in the journal. Initially it was out of spite for my therapist, but I found it to be soothing. It was also helpful for keeping my memories grounded in the real world as they came to me.

“Do you want to read what I have so far?”

Ms. Orowitz smiled. “I didn't think you'd be so eager for me to examine your brain!” She chuckled, bordering on that dampening trill of a laugh. “But no, I won't be reading this one until you've finished writing in it, at which point I'll either recommend you to continue, or suggest a different lab experiment for you.”

I hesitated. “Or suggest a what?”

“A different approach? If writing down your thoughts doesn't end up working for you, then we'll try a different approach. But it depends on how you feel about it! What do you think about this memory exercise so far?”

Oh boy,
I thought,
I might be crazier than I thought.
“Well...”

I hesitated, unsure whether or not to reveal any more information than I already had for the day. I decided that it couldn't hurt...I mean, I didn't want to be dishonest, even to the strange, mousey woman that I was forced to interact with. “Actually, I enjoy writing. I'd never thought to do it before, but it's easier to put my thoughts into words on paper than it is to say them. I, uh...I think I'm about halfway finished with this one. I mean, it's so small, and the lines are so big. You know.”

“That is absolutely wonderful to hear, Jade.” Ms. Orowitz pushed her glasses onto her nose for at least the sixth time since she'd entered her office. “I know that you were pretty resistant to the idea of being my patient when you first came here, but you're doing an amazing job working with me. I can tell that you really want to change things.”