Dr. Bird's Advice for Sad Poets by Evan Roskos

her from their minds.
    “I thought she’d call. I haven’t gotten an e-mail.”
    “She doesn’t e-mail you?” the Brute asks. “Selfish.”
    It’s like he’s mad on my behalf and that makes us buddies.
    My mother doesn’t contribute to the conversation. My mother is like iceburg lettuce.
     
    I carry around Jorie’s secret box of pain in my mind. Images of her weeping, alone, cutting herself, haunt me as the school days progress. I hand in some homework, I fail some quizzes, I pass some tests. Everything averages out.
    One night I get a permanent marker and color my entire cast a shimmering black. It’s not black enough, though, and I feel like I should’ve done something more creative.
    I ask Dr. Bird why I feel so depressed all the time.
    Dr. Bird pecks at her wing and says I’m only as depressed as I feel.
    “That’s a little circular.”
    Dr. Bird trots in a circle.
    “I’ve been taking pictures, but nothing comes out that good. I feel like I’m wasting money on film.”
    Dr. Bird says the world gets less compelling when I’m depressed, so I’m just seeing pictures in a negative light.
    This makes sense but doesn’t make me feel better.
    I dismiss Dr. Bird and write Jorie an e-mail:
     
    Jorie—Hey. I’m having one of those days. A day like all the others, I guess, but it’s pretty thick and foggy here. I don’t know what causes this stuff. I try to find outlets, but nothing seems to really defuse the anxiety except more depression. Does this make sense? I know you have similar issues. I know you had that therapist. Are you still seeing her? Is she expensive? I think I need to see someone. I’m not sure how to get through a day without anxiety or anything. I guess things aren’t that bad. How are you? How is waitressing? Do you need anything?
    Send me tree pictures.
    Here’s a quote from Whitman:
    “The clock indicates the moment. . . . but what does eternity indicate?”
    —James
     
    I have one of those hours of just waiting at my computer and refreshing my inbox while checking my Facebook page. But she doesn’t e-mail me back. Then I remember that she doesn’t have a computer or a phone and now I’m not even sure when I’ll see her again. I guess Derek can get in touch with her since his lady is Jorie’s boss. Seems like a convoluted way to contact one’s sibling.
    After school the next day I have an e-mail from Jorie:
     
    James—My therapist’s contact info is below. Good luck getting Mom and Dad to pay for it. I’m not sure if they’re just cheap or hateful. I only got two months before they stopped paying.
    I attached a picture. I saw a leaf on the ground that was dried but still green. It curled in a bit like a dead bug. I broke it in my hand into pieces big and small. I took a picture of the pieces, close up. That’s the picture. That’s how I feel. Don’t feel like me or maybe don’t tell me you feel like me. It makes it worse.
    —Jorie
     
    As you can imagine, the next few days involve vomiting stomach butterflies, although I’ve started to imagine them as moths because butterflies seem too delicate and pretty to puke.
    I try writing a poem about it:
     
    Dirt-colored paper wings that tear easily when I swat.
    Moths fly for my eyes, my mouth.
    They want to be inside my stomach to flutter and puke.
    I want to hold them in my palm to watch them,
    To find something pretty to say about
    The things that wake my anxiety.
     
    That might be passable. It’s short, but I could see Beth printing it. She’s faced with publishing suburban angst by the other editor, so she might as well publish my angsty moth poem.
    After my depression refuses to disperse for days, I sit at breakfast with the words “I need to see a therapist” on the tip of my tongue. My mouth would prefer to ingest rather than express, though, so I end up eating four pancakes the size of my head. Large pancakes on a mothy stomach will make for a sick afternoon, but then I realize I’m in for a lifetime