1 Therapy Session

The sunlight from the outside came through the small rectangular window above the digital clock that helped Breonna keep track of the passing time while she waited. The smell of her surroundings was similar to a hospital, with clear ethylic alcohol odor spreading around the hallways and waiting rooms. Between her hands, she held a ring which, instead of being wore, was mostly used as a toy. The iron of it had a separated piece around that was spinning constantly whenever Breonna wanted to calm her nervousness. This only happened in two occasions every month. The first one, when she auditioned at school, playing the clarinet with a beautiful tone which was unfortunately opaqued by her shakiness and fear. The second one, whenever she came to see her therapist.

And Breonna hated therapy.

The sunlight faded away while the clouds covered the blue sky outside again, leaving her dark but still soft skin without natural warmth. Immediately, Breonna put on her purple hoodie to avoid catching a cold due to the air conditioner that was above the exit door, on the other side of the hallway. Her purse was brown with several pins that decorated its strap with the logos of some of her favorite bands. She was into classics from the 80s and 90s, but still appreciated actual masterpieces from groups like Coldplay or Imagine Dragons. It wouldn’t be a coincidence if the music from the airpods she had on was from one of those bands.

Lost in her own thoughts, Breonna wondered how much time would it take her to get out of the session this time. Perhaps half an hour would be enough to shut her therapist’s mouth and be free to go back home. By the way, had she turned off the kitchen before she came to the clinic? And why is that lightbulb blinking like that? Is that cloud right over there a cumulonimbus? Had she brought her umbrella with her? Oh, right, of course she did, it’s inside her purse, right? She still checked inside it just to make sure. Can somebody shut that annoying ringing phone already?!

—Breonna! —the voice of her therapist pulled her out of her trance immediately while a guy with a black jacket and long hair to the shoulders left the clinic through the door at the end of the hallway.

—S-Sorry —she replied with a trembling voice while standing up.

Dr. Michaels was a pretty reserved thirty-year-old man. Single, no family nor appearing friends, perhaps due to his cold personality. His lack of empathy and comprehension for other’s feelings made of his psychology career a dead end that was only worth for pro bono sessions, like Breonna’s. She didn’t like him at all; not as a person and neither as a therapist, but his service was just cheap enough for her dad to decide to make a monthly appointment for his daughter ever since his spouse passed away just six months ago.

It was a recurrent topic during Breonna’s sessions; her mother. A beautiful and loved local musician from Minnesota who, despite earning not nearly enough to pay her family’s bills, always dedicated her life and passion to her art and music until she passed away. When Breonna was child, she dreamed about becoming a big singer like her mom, whose best heritage was the love and passion for music that she left in her daughter.

—So, your last test results just arrived —Dr. Michaels said with a monotone voice, holding what seemed to be Breonna’s file from his registry—. I would take as seat if I were you.

—Why? What happened?

—Well, according to my diagnosis, you have HFA, which means high-functioning autism.

—Did you say autism? But you said that I had obsessive compulsive disorder.

—I know it might be easy to get confused by it, since the OCD is a symptom of HFA, just as anxiety can result as a symptom of OCD, and then also depression can get in the way. But the main disorder you have is autism.

—But I’ve lived my whole life like a normal girl. How can I get diagnosed now when I’m already 18 years old?!

—For women, an HFA diagnosis before they’re 21 years old is considered as an early diagnosis. But there’s my point, your disorder is high-functioning, as its name says. This means that it is, of course, treatable, and that won’t really change the life you’ve been living until now. However, this explains the anxiety and the OCD, which are negative symptoms of your autism.

—So, nothing’s gonna change? —Breonna asked with a skeptic look upon her face.

—Well… You are going to need medication, though.

—What?! But isn’t medication like, going too far? I mean, isn’t it enough with the sessions? My family barely has money to pay for our food. I can’t afford any medication.

—I understand that, Breonna, but my job is to recommend what I professionally believe is the best for you. With the sessions, I can help you deal with past events that you’ve already gone through, but I can’t help you keep your anxiety under control during the time you’re out of this clinic. That’s what medication’s for.

—I don’t need medication! The therapy is already more than enough.

—You’re free to take the medication I recommend or not, but I still will have to notify your dad about your situation and about what I think you should do to get better —he replied while standing up and walking to the registry to put the file back to its place. Breonna knew that this meant that the session was over.

After drying her tears with the sleeve of her hoodie, Breonna took her purse, walked to the door and left the room without saying a word. While she was there, standing in the middle of the hallway, the noise of the rain from the outside seemed to wash all the colors from her surroundings. When she realized, it was already too late. Everything around her, no matter where she looked nor how hard she rubbed her eyes; everything just became gray.