Stealthy when not healthy.
After thirty minutes of evaluating my five-year-old son behind closed doors, the psychologist rendered an assessment. She said, “Cullen* is negative, controlling, and stubborn, but he does not need to see a psychiatrist at this point.”
Cullen was showing signs of intense loneliness and severe depression. After he wouldn’t stop talking about wanting to be dead, I became concerned. In fact, it had gotten so bad that he had even developed a plan on how to kill himself—with his daddy’s rifle. I was relieved to hear that he didn’t need to go see a shrink, but I was mortified to realize that I could attribute all those unpleasant adjectives to my bloodline.
Great. I had procreated (and passed down my familial bad traits) only to bring a child into this world who wanted out already, at age five. My Kindergartener had a death wish and I didn’t want anybody to know it.
Growing up in the South, I was raised to think any inkling of mental problems was a sign of weakness. This weakness should be hidden from the world and kept inside the family. No one else needs to know about such things.
To make this secrecy plot more challenging, we lived in military base housing where privacy is a rare commodity. The reality was that my husband, the active duty member, lived and worked with the same people—almost like a commune. It was nearly impossible for any sensitive information to remain within the confines of his workplace or our home.
My seven-year old daughter, Eve, required a sitter while I took my son to his psychologist’s appointment. Her father couldn’t take time off from work to take care of this. I asked my closest friend in the housing area to take care of my daughter while I took Cullen to his (as I labeled it) generic “doctor’s appointment.” Having to ask someone to watch Eve was creating an opening for some prying questions about my plans. I was nervous.
Not only was Mary my closest friend in the neighborhood, but she was also my friend closest to the school bus stop. The plan was to have the kids get off the bus, have Eve slip into Mary’s home, and simultaneously have Cullen glide into the car.
Cullen didn’t want to go talk to the psychologist. He thought the idea sounded awful. But, I pictured simplicity at its finest moment—that despite his expected hesitancy, he would easily cooperate like we were only going to a regular doctor’s appointment. No one would be the wiser.
The school bus was supposed to arrive in minutes and I had already parked my car right in front of Mary’s home. I didn’t want to look like an ingrate, so I went up to her stoop to chit-chat and thank her for watching my daughter.
While I was talking with Mary, another neighborhood mom came up and started conversing with us. Then another one did, too. Everybody wanted to know why I had shifted from my usual pattern of being at home. Why was I standing on Mary’s front porch? I explained it was Cullen’s regular check-up and that Mary would be babysitting Eve. That seemed to satisfy the peanut gallery.
I turned to look over at the sound of the bus’s brakes. For some reason, that afternoon there was practically a mob of community moms standing around the bus stop. The twenty or so kids filed off the bus and mine saw me at Mary’s home.
Eve skipped over, happy to play with the other kids in Mary’s front yard. Cullen saw the moms, including his own, socializing on the porch and knew it was time to go to his specialty appointment.
Cullen froze in Mary’s yard and looked at me like he wasn’t going to take another step towards the dreaded psychologist’s appointment. He made an anxious face, threw down his backpack, and started loudly crying. He blaringly yelled, “But I don’t wanna go to the PSYCHOLOGIST’S!”
I closed my eyes for an extended pause. Once I popped them open again, I could see that every person’s head there had swiveled in my direction. Silence had blanketed the neighborhood bus stop. All eyes and ears were on the Jones family.
Turning to look at Mary, I uttered that we would be going now and I would be back in a little over an hour. I told Cullen to pull himself together, gather his belongings, and to get in the car.
To hold true to another Southern code, I remained stoic and went on my way. I’m sure tongues were wagging as we pulled off to take care of our business. There was nothing I could do about it now. Even with all of my efforts to make it a sly dance and a smooth move, the jig was up.
*All first names have been changed.
**This occured years ago.
***I was having a bad hair day when that picture was taken.