Brian called Dr. Claire Breedlove while he was at work, and set up an intake meeting on Friday afternoon, the day before Halloween. When he came home later, he gave me the address: Dr. Claire’s psychiatric practice was in Willowdale, and only a few blocks from Earl Haig, my old secondary school.
The next couple of days were pleasant enough. In the morning, Brian would head off to work, and I would have some breakfast and watch reruns of Toopy and Binoo or The View (I like Whoopi and Joy, but Elisabeth is a major bitch) before heading out to live as normal a life as possible. On Wednesday, I went to Manpower, my temp agency, and updated my application with them. They didn’t have anything available yet, but they were glad to know that I hadn’t disappeared off the face of the earth. I worked out at the gym and strolled around Church & Wellesley. Ever since Evan’s murder, however, I have never stepped foot in front of Buddies at Bad Times Theatre. I don’t even walk on the same sidewalk. The closest that I get to it is the sidewalk across the street. I have this fear that if I step one toe on that block, not only will the memories of that night renew their place in my memory with more vividness, I could end up dead too.
At night, Brian and I would have take-out for dinner. Brian rarely cooked at home, but he knew a good restaurant when he saw it. The first night that we had dinner together, he had brought some food from Blue Bay Cafe. It’s this place in the Roncesvalles neighborhood that serves food from Mauritius, an island country in the Indian Ocean. If you don’t know where it is, Google Earth it or open an atlas. Most of the food was too spicy for my taste, but I did enjoy the samosas. The following night: burritos and sopas from Tequila Sunrise.
And then, the day came. Friday at 2PM. Rendez-vous with Dr. Claire Breedlove. I arrived at Willowdale Counseling Services, which looked less like a clinic and more like someone’s home. The waiting room was devoid of anything clinical, and instead designed to put the patients at ease: plush furniture, soothing New Age music, those fake waterfalls that you can buy at Shoppers Drug Mart or Loblaw’s or fucking WalMart the same way one would buy a goddamn Chia Pet or Clapper.
By the time 2PM had arrived, I had leafed through the latest issue of Chatelaine and was bored shitless. I didn’t hear anyone come down the stairs to collect me. And fifteen minutes and an archival copy of Deneuve Magazine (before Catherine Deneuve got pissed and they had to rename it Curve), I was pissed. And then I heard:
“Is anyone down there?”
It was a mature, elegant voice, though weathered by time.
“Dr. Breedlove?’ I responded.
I heard footsteps down the stairs, and there stood Dr. Claire Breedlove. Tall, graceful, a head full of bouncy red hair, and wearing a poncho not even Johnny Weir would be caught dead in.
“You’ll have to pardon the poncho; my mother knitted this,” she said. “You must be Graziano. Did I get that right?”
I nodded. She had pronounced it exactly like the Italians do. I would have been insulted had she called me “Grassiano”. The way I see it, it behooves people to get names right, even if you have to feign an accent.
“I’m sorry for the delay, but my staff meeting ran long. Follow me.”
I followed her up the narrow staircase to the second floor. She pointed to her office, which was cluttered. “I should get it organized,” she said, opening the door to a rather threadbare room. It only had a coffee table, a couch, and an armchair. Dr. Claire Breedlove took the armchair, leaving the couch to myself.
“It’s intake time!” she cheered. “Yay!”
You don’t hear “intake time” and “Yay!” in the same breath often. Dr. Breedlove took out a clipboard with an intake form on it. “I took the liberty of filling in your name. Did I get it right?”
She showed me the form. It read “BUONFIGLIO, GRAZIANO G.M.” I nodded in agreement.
“What is your date of birth?”
“6th October, 1981.”
“Gender?”
“Male.”
“Marital status?”
“I was engaged once, but then he died before we could get married. So, single.”
She nodded. “Children?”
“No.”
“What is your address? Oh, wait. You live with Brian Gutensohn, so I already know. I also have your home phone number and your cell phone number. I don’t have your e-mail.”
I dread moments when people ask me my e-mail address. It’s a rather delicate concern for me. Dr. Breedlove was waiting.
“Do you have e-mail?”
“Yeah. It’s just that my e-mail address is a little… embarrassing to mention in public.”
“Really? Well, you do have the right to privacy.”
I thought about it for a moment and motioned for her to hand me the clipboard. I wrote down my e-mail address in the provided form and handed it back to her. She took one look at it, and her eyes lit up.
“How… provocative,” she said. “Anyway… first big question: Have you previously received any type of mental health services?”
“Yeah. I had a counselor at Seaton House, and before that, I had gone to counselors at the 411 Centre and Toronto General Hospital. I even went to Catholic Charities for services.”
“Are you on any prescription medicine?“
I shook my head.
“Have you ever been prescribed psychiatric medication?“
Ditto.
“And now, the biggies: How would you rate your current physical health: poor, unsatisfactory, satisfactory, good, or very good?“
I replied, “Satisfactory.”
“Health problems?“
“I tried committing suicide a few weeks ago. It’s an almost regular occurrence with me. Other than that, I’m in good shape.”
“Okay. How would you rate your current sleeping habits? Same choices.”
“Good. Sometimes, I have nightmares and can’t sleep a wink all night.”
“How many times a week do you generally exercise?“
“Five times a week.”
“Exercises?”
“Bodybuilding, cardio, swimming, and in the winter, I like to go curling.”
She put the clipboard down. “Curling? I don’t associate a guy with your build, with curling.”
“It’s less about athletics and more about concentration and relaxing. In relative terms, of course. Curling is a very demanding sport.”
“Got it. Next question: Please list any difficulties you experience with your appetite or eating problems.“
“I don’t have a problem. I love to eat. I’m Italian. There are days, however, when I’m so consumed with grief and sadness that I’ll just go to Metro and buy food that I already have and go to town on that shit. And then, the next day, I’m off to the gym to burn off the excess calories, only to go have a combo at Harvey’s afterwards and repeat the sick cycle over and over.”
Dr. Breedlove nodded. “Are you currently experiencing overwhelming sadness, grief, or depression?“
“All three in equal amounts. It’s been a lifelong experience.”
“Are you currently experiencing any anxiety, panic attacks, or have any phobias?“
“I can’t walk on the same block as the Buddies in Bad Times Theatre because my fiance was killed near the place. I fear dying. I fear that eventually someone is going to kill me.” My voice began to break.
Dr. Breedlove handed me a Kleenex. I just crumbled it in my hand and squeezed on it. “Are you currently experiencing any chronic pain?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Do you drink alcohol more than once a week?“
“I don’t drink at all.”
“How often do you engage in recreational drug use?“
Again, I shook my head. “I’ve abused over-the-counter drugs, but cannabis, ecstasy, wet… I never touch the stuff.”
“Wet?” Dr. Breedlove’s eyes opened in surprise. “What’s that?”
“Marijuana with PCP and formaldehyde. I took a drug prevention course when I was at university. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“We’ll get to the over-the-counter drugs at a later date,” she said. “Are you in a current romantic relationship?“
“Not since my fiance died. Evan is his name.”
“What significant life changes or stressful events have you experienced in the past year?“
I let out a loud groan.
“Graziano, what does that mean?” Dr. Breedlove asked, concerned.
“I don’t know where to begin,” I said.
“Well, for now, you don’t have to go into detail. What initially brought you to stay with Brian?”
I looked out the window. It was overcast. What a metaphor for my life. “My parents kicked me out of the house. And I had a terrible time at Seaton House, so I took Brian up on his offer.”
Dr. Breedlove stopped. “I need to change my pen,” she said, replacing her blue PermaMate with a silver Hilton Hotel. I wondered what she had been thinking all this time. Did she think that I was beyond help? Did she think that she could be spending her time in Turks & Caicos, lounging on a beach with a cocktail in one hand and a trashy Danielle Steel novel in the other?
And then she said, “Don’t worry. This isn’t boring me. I’m not dreaming of the Caribbean and booze.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. How did she even know what I was thinking? No one knows what anyone is thinking. Even when people say “I know what you’re thinking”, they really don’t.
“Okay, I’m going to list a few things and you tell me if any of your family members have whatever I list. Alcohol/substance abuse?“
“My mother and my sister.”
“Anxiety?“
“No one.”
“Depression?“
“Ditto.”
“Domestic violence?“
“Not at all. Other than them being violent to me. But that doesn’t count, does it? Domestic violence is spouse vs. spouse, isn’t it?”
“It is generally that, but it takes other forms. Who abused you?”
“My mother, my father, my sister, and various relatives.” I clutched the Kleenex in my hand harder.
“You know, Graziano, they make stress balls, so you don’t need to crush the tissue any more,” Dr. Breedlove said, noticing my Kleenex had turned into a crumpled mess. I looked at it, and began to cry. I wiped my eyes with the substantially-reduced sheet of delicate tissue paper. Afterwards, I threw it away and nodded at Dr. Breedlove to continue.
“Eating disorders?“
“No.”
“Obesity?“
“My father is fat, but he’s not obese.”
“Obsessive compulsive disorder?“
“Yes. My parents are obsessively and compulsively obsessed with power and getting rid of me.”
“I was talking about things like excessive cleaning and hoarding, but in a way, that somewhat fits the bill. Schizophrenia?“
“No.”
“Finally… suicide attempts?“
Again, I shook my head. No one in my family, not even before my grandparents moved to Canada, had any of those problems.
“The rest of the form is pretty straight-forward, so you can fill it out and sign it.” She handed me the form and I finished it for her. After I handed it back, she studied it and said, “I think that does it. I’m going to review this further and I’ll call you over the weekend. Provisionally, I think we can work something out.”
“Sure thing,” I said, getting up and shaking her hand. She had a firm grasp, but it was also gentle.
“Can you promise me that you won’t try to off yourself beforehand?” she asked.
“I’ll try to stay alive.”
Dr. Breedlove escorted me out of the building. Overall, the intake went pretty well. As I walked to the nearest subway station, I felt relaxed. It was the first time in my life that I had survived a session with a psychiatrist without feeling insulted beyond belief. Granted, it was only an intake, but still…
I won’t give out my e-mail address in its entirety, but the part before the @ is “packing14inches”.