Page 2 of The Happiness Blueprint
“Fine. But you help out with what you can from overthere. That’s the deal.” I insist on calling my sister’s new homeland by anything but its proper name. I’m well aware that it is childish behavior coming from an adult, however much she misses her sibling.
“Of course. Bye, then. Lifesaver!” Saga leaves the call.
The doctors will be saving Dad’s life, not me, I want to argue. But then I think of the convention to liken unpleasantness with death and consider the fact that it is perhapsSagaI have saved fromSweden.
“Mum?” No reply. She must have hit a button or lost connection. Her screen is empty. I’m left staring at just myself in the Zoom square, a sad sight of disheveled dark locks and eyebrows in a discontented frown. Finally occupying the prime position.
I toy with the idea of calling them both back up and demanding their attention.You and I need a word,I would say with authority.Well, literally just one word. No.But I do just that:think it, and nothing more.
“Scheiße,” I say to screen me. One of the few words I’ve picked up from my sister and kept handy in my vocabulary. Unfortunately, I feel like I’ve had to use it almost daily during my twenty-six years in this world.
I guess I’m heading home to run my dad’s company. Great.
ALEX
Move between neighborhoods like I’m haunting them. Left too early for my appointment, and when I realized, I just kept walking. Possibly in circles, as I seem to be seeing a lot of very similar hip coffee shops. Notice after a while that I’m avoiding the bustling Möllevångstorget and its bronze monument namedThe Glory of Work. Lately, I’ve taken its presence as a personal insult.
It’s fucking freezing, and I curl my fingers into my hand, shielding them within my fist. The coat sleeves just about reach down and stop any icy wind from getting to them. Don’t mind being cold: reminds me I’m still capable of feeling things.
It’s 4:00 p.m. when I finally walk into the Malmö Psychotherapy Center. Dr. Hadid is wearing a bright blue headscarf with a flower pattern when I enter her room. It does brighten my mood ever so slightly; I much prefer medical professionals who are relaxed and colorful as opposed to the GP uniform of shirt, smart trousers and loafers in shades of beige. Find myself counting the small delicate flowers on her head. Math is a good distraction and one of the things I still enjoy. Aware it may not be the coolest hobby for a twenty-nine-year-old. I get to sixteen before she interrupts me.
“How have you been doing, Alex?” she asks.
“Okay, I guess.”
“Did you do anything this weekend? Do you want to tell me a bit about your past week?”
Not really, but it’s a rhetorical question. They all are, and the whole purpose of me being here is to answer them, so obviously I speak. There seem to be a lot of rhetorical questions to answer when your brother dies.
“I went to my uncle’s funeral. What else? Had pizza five times. Capricciosa with added jalapeños. Aren’t jalapeños just the best spice ever? A little bit naughty, like telling-a-dirty-joke naughty, but not so full-on that you have to cover your ears. They challenge you, but don’t tip you over the edge. I like that in them.”
The corners of Dr. Hadid’s mouth move upward.
“The bin collection on our street seems to have moved to 5:00 a.m. I’m thinking about giving the company a call to complain.”
“Have you tried the earplugs we talked about?”
“I find that then my thoughts get louder, if that makes sense? I prefer to listen to the garbage truck than to my mind.” There is a flower on the windowsill; I wonder who waters it on weekends and am just about to ask when Dr. Hadid addresses me.
“I think it’s time to start making some plans. It’s been six months since Calle died and four since I started seeing you. You’re ready. It would give you structure and take the focus off the unhelpful thoughts.”
Notice that she’s using my brother’s nickname. Maybe she thinks she can get through to me, appear more familiar, if she doesn’t call him Carl.
“Plans? Like coffee with a friend?” That may be hard since my friends have taken a back seat recently. Somehow, me in sweatpants better suited for the laundry basket and holding a pizza box and a bag of chips isn’t their ideal Friday night. Or any other night of the week, for that matter. We talk around that for a while, and a possible route out of the idle existence of Netflix and Nil (the latter referring to my current account balance).
“Let’s start by entering to-dos into your calendar. I’ve seen success with this approach before. Do you have an iPhone?”
I shrug and nod simultaneously.
“Great. So you set yourself a challenge of entering three tasks per day. They can be simple, such as doing the dishes, going for a walk, or updating your CV. The important thing is that you set the intention—add it to the calendar—and then complete the task. How does that sound?”
“That’s fine, I guess.” Brush your teeth, do some reading, make the bed. Sounds like a to-do list for children. Next, she’ll be handing me a star-sticker reward chart. Got to take recovery seriously, though, so tell myself off for trivializing the very qualified professional’s advice.
Dr. Hadid is unaware of my thoughts and proceeds to write up notes on her screen.
“Good. We will move appointments from weekly to monthly, but please call me if you feel you need one sooner. My door is always open.” This makes me smile. If there is one thing a therapist’s door always is, it’s firmly closed. To guard the consultation room from the waiting room. I have one last question. An important one.
“What about the car and the ring?” I fiddle with the ill-fitting metal around my finger, sliding it up and down, my thoughts turning to something else through the motion, embarrassing, completely involuntary.
