Page 2 of Follow My Voice
There’s a silence when the song ends and Kang sighs before speaking. “A pretty sentimental song, huh? You’ve just heard ‘What I Feel,’ from the band P4. Don’t forget to support our local talent by following them on social media and listening to their songs.”
I walk back over to the bed and take a sip of Coke.
“I chose that song to kick off tonight’s topic. We get messages every day from people asking for heartbreak songs. I think love is an incredible feeling, but it can bring with it other emotions that aren’t so incredible if that love isn’t reciprocated. Have you ever had your heart broken?”
Love is not something I’ve given much thought to this past year; love isn’t for people like me, infected and defective. It’s for people like Kang: successful, with a bright future ahead of them. The curiosity is killing me; I hope he says something about this aspect of his life. That’s what I like most about his show: He first talks in general about a topic and then gives us his opinion and shares his personal experiences.
“I have to admit that I’ve never been in love, so my thoughts on the matter might not be very insightful. But I’ve seen a lot of people in love, and I’ve witnessed the effects it can have. In some cases, it changes people for the better, in others, for the worse. But don’t worry if you’ve had your heart broken; time heals all wounds, and you’ll find someone new to make you twice as happy. Like I always say…”
“We have to learn from the bad and turn the page to move forward,” we recite in unison.
“We’ll go now to another song, and when we come back, I’ll read some of your messages about tonight’s topic. Don’t forget, that number is…”
The next song starts after he finishes giving out the number, which I know by heart despite the fact that I’ve never sent a message to the show. Why would I? Like I said, it’s enough for me to just listen. I don’t want or need anything else. I couldn’t deal with any more complications right now.
Kang, it’s enough for me to enjoy your show and hear you say, “Follow my voice.”
2Follow Me
I PASS THEdays one after another, mainly stuck in the four walls of my room. There’s my bed, in the middle, white Christmas lights wrapped around my bedframe from a few Christmases ago that I never bothered taking off. To the right is my nightstand with a lamp, a book, and my favorite pictures of my mother and me. To the left is my desk, with rolled-up canvases on top that haven’t been touched in years. It used to be a place where I liked to sit down and paint, but now I just use it to read or watch TV dramas when I get tired of being on my bed.
I wish I could say I’d made it more appealing with posters on my walls, pictures of and with friends, but that would be a lie. The most I have are some white hanging shelves reserved for my favorite novels—the rest of my books are scattered throughout my room—and some random knickknacks that my sister added so it wouldn’t look so empty. While this is my safe space, sometimes I grow tired of it. But, with the exception of days I practice exposure therapy, the farthest I go is to a different room inside the house, to be stuck in a different set of four walls. Regardless of how my day is spent, for the most part, it’s always the same: The sun filters inthrough my window until it finally disappears, only to be replaced by the moon, and then everything starts all over again. Every day is exactly the same, monotonous, except for that one hour every other day, when I get to hearhisvoice.
I go through my evening routine. It’s almost time for Kang’s show, so, popcorn and Coke in hand, I head to my bedroom. But my little bubble of bliss is burst when I run into my sister in the hallway.
“Ah! You scared me!”
Kamila crosses her arms. Yes, Kamila with a K; my mother loved the letterK.
“You know you shouldn’t be eating that junk, it’s not healthy,” she scolds me. I see she has her white doctor’s coat folded over one arm.
I give her a huge smile to soften her up. “It’s just this once.”
She narrows her eyes and furrows her brow. “That’s what you said yesterday.”
“Are you on call?” I ask, changing the subject—usually the best course of action.
“Yes, one of my patients”—she stops for a moment, always so careful with her words when she talks to me about her work—“had a setback.”
Setback. That’s her favorite euphemism to avoid naming the mental health situations she encounters in her job day-to-day. Kamila started working as a psychiatrist four years ago, and I’d like to say it’s been easy for her, but no, it’s been exhausting and heartbreaking. She’s the strongest person I know, which is why she’s been able to handle it so well.
I believe that everyone has a calling in life. Some find theirs and live happily with their decision; others don’t and simply let themselves be pulled along by the flow of life, withering and dying without ever having found a dream, goal, or objective for their existence. Before everything changed, I had so many dreams andI was so full of energy, I wanted to eat the world, achieve the unachievable. Then my mother got sick. And one blow after another gradually destroyed that young dreamer, eating away at me until I became what I am today. Now, I’m an empty shell, barely surviving.
“How are you?” Kamila asks, looking at me cautiously, always analyzing me. I can’t blame her; it’s her job.
“I’m good.”
“Dizzy spells? Vivid dreams?”
I shake my head. “No side effects this time.”
Kamila sighs with relief. “If you have any symptoms, you need to let me know, Klara; antidepressants are not something to be taken lightly. Trust—”
“Is the most important thing,” I finish her sentence for her. “I’ve never lied to you.” And it’s true; I’ve always been honest with her when it comes to anything that has to do with my mental health, it’s just that I don’t like it when she goes into doctor mode on me. But I have to put up with it since, apart from being my sister, she monitors every step of the treatment laid out by my psychiatrist, who, along with my therapist, sees me once a month. My sister makes sure that I stick to my medication; she takes care of me.
“Have you had any unpleasant thoughts?”
That makes me smile. I don’t understand why she thinks she has to be so cautious with her words. “I haven’t had any suicidal thoughts, Kamila, if that’s what you’re asking.”
