Something wrong with Rozanov

Kino – Quiet Night

Ottawa, October 2018

    "Well, that’s my childhood in a nutshell, I guess." Ilya fell silent, wondering if he had told Molchalina too much. Anxiety twisted his stomach into knots, the same way it used to before meeting his father after a lost match. Galina, however, read him like an open book. "Just a reminder that our conversations are protected by doctor – patient privilege and are entirely confidential," she said. "There are a few exceptions, but I don't believe they will apply to our talks." "Yeah, I know, murders and all that. That’s not me. I’m a serious guy, obviously," Ilya tried to joke it off, "but really, I wouldn’t hurt a fly." They both fell quiet. Molchalina was jotting something down in her planner. "For what it's worth, the notes I take during our sessions are anonymized. I don't use your first or last name, nor the names of your loved ones, and I avoid direct references to your profession or the biography you share with me. No one will find out. It’s one of the few things I can guarantee with absolute certainty." "Good. Just don't write down that I’m paranoid. I’m not paranoid." "Have you ever considered coming out?" "Out of the question." "That’s very categorical." "It is what it is," Ilya cut her off. "Look, this is our seventh or eighth meeting. I’ve already told you enough about my past, about all this crap that happened to me. What are we going to do with it? When am I going to feel better? No offense to your professionalism, of course, but I want to see some kind of result, or something like that." "And what specific result are you expecting? I’ve asked you this several times, but you’ve never answered me, Ilya. What does 'the result' look like in your mind?" "I don't want to fight, Galina." "We aren't fighting. We are discussing what we want from each other. Tell me clearly: what do you want? It would help me a great deal." Irritation and exhaustion clawed at his ribs from the inside. He puffed out his cheeks and, with a loud exhale, leaned back in his chair, looking out the window – it was already getting dark outside. When he looked away rather than at Galina in the video call window, talking was somehow easier. "At the very least, I want to sleep normally. I want the nightmares to stop. I want to fall asleep and wake up without feeling this fucking weight in my chest, like I’ve been crushed by a boulder. I want to stop feeling like there’s gunk in my head. I want to crack open my skull, take out my brains, give them a good scrub, wipe them down with rubbing alcohol, and then shove them back in." He paused and swallowed – louder than he would have liked; Galina probably heard it. To hell with it. "I want to want something. I want to think about what I actually want. To choose what I want. To order what I actually feel like eating at a restaurant, not just the first thing on the menu with enough protein. I want to feel like a human being, not an empty shell pumped full of a ton of shit that you chew, swallow, and churn inside yourself, aimlessly, endlessly, like a cement mixer that someone forgot to turn off. I want to stop feeling nauseous when I think about myself, about my life, about who I am and where I’m going. I want to feel happy when I do things well, instead of thinking I still haven't done enough and just got lucky again. I want to feel something – anything – besides this crushing, eternal fatigue, besides this miserable, unbearable, endless darkness that has followed me my whole life, no matter how far I try to run. I could fly to Mars, but I know I’d still be the same person I’ve always been. I moved from Russia to America, then to Canada. Halfway across the world. I built the kind of career every young hockey player dreams of. I rose high, but even that isn't enough. It didn't make me happy or satisfied with myself. No matter what I do, no matter where I am, I hate myself just as much as I did the day I buried my mother." The image of a young Irina flashed before his eyes – her mischievous, kind gaze from deep blue eyes that radiated life and love. Ilya felt a heavy lump rising in his throat, pressing against his esophagus and larynx. I need to end this, he thought, but he couldn't stop himself now. "I want him not to suffer because of me. I want to bare my soul to him, to tell him everything, to share, and have him not be afraid, not run away. I want to be confident enough in myself to trust him. More than anything, I don't want to ruin his life. He is the thing I love most in the world. He’s the only thing I have that’s truly precious to me, but I’m so afraid of ruining his life. I’m already ruining it because he doesn't sleep when we're together, checking to make sure I don't stop breathing in the middle of the night, bringing me pills so I can actually drift off. He cooks his silly, most delicious food in the world for me so I don't forget to eat. He takes care of me, worries about me. Sincerely. The way my mom took care of me while she was alive. It scares me because I don't deserve his care. He found me the best doctor, and I dig my heels in and find excuses to skip sessions. He found me the best possible house in Ottawa, and I still haven't given him the second set of keys. He does everything for me, and I fuck it up, I fuck it up every single time. I could have applied for citizenship a thousand times by now, like he wanted, so we could start the business he came up with. So it would be easier for us to be together. He tries so hard, and I can't crawl out of my stupid shell. He is the best thing that has happened to me in my entire life – so good that I can't believe it's real. I love him more than my own life, and I know he loves me, but I’m so afraid we won't make it. Because of me, because of my broken head that doesn't know how to do the right thing. I’m not worthy of him. Everything I am made of isn't worth his little fingernail." Galina didn't interrupt him; she seemed to have set her planner aside. Her full attention was locked onto him. Ilya realized that two warm streams of tears were running down his cheeks. He wasn't crying the way people usually do when they are sad, or grieving, or experiencing betrayal or fear; he wasn't sobbing or gasping for air while smearing salt water across his face. Ilya couldn't truly cry; he only pretended to cry because crying was the expected thing to do in this position. Spiteful, bitter fate was laughing at him even here, in this moment of humiliating vulnerability. "Damn it," Ilya lowered his head and wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. Galina remained silent. She had to hold this long pause to let him breathe and regain some composure. The silence lasted an eternity: Rozanov stared at his own knees, watching dark spots appear on the fabric of his sweatpants from the falling tears. It felt like he had seen these spots a hundred times before, even though he had promised her he would never cry again. "Ilya, I am very grateful to you for sharing your thoughts and feelings. I understand how difficult this was for you, but in our work, this is a real breakthrough. A very painful and sad one, but it truly is a breakthrough." To Ilya, it sounded like she was reading from some psychiatric manual. "Are you laughing at me or something?" It took less than a minute for him to bristle again. "No one is laughing, Ilya," Molchalina spoke calmly and rationally, not a single muscle in her face twitching. "And I must inform you of the preliminary diagnosis I can make after our talks. Based on my practice, I can say that your condition resembles a prolonged and fairly severe high-functioning depression with co-occurring PTSD." "What the hell is that?" "Post – traumatic stress disorder." "And what does that mean?" "A characteristic condition often found in people who have experienced severe physical or emotional trauma. War, violence, a serious accident, loss. This disorder often develops at an early age if a child encounters the death of a parent, or if one of the parents exerts serious psychological pressure on them or shows cruelty. I think you can draw your own conclusion as to how exactly this applies to you." "So, I hit the jackpot," Ilya smirked. "And the depression? Are you saying I need to take pills?" "Yes, Ilya, you do." "No. Don't even think about it, I'm not –" "Ilya," Molchalina interrupted him for the first time in the months they had been meeting. "Listen to me, please. This isn't a game or a hobby. Taking the Xanax you prescribed for yourself won't get you anywhere. You might sleep a little better, but it doesn't solve the root of the problem. You need serious, complex, and long-term therapy, including medication support. I rarely say this directly, but I’m telling you because you are in a serious and dangerous position. You can live your usual life, achieve success in sports, go to work, interact with people, love and be in a relationship, but the illness will still eat away at you from the inside. Depression is the cancer of the psyche. People actually die from this." "What do you mean?" "I mean suicide." "So, you’re trying to say that my mother..." "It’s possible. Quite likely, based on what you’ve told me. And we are lucky to be here in 2018, not in the early 2000s or, heaven forbid, the nineties, when a psychiatric illness was a brand of shame. The world has changed a lot, and I want you to take advantage of that. I am asking you both as a doctor and as a human being." Ilya’s face became dead and motionless; he almost stopped blinking. I guess this is what people feel like when they’re told they have a year or two left, he thought. "You know, I’m used to treating my life like someone's sick joke," Ilya said, shrugging. "But this is a whole different level of fucked up." "Yes, it is exactly that. And it is your life. Very complex and tragic, but it’s yours, and you won't have any other past. Your task is to work with what you have and invest in what will be. Depression is treatable, and extremely effectively and sustainably at that." She said she would provide the contact for a psychiatrist she knew well living in Ottawa – they had co-authored a paper when Galina was studying abroad. He would see Ilya without any problems and write the necessary prescriptions without unnecessary questions or long chats. Ilya would pay him for the visit, but Galina would add an extra session on her end for free to balance the cost. He would need to let her know when he bought the medication, and she would detail exactly what to take and when, and he had to tell her if he started feeling worse. "But before that, I must ask you a few more questions. Have you noticed that the state of apathy, fatigue, and gloominess is ever replaced by a more elevated, sometimes even euphoric state?" "No. Mostly, I just feel like shit." "Do you think about death?" Ilya smirked. "No, not really." "Maybe you thought about it before?" He had memories of that; memories Ilya had managed to forget. For a second, it felt like it had all happened in another life, or in another dimension – a parallel universe different from the one he was in now. Recalling it was surprisingly painless. "I did. Once I almost... well, you get it. It was in St. Petersburg, in 2009. A gloomy city, especially in autumn or winter, or if the weather is bad. And the weather there is usually garbage. But I love that city, much more than Moscow. I never loved Moscow, even though I lived there my whole life. My team and I had come to St. Pete; we had a game before flying to Canada for the International Prospects Cup. We finished the match and left all our gear at the stadium to pick up the next day before heading to the airport. I remember somehow drifting away from the rest of the team and deciding to take a walk, from Sportivnaya to the hotel – it was a few kilometers on foot. I stopped on a bridge to have a smoke. It was almost dark, and the sky was so heavy, like the whole city was being crushed by a thick sheet of metal. There was something bleak playing in my headphones, like Kino. 'Quiet Night.' And I thought: what if I just do it right now? I needed to take my passport out of my pocket so it would be washed away by the current as fast as possible, so they wouldn't identify me too quickly. The current was pretty fast; it basically would have carried me into the Gulf of Finland, out west. Or even into the Baltic Sea, if I got lucky. I hadn't been to the Baltic yet. The team would definitely have flown out without me; they would have replaced the captain. There were plenty of candidates. No one is indispensable. For some reason, I was sure they wouldn't find me for a long time, and when they did, it would be very hard to identify me – well, you know what happens to a body if it’s in the water for a long time." "And what stopped you?" "My father called and asked where I was. I had already started unzipping my jacket, but his call was like a slap in the face, and I snapped out of it." "And since then, you haven't thought about ending your life?" Ilya gave a sad smile. "Not anymore. Because I met him."