Free Harmonic Feedback by Tara Kelly

nodded. “Right. It’s a difficult diagnosis. No two people with Asperger’s—or with autism, for that matter—are the same. And females do tend to have less obvious symptoms.”
    “Do you have other patients with Asperger’s?” Mom asked.
    “Of all ages—children to grandparents.” The doctor closed the file and looked in my direction again. She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “How’d your first day of school go, Drea?”
    “It was school.” I never understood that question. Did they want a synopsis of my entire day? Most people gave short answers like “great” or “fine” or “crappy.” And telling someone I had a crappy day at school usually provoked the question “why?” But they didn’t really want to know why because they’d end up interrupting me and changing the subject.
    “Did you make any new friends?”
    “Yes.”
    “There’s a girl across the street that has taken a liking to her,” Mom said. “It’s the first time in a while—she hasn’t had a friend in years.”
    “Why do you have to tell my life story?” I asked her.
    “You don’t like it when your mom speaks for you?”
    “She has this need to tell everyone we meet that I have this
disorder
. But then she told me not to say too much about myself, because it might scare people off.”
    “I told you that in seventh grade, after what those girls did to you,” Mom argued. “But your last doctor suggested that I inform the school, family members, and friends. People need to know what you’re dealing with.”
    “Why does every guy you date need to know?”
    Mom opened her mouth to protest, but the doctor broke in. “Does your new friend know?”
    “No, and I want to keep it that way.”
    “She really has come a long way.” Mom repeated herself, as always. “When she was little, she had a lot of run-ins with other kids, and I had a hard time getting her to bathe or—”
    “Mom!”
    “But now”—Mom uncrossed her legs and sat up—“she’s doing better in school, and her, um, you know, grooming habits have improved, and—”
    “You always got shampoo in my eyes. That’s why I didn’t like it.”
    “Even when I got you the tear-free shampoo, you still resisted. But that’s not the poi—”
    “No, it’s not the point. Because I was five then, and I’m sixteen now. I take showers every day, I brush my teeth every night, I wear deodorant—even shave my legs. Because you wouldn’t shut up about it. ‘Comb your hair, Drea. Wear some perfume, Drea. Spend ninety million hours staring in the mirror like I do, Drea.’”
    Mom rolled her eyes and sighed.
    “If I may break in here,” Dr. Weber said. “I think your mother is trying to tell you that she’s proud of your progress.”
    “Exactly,” Mom said, bobbing her head.
    “Would it work better for you if your mom simply told you she was proud of you—rather than bringing up the past?”
    “Yeah, because she never says that,” I said.
    “I say it all the time.”
    “No. You tell me to take my pills, you bring up things I did ten years ago, you remind me to brush my hair—but you never say you’re proud.”
    “How’s your mood been?” Dr. Weber moved on.
    “Like it always is.”
    “Any negative thoughts or excessive worries?”
    “Yeah, I’ve already been diagnosed with GAD. It’s in the file.” Doctors stuck me with generalized anxiety disorder in junior high when I began surfing the Web and self-diagnosing myself with everything from lupus to rabies and having panic attacks over it.
    “I’m sorry,” Mom said. “She’s been really irritable with the move.”
    The doctor raised her eyebrows, nodding. “You’ve moved quite a bit, huh?”
    And this would be the part of the meeting where Mom goes over our financial troubles and my lack of a father—all in an effort to excuse the fact that, as her friends say,
she changes cities like she does underwear
.
    “How much of the XR is she currently