“My mother—she signed me up and made me go,” I started picking at the fringe on the throw pillow I was holding. Anytime my mother came up in a discussion, it always made me uncomfortable.
“Was there a particular reason why she wanted you to start seeing a therapist at that time?”
Sighing, I tried my best to answer his question without the additional venom in my voice. It wasn’t a topic I liked to discuss with anyone, let alone anyone I barely knew. I had been open and honest with Craig about it from the beginning of our relationship, and look where that got me. Landed in a loony bin just where he always said I belonged, crazy and needing to be medicated just to be able to function like a normal human being.
“That’s when she discovered I had been, uh, cutting myself.” There was no pleasant way to say it, no way to sugarcoat it to make it sound prettier than it was. The truth was as nasty as the scars on my arm; no matter how much time had passed, it would always be a blemish on my identity.
He was silent for a moment while making a few notes in his notebook. The overwhelming urge to defend myself, to try and make someone understand that my past isn’t what landed me in here, was bubbling inside. Rising and heating like lava, ready to explode from me like a volcano erupting. Only people tended to take heed from an unstable volcano; unstable people were either ignored or locked away from society.
“I didn’t try to kill myself,” it came out harsher than I had meant it to as I raised my bandaged arm in emphasis. Trying to contain myself when I felt like I was drowning wasn’t easy, and I was tired of repeating myself, tired of being judged, tired of no one taking the time just to listen to me.
“I’m not here to judge you, Rae. I promise we will get to the topic of what brought you here, but I want to get to know you first.” Daxton must have seen the look of defeat on my face, so he added, “For what it’s worth, when I listened to your intake assessment, you didn’t strike me as someone who just attempted suicide. However, my word isn’t final and won't affect how long you stay here. Once you’re committed, you’re stuck for the entire duration. I’ve never seen them release a patient early, only ever have I witnessed them extend a patient’s stay if their psychiatric care team feels as though their program isn’t complete.”
As much as I wished for a light to shine through the darkness, the windows in the room of my mind were always boarded. Nails were on every board, and every door was locked.. He didn’t sayhe believed me, only that I didn’t strike him as a person who was suicidal. Being a therapist, he also could just be telling me what I want to hear to make it easier for me to open up to him, rather than trying to force me into accepting a false version of events that lead to my metaphorical incarceration. Daxton didn’t strike me as the people-pleasing type, though. Maybe it was his rough exterior, unable to be completely hidden by his professional attire, he just didn’t seem the type to waste his time spewing bullshit unless it mattered.
“That’s fine, just know that when I prove everyone wrong, I’ll be coming back to collect either a verbal or written apology. Either will be fine, I’m not picky.” He smirked at my remark, only I wasn’t kidding. I could deal with a lot of shit; I had dealt with a lot of shit, but being repeatedly called a liar because of my ex was one of my biggest grievances over the whole ordeal.
“I promise that when you do that, I’ll hand-deliver you a card.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I said, holding his gaze as he smirked at me again, half of his mouth tilting up in a grin.
Daxton made another note in his book before continuing, reining in the session back to the original topic we had started with. The sun was shining through the bars behind him, making his dark hair almost red under its rays. Even though his hair was short, it appeared thick, not a bald spot or a single gray hair in sight.
“So I’m going to start with the obvious question: why did you start cutting yourself?” He was right; it was an obvious question, and one Iexpected to come up during this session. I only wished I knew how to properly answer it.
“It’s been over a decade, so I can’t remember all the details, just that I felt overwhelmed all the time. I felt like I was never in control of my emotions, let alone knew how to handle anything I did feel. I don’t remember where the idea originally came from, only that once I had the idea, once I had tried it, I couldn’t get it out of my head again. It helped make my thoughts quieter.”
“When was the first time you decided to do it?”
“I was alone at school, in the bathroom before lunch. My mother and I had been fighting that morning. Fighting was normal, but this time wasn’t normal. I remember stealing a scalpel blade from science class. We had just finished dissecting a frog, and there were extra blades still packaged and left out. It surprised me that it wasn’t hard to take one. Mr. Harris didn’t count them as he collected them after the class was over, so I just took one.” More than anything, I wished I had a bottle of water to help with how dry my mouth felt. Venturing down this rabbit hole never did me any good before. I was willing to make the journey to try and get someone to understand that I wasn’t crazy, but I couldn’t see if it would be worth it. “The idea had been with me for a while, like I said, I don’t remember where it came from, just that it was there. Taunting me. Tempting me like a mimosa during Sunday brunch for an alcoholic. So before lunch I snuck into the bathroomand tried it.”
“How did it feel, the first time you tried it?”
“Calming. Things at home were always chaotic and out of control; it was the opposite of that. Comfortable, calming, and it gave me control over the things I couldn’t express. It took all the rage and sadness away and gave me something to feel that wasn’t outside of my control.”
“How long after that first time did your mother find out?”
I had to think back about it, the smell of secondhand smoke almost tangible in the air from how strong the memory was. How she almost burned my skin with the cherry on her cigarette when she grabbed my arm to forcibly roll up my long shirt sleeve. The look of disgust was prevalent on her face as she uncovered my secret.
“About a year, give or take,” I said simply.
“What was her reaction?” His questions were clinical, but not without emotion. It had been a long time since I had been in therapy, but I still knew the probing questions were basically standard. The Q&A session was to be expected, a messed-up version of the worst get to know you session anyone would ever have faced. Only, instead of your assets and positive attributes, you were expected to list all the fucked up things in your head.
“Like any parent, probably. Angry, upset, and embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?”
“Yes, she was embarrassed. Image was everything to my mother. After she enrolled me in therapy, she made sure to fill mywardrobe with long-sleeve shirts. She even went as far as to buy me a long-sleeved bathing suit, so no one would be able to see either the fresh cuts or the scars on my arms.”
“Did she ever ask you to stop?”
I sighed heavily, thinking of my mother, even in the past, never sat well with me. She was long since dead, along with my father, and dead things needed to stay buried. Only the way my mother made me feel never stayed that way, constantly coming back to life. Her influence was as toxic as a bite from something truly undead in a Romero film.
“No, she only ever made sure she didn’t have to see it; she was too strung out most of the time to care anyway.”
“How long did you remain in therapy at that time?” He asked without judgment. Then again, that was the definition of his job: being helpful without judgment. With the number of patients this place probably saw, his responses were probably almost second nature to him. Still, his eyes never looked bored or disgusted with what I talked about.
“Since she left it up to me to make sure I went to the appointments, it didn’t last long. I know I probably should have stayed with it, but I was a teenager who thought I knew best, and my mother was too busy passed out drunk or high to know where I was.”
