I don’t want to talk to anyone.
I don’t want to express the way I feel.
The therapist, Dr. Moore—a Black woman with salt-and-pepper colored hair styled in a curly blowout—sat across from me, tapping her red ballpoint pen on a notepad, studying me. We were far from strangers. In fact, we’re well acquainted. My first day, I spit on her, but she didn’t react. I guess it comes with the job description. If a nigga or a bitch ever spit on me, I’d be shitting on their grave.
She was snooty too, I could tell. The way she wore her Chanel tweed dress, Christian Louboutins, and stockings. Her perfume—Flowerbomb by Viktor & Rolf—screamed “rich bitch,” and the ring on her finger was too big to fit in her hand. If she did retaliate and knock the brows off my face, I’m sure she’d be well taken care of. The salary of a therapist wasn’t paying her that well—I’m sure.
“Trecee,” she began gently. “One of the first steps to your health is communicating.”
I stopped swaying and shook my head.
My eyes tore away from her pretty face to the blue jay chirping outside the window. It was in a groggy tune, hard to follow along if you were trying.
“Can you shut that?” I muttered, ripping my eyes away from the blue jay and back at Dr. Moore.
“Oh,” she grinned and glanced at the bird. When she turned her neck, her long, bountiful hair fell over her breast. “The blue jay? You don’t like birds?”
“The chirping,” I stated. “It’s annoying.”
She glanced back at me, then parted her mouth to speak, but she was hesitant. Doing as told, she stood up from her swivel chair and trotted over to the window to close it. It took some struggle, but she did it. When she returned to her desk, she put some hand sanitizer in her hands and eyed me.
“Do you know what blue jays symbolize?” she inquired, with her head tilted, causing her hair to move along her shoulder.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” I shrugged as I squeezed the stress ball in a pumping motion.
“They have multifaceted meanings—one that may be meaningful to you, depending on the source of action. In your case, it’s rebirth, healing, and communication.”
“I didn’t know your name was Miss Cleo too,” I retorted, getting a snicker out of her.
“I like your sense of humor.”
“Good. Can I go now?”
“No.”
I stared at her. My emotions were anchoring me down. One minute, I don’t want to exist, then the next, I’m trying to find my purpose for existing. Merely doing both made my head hurt.
“We can’t keep doing this, Trecee,” she spoke softly, leaning on her elbows, as if trying to get closer to me. “These therapy sessions are to—”Cutting her off, I finished her sentence. “To help me. You’ve said that already.”
“It’s as simple?—”
“Simple,” I scoffed, with a raised brow. The stress ball rolled out of my palm and pounced on the floor under the bench. “Nothing about being in this fuckin’ asylum is simple. You don’t know what it feels like to be me. You don’t shit.”
My chest heaved up and down from my anger boiling.
I hate when people who know nothing about an experience try to speak on situations by using unrelatable topics or people they know and lived through. It’s not real. It’s not fair.
“What the fuck do you know about being in here?”
Water formed before my eyes and I didn’t care if it fell, dripping stains on the green jumpsuit. Usually, I cry in the dark, behind closed doors, when no one’s watching because I don’t want to be judged. I don’t need anyone to coddle me or make it seem like my feelings are being suppressed by something else. This therapy shit isn’t going to help me… not now… not ever.
She stood up. Her heels clacked on the polished wooden floor, with a box of tissues in her hand. She walked over to a file cabinet and retrieved a manila folder, with paper spilling out. One by one, she passed me the box of tissues and tossed the folder on the empty spot on the bench. A few papers dropped on the floor. It stuck out among everything else.
I leaned forward to pick it up.
It was her profile, in the same green suit as me, looking much younger than I am now.
Still standing in front of me, she rolled up her sleeves and showed me the faint marks on her wrist that matched the gash on mine.
