“You still think I don’t know shit?”
A frown etched on my face as I glanced into her eyes.
“There was a point in time where I was sitting on that bench too.”
Dabbing at my eyes, everything felt heavy again.
I remembered the group session, though I didn’t participate much. They said when things feel heavy, let it flow and don’t fight it—don’t caress it either. Let it pass. It’s a part of the healing process. One step at a time.
As Dr. Moore pulled her sleeve down, I surveyed the file. As if God knew I needed her, she used to be in the same trauma unit too. This must be a full circle moment with her—encountering girls like me, people like me, often.
Returning to her desk, she scooted forward and kept her eyes trained on me. I could feel her burning gaze. After a few minutes of going over the paper, I became uninterested and placed it back in the manila folder, along with the rest of them.
“You haven’t been taking your meds,” she said—not a question or an observation based on my behavior.
During nurse rounds, they brought our pills to us and watched us take them. I always hid mine on the side of my mouth. It’s so easy to get things past them because they never checked afterwards. I’m sure if I can get away with it, I wasn’t the only one.
To me, the medication makes things worse—zombified. It makes you wilt into a deeper state of depression, and just thinking about it makes me crazy.
I shrugged, giving her my undivided attention now. “That’s their fault, not mine.”
“You don’t talk in group sessions either. Talking and being communicative is the only way you’ll get released faster.”
I scoffed. “I don’t feel comfortable talking to a bunch of strangers?—”
“They’ve made suicide attempts as well,” she cut in.
My eyes bucked. “So that makes them relatable? That’s fucking bullshit.”
“It’s great for your healing and it works. We wouldn’t have you end them if it didn’t.”
“Putting me in here was a mistake,” I muttered to myself. “A fucking mistake.”
“I’ve read your profile here and this is your first time. I don’t see much background of suicide, which piques my interest. What triggered you?”
I shook my head and glanced down at my palms, as if the answer lay there.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. It was a half-lie.
“You really loved him,” she spoke right after me, not a second later.
I squinted my eyes. My vision worked perfectly, but Dr. Moore was trying to bullshit a bullshitter.
“If you know all this shit, then what the fuck are you beating around the bush for?” My tongue clicked against my teeth. “This the shit I be talking about.”
“It’s best for you to mention it aside from me pulling it out of you.”
Then she mentioned visitors.
“You see everything that goes on around here. That’s pretty fucking obvious.”
“Are you not wanting them to see you like this? It’s pretty normal?—”
I cringed at that word. None of this shit is normal and she kept trying to aid it. That’s why we’ll never work. I don’t need a bitch for a therapist to say shit like I’m a child—like I don’t know right from wrong.
“Here you go with that normal shit,” I waved her off with a blatant eye roll.
“It’s pretty normal to think that way.”
