“I want to show you something,” my English teacher's voice resounded in the empty school grounds, her voice filled with passion and warmth.
She darted off, back into her class, leaving me to think through what I wanted to tell her. I took a deep breath of the icy winter air, welcoming the sensation of being able to breath. The chiming of the thought's disapproval rang through my mind, berating even the idea of mentioning my secret. After all, it was nothing. This situation, in their mind, was a call for attention.
A small smile touched my lips as I watched her return with a thick book clutched in her hands. She flipped the page open to what I assumed to be a poem. ee cumming's poem. An interest began to grow, even though I had another reason to be here.
“See the use of the small letter i? ee cummings had such an inferiority complex that he made himself a small letter,” I let the words wash over me as she excitedly began to explain a poem to me, a poem she loved. One I would too learn to love.
“your slightest look will easily unclose me/ though i have closed myself as fingers,” she looked up at me. “Give me your hand. Curl it up like a fist.”
I obeyed her, letting my mind wonder over the reason why I found myself talking to the woman.. She took my small hand into her own manicured one, gently prising open my fist. I felt uncomfortable, but in that, allowed her to reach out to me. I observed her blue eyes consumed with her passion. The beauty of that passion ignited my own. Poetry became a fire that consumed my means of communication. Spoken word did not come easy so this was the perfect means of communication. Her focus changed, bringing my attention to sonnets. We explored the ins and outs of all its technicalities. I grasped the explanation as a challenge. As I put pencil to paper, I let the constant ten syllables create a rhythm to which I bound my mind.
Confession was a word lingering in my mind, awaiting at the tip of my tongue. I allowed her to continue her explanation, getting lost within my own thoughts. At the edge of my consciousness my secret persisted, demanding to be spoken of while another part of me was livid at the very idea of it being spoken. I lived in a foreign world, a foreign mind, feeling utterly lost. I could understand the fickleness of life, and even my own body turning against me, but the betrayal of my mind was beyond comprehension. Throughout my battles, I had always had my mind as an ally. It was easy to go through twelve operations with my mind on my side. When I found myself standing in the pantry, contemplating cutting open my own skin, I realised, much later, that my mind was turning against me, against my own body. I was, maybe still am, a fighter. I never imagined I would end up fighting myself. Soon I realised that silence was not my friend. What made me turn to my eccentric English teacher is anyone's guess. My eyes traced over Miss De'Ath's round face, lingering on the dimples of her smile and the strangely intense blue of her eyes. Her gaze caught my and the conversation rounded to what I was really there to talk about.
“What's wrong?” she asked softly, although her strong personality still forced its way through.
Even the force behind her words could not detract me from my mission. Going into surgery was easy compared to verbalising my feelings. I could almost laugh at the folly of it.
I cut myself? I'm a self harming? I'm an attention seeking brat who... I cut off my thoughts. This was far from an attention seeking exercise. It was the hardest thing I had ever done. Could I tell her why though? I remembered the alluring face of my abuser, and each touch. No, not abuser. It was my fault. The idea crippled my attempts to bring forth any words. A memory ripped through my skull, reminding my of sordidness. I couldn't say a word of that piece of the past. She would just have to assume I was the attention seeking brat. The idea was far from appealing but it was the best I could do. I tried to open my mouth. My heart fluttered nervously, pulling at its restraints. Regret filled my mind. It would be so much easier to walk away from this.
The words would not escape my lips. The last week flashed through my mind. The ridiculous, shallow letter was the first to surface. The letter I had put on my teacher's desk. It was an instant regret. I bit my lip in frustration, putting all my will into not fleeing. The silence of the empty school gently whispered in my ear as I looked up to a tree who's leaves resisted the winter's chill, slowing my heart for just one beat. The dull throbbing of my self inflicted wounds seemed to return as my mind figured out what to say of them. They were infamous tributes, unpleasant memoirs of the memory that had invaded my mind. What seemed like forever passed in a silent moment. My fingers went to the sleeve of my jersey, my mind wandering up my arm, visualising the extent of the damage. The crusted blood of the newer wounds materialised in my imagination. That's what I wanted to tell her, yet every word that could describe it seemed tacky and cheap and above all, attention seeking. It felt as though my throat was closing. Breath didn't come easily as I fought to each moment trying to remember to take in air. Frustration ripped through me and a thread of self dislike lifted its head again. Time passed sluggishly, painfully in a regard.
“I hurt myself,” I forced out finally.
The words themselves seemed very plain, incongruent with everything I was feeling. However, as much as my punitive side protested against it, I had to recognise the small victory. Little did I know that, that call for help would lead me on a journey filled with similar little victories and big defeats. Her distraction dissipated and once again her sharp eyes were on mine.
Concern, or what I perceived to be concern, emanated in my teacher's voice, “You need to tell me what's wrong. Sooner rather than later. Write me a letter. Arms soon become wrists.”
The urgency that filled her voice touched me. I nodded, overpowered by something that wouldn't let me speak. With a steely determination, I vowed to write down what was truly gnawing at me, spurred on by the idea that she truly cared.
The chill awakened the words that had burrowed themselves away in the moment I needed them. I slowly got up to feel myself being embraced in the arms of my new confidence. My mind wandered as I hugged back, and separated from my body. While the gesture was appreciated, I was far from sure about physical contact. My defenses softened a little, and I enjoyed the sincerity behind it. As I left, the weight of my school bag was unapparent. My footsteps trudged the same path they did everyday. However, it felt different. I felt different. I felt light.
The letter. I struggled with the idea to disclose things I had never imagined talking about. In fact, I distinctly remember telling myself that I would never talk about it. Suppose writing was far better than talking about it. The lined paper in front of me blurred slightly as I struggled about where to start or how much to disclose. The smiling face of my teacher lingered in my minds eyes. My mind struggled with the concept of why I chose the bohemian woman, who's unique joy radiated across the class, so long as her mood was good. I slowly put the pencil to my paper, a fire to please another finally put to a clean use. The content skimmed lightly over the surface of myself. Childish immature wording littered the page that landed in the hands of my confident. Resurfacing suppressed memories was not the easiest thing I had done. I settled down for sleep, feeling a little less caged than before.
“You trust me, Sarah?” her voice was desperate, pleading with something deep in my soul. “You trust me right?”
She lent over to touch me and I flinched away, instinct ruling over common sense. Rationally, I did not believe she was going to hurt me. Touch was meant to be beautiful, connecting people who lived in otherwise separate worlds. Although we could perhaps never live in each other's worlds or truly empathise, touch was a means of closing the distance just for a moment. Yet, caught in a moment where I had exposed myself in a vague letter, it seemed dangerous. She pulled back a little then slowly placed her hand on my shoulder. I nodded numbly, aware that I would do anything to please her. A sharp twinge suggested that this was where our two paths would split again. The idea terrified me. A small amount of panic arose in my heart. I wasn't quite ready to let go of the first person I trusted enough to speak to.
“We need to go talk to Ms Simpson,” she must have seen the doubt and confusion upon my face at the mention of the school counselor as she quickly added, “I trust her.”
She slowly coaxed me out of her classroom, linking her arm through mine. My legs felt robotic, moved only by her desire to help me and my desire to please her. She steered me into the counselor's office, swapping a few words with the woman. A small unwilling part of me urged me to flee the room or close up completely. I numbly sat on the couch, awaiting a conversation I hadn't envisaged. Ms Simpson turned her attention to me. I couldn't concentrate on what she was saying, but the tone was gentle. She wanted to know what was wrong from what I picked up. I turned my eyes to Ms De'Ath desperately. I really didn't want to speak. I glanced down at the letter I had written her that was still clutched in her hands.
“Can she read the letter?” I asked softly, feeling unable to speak the words.
The letter was handed over and I remained in a state of disbelief. I watched uncomfortably as the counselor's eyes skimmed over the letter that I had only intended for the eyes of my confident. I keep my eyes of the back of my silent confession, terrified for the consequences.
Thanks for all the kind words. Cuddles! Unfortunately, my pc is going in to be fixed so I will be without it for a few days. Will update as soon as possible!
Managed to get hold of a small laptop while my pc is in for repairs. Thanks for all your nice comments! Sorry if this part is a bit slow and boring. There is a possible "graphic" SI part, so be careful. Thanks for reading! Let me know if I must continue.
Every second of the wait was a painful reminder to my deed. I glanced at the door, flinching for every sound behind the door. Ms Simpson's eyes glanced up from the paper, settling upon my own. A small question lingered within them.
“What do you mean 'arms become wrists'?” her voice was soft, and I honesty would have preferred her to make the assumption herself. I sighed inwardly, than chose to recycle the words I had used the day before. They seemed to be the lesser evil of the possible selection.
“I hurt myself,” the words came easier this time, slipping quicker from my lips.
“Can I see?”
Her response threw me completely. I definitely did not want her to see. I glanced up at her, wide eyed. A second rolled by as I contemplated my position. Her words had been a request, although, in my ears it felt like a command. Compliantly, I rolled up the sleeve of my jersey for just a second then pulled it down again. Sympathy that radiated from her eyes, sympathy that I wasn't ready to accept.
“Will you go get some anti-septic cream from the nurse?” she turned her attention to Miss De'Ath.
In what I perceived to be relief, she quickly got up and ran to the nurse. I immediately felt guilty. There was no doubt in my mind that I had caused her a major inconvenience.
I looked down at my hands, trembling with anxiety. Without my confident, I felt exposed to my raw emotions and the unknown territory of the school counsellor. My eyes kept returning to the door, hoping that Miss De'Ath would return at any moment.
“Memories can really be a rough thing, hey honey,” the voice of the school counsellor brought my attention back to the conversation.
I nodded stiffly, defiance taking a steel grip in my thoughts. The memory she was talking about had little or even no impact in my life. It was the one where I had been rushed into the emergency room when I was five. In fact, I hadn’t even thought about it until I wrote the letter. I looked up to meet her gaze in order to stare down the sympathetic eyes that were regarding me, just as the door swung open again, to which a flinched away. A caught a glance of a strand of dark hair which I followed to the eyes of the person I was awaiting. Peace settled upon my raging emotions, masking them for just a moment. She pushed a metal tube into my hands, smiling softly.
Gingerly, I clasped my hand around it and slowly unscrewed its lid. I might as well have been taking my clothes off. The exposure would have felt the same. The cream felt cold on my fingertips. I gently slipped my hand under my sleeve in order to preserve what dignity I had left. The sting of the disinfectant soothed my mind, allowing the recollection of the actual deed to surface. Perhaps it would have been better to keep it to myself. I let the words of the counsellor vaguely enter my consciousness. She asked about my relationship with my family and my daily activities. To me, all those things seemed irrelevant and it felt as though she was prying. I frowned, answering each question in a word or a short sentence. Even if I had wanted to elaborate, I simply couldn’t. It was none of her business anyway. The reminder why I was doing it all remained silent and stiff next to me, occasionally looking at me. A gentle compassion radiated from her, soothing my frantic fears. The lightness that I had received from uttering the three very simple words was beginning to recede. I longed to find myself awaken to nothing more than a horrible, yet captivating, nightmare.
“Have you told your mother?” the voice of the school counsellor brought my attention back to the conversation. I frowned, tightening my lips slightly at the thought.
“I don't want to,” my voice was soft, but I let it be heard that under no circumstances would my mom be dragged into this.
“Why Honey? With my daughter I’d want her to tell me,” her words were soft, ever so gently trying to coax me into a path I would not go down even if it were my last option.
“She makes everything about her. I am not going to tell her,” I stared her down as best as my gentleness and timid demeanour would allow.
A horrible sensation swelled in my gut. People were not such creatures to bypass procedure through compassion for the individual, especially when they thought themselves to be right. I could see that she thought I was wrong. I wasn’t though. I realised my family’s personalities better than those looking in and I felt infuriated that she even considered herself to be an expert in my mother. To my surprise, I watched her nod.
“I think you should go see a psychologist,” it was more of an order than a request. “Her name is Penny. She is very nice.”
I honestly didn’t care if she was nice or not. I had found the person I wanted to talk to in Miss De'Ath. My problems weren’t all that big after all. I was merely attention seeking, as there was clearly nothing wrong with me. I wasn’t crazy either. Shrinks were for crazy people, right? Panic flooded in again, beating against the walls that confined it. Showing emotion was a weakness I was not prepared to show in front of these people.
“No,” I gasped out, unable to control that fear.
“Then I’m going to have to tell your mother,” her smile twisted as she caught me in a very difficult place. “If you go to Penny and tell her about the cutting then I will not tell your mother. Also, I need you to stop cutting.”
Resentment filled me. I hated ultimatums. It was a childish method of control employed by adults who should know better. However, I didn’t have a choice in this matter. In this game of cards, the counsellor held them all.
“Fine,” I whispered, hiding my resentment well. The conversation moved to sorting out the technicalities and I remained as pleasant as I could act.
Not cutting was harder than I thought it would be. The prize of keeping it from my family did not seem to be a big enough motivation to suppress my emotions further behind the walls I had built to restrain them. The toll of the last few days began to resurface, cracking the edge of my mask. I had always been the good girl, the one with what seemed to be the perfect life. The heat of the shower burnt pleasantly and the water tumbled down my back. A distant euphoria touched my mind, ebbing in and out like the flow of water. A sick feeling churned in my stomach. Instinctively my hand reached for my saving grace, pressing in to the soft underside of my arm. I paused, taking a deep breath, before sliding it across my arm. The flesh gave way and severed beneath the aggressive force. The sting surfaced angrily as the tender skin protested against the violation. For a moment nothing happened, then the skin spilt and the warm liquid brought the soothing relief. I ran my eyes across the fairly superficial cuts, which only tore off little chunks of skin. Dissatisfaction radiated from my mind. At the time, the feeling was minor, as though it too, deep down, was horrified at the lengths I had driven myself to. One thing remained; I’d need a better weapon. Eventually, my sane mind chirped, desperately trying to keep my mind together. What it meant by eventually was never. With the juvenile destructive need fed, I retired to my room, hiding the new wound beneath long sleeves. Tell someone! Tell someone! The chant of my rational side refused to let me sleep. It desperately fought the turn of the road within my life. Frustrated, and exhausted, I picked up my phone, sending a plea of help to Miss De'Ath. Finally, I drifted into an uneasy sleep.
The following day I wished I had never sent that call for help. I deserved to be alone and I was far too unskilled with people to understand the finery of their day to day interactions. I felt like an alien to the strange customs of the world around me. Sitting in the English class, I was surprised to find the phase tutor requesting my presence. Numbly, I got up out of my seat and followed her to her office.
“Sarah, you know why you’re here,” her voice was ever so soft, holding a small gentleness I was surprised to discover.
I nodded in response, all too aware of my current situation. Once again, I found myself beating myself up for the need to find help. I found myself in a blur of happenings. My mother was going to be called in. I swallowed the dread, hiding it behind defiance. My mother was crying. Each tear that fell down her cheeks inspired a slap of guilt from my own mind. Out of choice, I returned to class, hoping the whole ordeal was nothing short of a dream. That afternoon, I found my feet winding down the corridor to Miss De'Ath’s class. Instead of a warm welcome, I was confronted with an angry gaze. My mind desperately tried to block out her angry words, pulling into itself. What remained clear was that I never wanted to open up to anyone again. It was a stupid mistake I was punished for. I withdrew further into myself, relinquishing control to my self harm and destructive thoughts. One weight that was lifted was that now, technically, I didn’t have to tell that psychologist I was cutting nor did I have to stop. After all, what did it matter now that I was officially a screw up? That thought lit the weeks to come in a warped light. I built a creed upon those reactions: Don’t tell. “It’s our little secret.”
"No man is really changed by success. What happens is that success works on the mans personality like a truth drug, bringing him out of the closet and revealing... What was always inside his head." - Albert Goldman
Thanks for all your nice comments. I really appreciate them. You guys are all amazing. Cuddles.
This only half of the chapter. Unfortunately, I am struggling to remember my first session so my old psychologist has promised to send me the session's notes in a day or so. Will finish this chapter as soon as possible.
I wallowed in my self destructive behaviour, bucking at every mention of the psychologist. The deep satisfaction of choosing not to reveal my secret to the unknown women spurred on a quiet rebellion whose only wish was that my personal life be left alone. The preconceived notions I placed on her restricted my idea of her, deciding that I wouldn’t like her. My appointment was slowly encroaching upon and I wanted nothing less than to carry on living the secret. Seeking help only meant being passed into other hands when the going got tough and then forgotten about. I managed to destroy my relationship with Miss De'Ath further, breaking myself off into complete isolation. My perceived idea that she resented me allowed me to further the distance, even with a part of me desperately trying to hold onto the relationship. Behind my rebellion, my rational side waited for the anger to subside. It on the other hand was curious to this development, this psychologist. Doctors were a common thread in my life, poking and cutting open my body, but a head doctor would surely have other methods to dissect me and discover my illness. Eventually, all of me came around to that thought and anticipation replaced the defiant fear.
The drive seemed longer than the actual distance, each kilometre pulling at my nerves. I stared blankly out the windscreen, following the familiar path of Monument Road. The old, twisted trees remained the same, but looked far more malevolent that I had remembered. I followed their shape with my eyes, observing the different levels of distortion. The scene was similar to that of a horror film. Dead leaves littered the sidewalks, testament to the autumn passed. Although the sun was shining, the sky seemed grey; the colour washed out. I sighed inwardly and settled further into my seat as the lazy winter sun slowly ascended. We arrived at a 1960s looking house, devoid of much character. I paused for a moment, wishing to stay within the safe confines of the car. A sense of compliance pushed me out of the car and set my feet through the parking lot into a clinical looking waiting room. As my mom went to the counter to announce my arrival to a rather stern looking receptionist, I settled myself into a rather characterless chair, letting my eyes dance over the scene. Another person was waiting an immediately I assumed we had gotten our time wrong. Unnecessary anxiety filled my body as I quickly glanced towards my mother. I took the forms from her hands, deciding that I fill it in myself. I asked the occasional question like my mother’s identity number and the medical aid number, allowing the occupation to distract me from what was about to happen.
Once I had done that, I searched the table for a magazine and allowed the routine of doctor’s waiting rooms to take over my mind. I flipped through the pages, occasionally stopping to observe a picture or read part of an article. It was all an act though. Subconsciously, my mind inspected the room and assessed my situation. The setup was very impersonal as even the touch of the doctors seemed vacant, which of course made sense as this was a collective practise. A small passageway led away from the cold, uninviting waiting room to the room where I would be spending my next hour in. I imagined what Penny would look like. My mind placed an old, cruel face to her name, fitting quite nicely with the crude building. That idea in itself was haunting and I pushed it away, focusing on the desire to have someone with a gentle face to walk down that corridor to fetch me; Someone who I would come to trust. The other person was fetched and I was left to wait in the foreign territory for my own.
My eyes never were far from the corridor, so when a woman with reddish brown hair made her appearance I was all too aware. Her face was kind and I was instantly comfortable, against the desires of my fearful heart.
“Sarah Ellens?”
I turned my face to her at the sound of her warm voice, still feeling slightly unsure about the whole situation. It would have been far easier if she fitted the idea of the cruel psychologist. At least then I’d have an excuse not to let her into my life. I got up, and timidly approached her. She gave me her name and led me down the corridor into her room. In stark contrast to the waiting room, colour assaulted my senses, lulling me into a sense of security. All the while, I kept the idea that because she was paid to listen to me, she would never truly grow to care about me.
Thanks for your kind words. I really treasure them. Sorry about this being vague. I really struggle to remember sessions.
I settled myself in a seat, once sure that I was not taking her position. Satisfied with my placement in this new world, I allowed for the idea that my occupancy in this room would have to exist for a few months at the shortest, to at least allow for my mother to believe that I have been saved from my own insanity. She, of course, had to start the session. My sense of survival memorised each object in the room and its placement, committing the environment to memory. My eyes stayed longest on the bamboo shoot, fascinated with its structure and the clear, reflective water it was growing in. Life, other than the psychologist and me, created a sense of serenity within me. It too, in fact, was a poor creature caught up in a place it hadn’t chosen. In a way, I could draw parallels with the plant and myself. For one, plants don’t choose where they’re planted, and they’ve just got to hope like hell there’s enough water and sunlight to survive. I hadn’t chosen to come here, and all I could do is that this situation wouldn’t destroy me further. I definitely was not going to trust Penny with that amount of power over me. Instantaneously I realised the greatest ally in that room was that bamboo shoot, trapped in that tiny little pot.
I turned my focus back to my forced company, bringing forth my exuberant, bubbly personality as best I could. I followed her comments with witty, prickly remarks, intent on deflecting each question whose purpose it was to probe into my life. As such, our conversation continued in a verbal joust, my answers acting at a defence against what I deemed to be her attacks. While I was struggling with the idea of being in therapy, I gave in to the idea that I liked Penny and perhaps, under different circumstances, I would have attempted to open communications with her. While I was desperate and scared, it was not enough to override the fact that I did not want to be there.As our conversation progressed, I realised with a breath of triumph, I hadn’t told her my incriminating secret. That way I could still hold onto the power my previous confidents had stripped from me. While I still felt oblige to tell her, as I had promised, I couldn’t physically form the words. Instead I filled her in with trivial aspects of my life. While they made up an integral part of expressing my personality, the information was fairly safe. I mentioned my foot operations, deeming it as safe territory.
The conversation moved through my brief accounts of history, my family, and my interests. With delight I discovered that horses were a common ground as well as poetry and writing. What perhaps was the most encouraging thing about her being a horse person, perhaps she’d manage to get through to me. A part of me longed for a place in which to heal, desperate for some hold upon life. Satisfied that the conversation had taken a turn in my direction, I leapt upon the chance to convince her that I had my life under control. I desperately tried to worm my way out of therapy with the claim that because of my poetry, I had the ability to control my life. It was a foolish conviction. I only had to look at my arms to make that deduction. She too, was not naive enough to fall for the brilliant, bright smile I had used to enforce this idea. Even with such safe territory, the words felt sticky in my mouth, unwilling to divulge any information. I felt like a charlatan, selling myself superficially; the false product. At that moment, however, it felt only safe enough to give her the tiniest bit of information. As I left the session, although I had found a person I liked, relief settled over me as well as a blanket of desperation and isolation.
