Читать книгу But Inside I'm Screaming - Elizabeth Flock - Страница 19

Eleven

“What are you thinking about?” Dr. Seidler was assigned to Isabel when she entered Three Breezes days ago. Though her perfect posture and severe haircut suggest an aloof personality, Dr. Seidler’s hands more than cancel out the implication of cruelty. They are long delicate hands punctuated with ribbons of veins that add to their character and grace. Isabel can do nothing but stare at them.

“Isabel?”

Silence.

“I realize it’s been quite an adjustment to get used to life here at the hospital and I’ve chalked our last two sessions up to being quiet times for you to be contemplative,” Dr. Seidler continues. “But we do need to work together—you and I—if you’d let me help you. I guess what I’m saying is, you have to let me in, Isabel.”

“What do you want from me?” Isabel asks, reluctantly looking up from the hands.

“I don’t want anything from you. I want to help you. Let’s start by looking at why you’re really here.”

Jesus. Why are you here? Why are you here? I’m so sick of that question! I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t belong here. Look at me: do I have bandages on my arm to keep me from scratching? Do I babble incessantly about bullshit? Do I sit all day staring into outer space? I don’t belong here. Just give me my privileges and let me go down the driveway, for God’s sake.

Dr. Seidler’s stare is unwavering.

Okay, I’ll blink first if that’s what you want.

“I’m here because I want to kill myself,” she shrugs.

“Why? Why do you feel you can’t live any longer?”

“Um, I don’t know.” Isabel feels like a third grader.

“This isn’t a quiz, you know. It’s not like there’s a right or wrong answer to the question. I’m just curious.” The therapist looks at Isabel’s file and reads from it.

“You mentioned when you first got here that you felt like you were disappointing everyone in your life. Like you couldn’t stay on the treadmill at work and keep everyone else happy. Is that how you feel? You couldn’t make everyone happy so you might as well kill yourself?”

“When you say it like that it sounds ridiculous,” answers Isabel. “Which, I assume, is your point. But it’s not that simple. I feel like I’m being pulled in every direction.”

“What about today? Do you feel suicidal?”

Grounds privileges. The driveway.

Isabel is torn between telling the truth and risking a doctor’s recommendation that she stay hospitalized, or lying in order to be free of this place. “Um, well, no. Not like before.”

“What does that mean exactly? ‘Not like before’?”

“Well, I don’t think about it like I did a few days ago. When I got here,” she continues the lie. “I mean, I can actually think about next week, whereas before I couldn’t see that far into the future. I figured I’d be dead by then.”

Tell her. Tell her how you only buy single rolls of individually wrapped toilet paper. Buying in bulk would be a waste. Tell her.

“So now you can see living? At least another week, or a few days or what?”

“Yeah, I guess so. A few days…”

Tell her.

“What about Christmas?”

“As in Christmas of this year?” Isabel knows where this is going and is confronted with the truth dilemma again.

“Yep. The Christmas that comes in a few months. Can you picture yourself celebrating Christmas?”

She’s got me.

“No.”

“You can’t picture Christmas?”

“No.”

“It’s okay, Isabel. You don’t have to feel crestfallen about that. You’ve only been here a short time. We don’t expect miracles. Patients aren’t expected to go from suicidal ideation to long-range planning in that short period of time. It’s okay.”

Isabel begins to cry.

“Can you tell me why you’re crying?”

Through her tears Isabel’s voice cracks. “I want to get out of here.”

“I hear this is highly upsetting to you,” Dr. Seidler says, trying to soothe her. “But as I told you yesterday, I am going to recommend to my colleagues that you stay with us a little while longer. That will help you in the long run.”

Isabel can barely hear her. Her depression is floating away, disappearing like an airline tray neatly folding back into its cave underneath the armrest, patiently waiting to again emerge for the next flight. She has stopped crying.

“Isabel? Isabel, what are you thinking right now?”

“I don’t know. I’m just blank.”

“Try. Try, if you can, to tell me what is on your mind right now. You’ve got a strange look on your face. You look scared.”

“Huh? Oh. No, I’m not scared.”

“What’s the first thing that pops into your mouth when I ask you to speak?”

Isabel’s eyes settle directly on Dr. Seidler’s face. “There’s no way I’m living until next Christmas. No way.”

“Why? Isabel? Stay with that thought…why? Can you hear me?”

Isabel is already gone. In her mind she sees the truck speeding toward her. She hears the screech of the brakes, the truck’s tires locking up too late. She closes her eyes imagining the impact, the feel of the pavement beneath her bloody body, the relief.

I refuse to be someone who’s in and out of institutions. I will not be Zelda Fitzgerald.

“Isabel. Listen to me for just a minute.” Her therapist is trying to get her attention. “While you’re here we need to work on your coping skills. I see you get a little overwhelmed with life. We need to teach you how to deal with the stuff that’s thrown at you. That way you won’t need to dissociate yourself from it, like you seem to be doing right now.”

“‘A little overwhelmed’?” Isabel snaps back and is crying again. “‘A little overwhelmed’? I’d say it’s a little more than that.”

“Okay, tell me.”

“Well, first of all, I have absolutely no control over my life and what I do with it. ANN has me on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They’ll beep me at three in the morning and tell me to get to the airport and sometimes I don’t even know where I’m going until I call from the back of the taxi. I have to have a bag packed at all times so that I can just walk away from whatever I’m doing and go to work. I’m in the middle of getting divorced. I don’t even have time to go to couples counseling—not that that’s any big loss, though….”

“Before you go any further,” the therapist interrupts Isabel, “let’s look at these things one at a time. You bring up some very good points. Let’s start with the divorce. What happened in your marriage?”

Isabel softens and slumps into her chair.

“My marriage?”

“I think that might be a good starting point for us.”

“Alex. That’s his name. Alex.” Isabel is sobbing again.

“Tell me about Alex.”