She Hunter

Chapter 1: Memories

[A/N: Dedicated to @xXburningXx for being the first to comment/vote. Thank you for the support, love! Check out her story: Take Me With You!]        

        It hurts to think back on the things I learned about people during my time of isolation from society. Like how the size of your prison matters more than the person who occupies the cell nearest you. And how, in some cases, the real monsters are on the “sane” side of your locked door. Looking back on my life seemed like a good idea when the therapist suggested it that first day. We were all kidding ourselves, as people tend to do. Reminiscing never helped anybody. Journaling was a waste of time, but they were Hell-bent on reading it every week to tap into my private thoughts.

        They were never interested in actually understanding me; it was all about having a diagnosis to write in my paperwork. They would never understand what it’s like to be inside my head. I’m willing to bet that they knew nothing about being confused, being lost, being told what to do every second of the day by a voice that sounds like yourself. The entire exercise was absurd, but journal I did. I started with my childhood because that seemed like the best place.

        I wrote about the close relationship I had with my mom. But, true to form, they cared less about the actual trauma in my life and more about the lack of involvement of my father. They were very interested in his disappearance from my life and I remember that they were frustrated with me when I had little to say about him. They called it “distancing language” in our first session. But it was simple. I never called him "Dad" because he was never there for me, except when he wanted something. I quickly learned it was easier for them to judge me for my daddy issues than to help me process the untimely death of my mother.

        Only I would fully recognize that what happened to her was the final stroke of bad luck on my already disappointing existence. She raised me alone after she left my father - distantly mentioned above. And she loved me, the only person who ever could love someone like me. My doctor’s response to that assertion was to tell me he would help me work on my "low self-esteem." I've never really had a problem with self-image, but it’s kind of hard not to hate yourself when you’re the reason that everything didn’t work out for the person you love most.

        Needless to say, I put little faith in his abilities. After all, no one knew the darkness within me better than myself. But these are all the words I couldn’t bring myself to say then. Try as I might, I couldn’t make them understand. I was the reason that the only person I ever loved was gone forever. She was dead, and I was responsible.

        I am certain that in their arrogance, they thought we were actually getting somewhere with those sessions. But I’m the one who has the last laugh. Admitting that my mom is dead, that was one thing. Embracing that my father is out there alive somewhere when he didn’t deserve to be was another. But let’s not take our eyes off the prize, people. Let’s not forget that I’m insane. My doctor would have known exactly what I’m referring to, and he wouldn’t have argued with me. They all thought I was crazy.

        I was officially labeled and filed under the word schizophrenic, because I heard voices in my head. It’s such an ugly thing to be defined by one single word in someone else’s reality. Imagine all of the complex puzzle pieces that make up who you are being dumbed down into a handful of doctor’s notes in a file folder. Picture both the happy and sad circumstances, the feelings, the images, and thoughts that make up your entire life being condensed into a few typed sentences arranged on a white sheet of paper. What would you be after that? Would you still be you? I didn’t think so anymore. I became a word, a word that I hated more than anything. I’m pretty sure I despised what I was just as much as they all did.