Where My Demons Hide

On the Mend?

It was decided for me that I was staying for at least seven days.  With mandatory individual therapy in the morning followed by "structured free time" and even more mandatory group therapy in the afternoons.  Then dinner, shower and lights out by nine.  I think I would rather be in jail at this point.  At least there I'm not made to sit and share my feelings or listen to others problems.

"Meadow, you know this only works if you talk, right?" Dr. White calmly asked, though I could see the vein in his forehead throbbing.

I sat slouched in the chair across his desk while he quietly tapped his pen on his blank note pad.  He got his jollies listening to others trauma and turmoil.  I refused to add anything to his morbid spank bank.

"What do you want me to say, Dr.? I can sit here and bullshit you, telling you every single thing you want to hear so that you'll let me out in seven days.  Or, I can keep my mouth shut, spare us both the time and effort involved in share hour and still leave in seven days.  Thankfully my insurance won't cover me for longer than that," it felt good to know I had a definite release date.  It was questionable after my first night here, but they were able to determine that the insurance company would only cover so many days for mental health.

"Listen, Meadow, I have been doing this for longer than you have been alive.  Not to mention the insane amount of schooling.  Now, I'm not bragging, simply letting you know that I have seen every single horror that exists out there.  I have helped to mend more than I have further damaged, if that helps you at all.  It's not meant to be easy, you have to understand I know that.  If it were easy, I quite frankly, would be out of a damn job." He laughed to himself and then cleared his throat as if remembering where he was.

"Dr. White, I can promise you, this is not my first rodeo.  I have been in and out of therapy since I was 11.  I have had roughly the same number of therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists, counselors and pastors try to help 'mend' me, as you so gently put it.  Heres the thing though, there is nothing in here to mend.  Many have tried, all have failed. It's not that I don't want to be better.  It's just that what is left inside is so far beyond fucked up it would take the rest of your professional years to even start to piece me together," I couldn't remember the last time I was so candid with someone, I'm sure the look on my face matched the good doctors one of surprise.

"Mead-" he started then stopped immediately.  He seemed a mix of shocked and shook and I could't fathom why.  "I'll be damned," He put the pen down and pushed his chair back from his desk.

"Wait, um, what?" 

"You're the first one, in all my years, to almost make me believe that you believe that bullshit you just spewed," his tone was leaning more towards angry now, "you want to be better but basically what you're saying is there's nothing left to save? Is that accurate?" 

"Yeah, that's it exactly.  And it's fine, really.  I've been this way for so long now that I don't know any different.  For all I know, being better is just a myth."

His hand came down slightly hard on his desk, "You are not stupid, I know that from your file.  I don't like you sitting here insulting my intelligence either. There are two kinds of people that I see day in and day out; those who want to be helped but don't know where to start, and," he pointed to the bandages on my wrist, "those who succeed."

My breath left flew from my lungs without my permission. "What the fuck?" I couldn't articulate anything better.

"I'm serious.  And I make no apologies for being so blunt.  I need to know that I'm not wasting my time sitting here talking to you, because you can bet your ass that sitting out there in the common room is someone or many someones who actually WANT my help." 

Dr. White yanked open the top drawer on his desk.  After sifting for a minute, he slammed his hand down on his desk with his palm spread over whatever he found.  Leaning forward, he looked directly into my eyes.  I refused to back down or break in front of his man so I held his stare.

"Meadow, no more lies in this room.  I need you to be more honest with me than you ever have with anyone else in your life, do you understand?" 

I could only nod.

Lifting his hand, he slowly revealed what he took from his drawer, "If I left this here, unattended on my desk and left this room that locks from the outside, would you use it the right way this time?" 

I tried like hell to keep my eyes glued to his.  But damn this man was good and he fucking knew it.  With purpose, I looked away and transferred my eyes to where his hand had been.  Sitting on his blank note pad was a box cutter blade, totally unblemished.  

"You have a set of fucking balls on you, don't you doc? Am I supposed to respect you because you 'give it to me real'? I don't know what college you went to or what board decided to issue you a license but why don't you spare me the fucking dramatics and ask me outright if you think I'm really suicidal." The level of anger I reached was almost unprecedented.

"No dramatics, Meadow.  Quite frankly, I do not have time to convince you that you are worth saving if you refuse to believe me.  So, as I said, if I left this room and left this blade here, would you use it?"