"Camber has what is known as Reactive Mutism. It is a reaction from trauma and or abuse that she may have gone through. It is an anxiety disorder where she refuses to speak. She can speak however, and despite this she is most likely very intelligent. Almost all kids diagnosed with this form of Elective Mutism show signs of depression and being visibly withdrawn." This man, Dr. Hale, is like a freaking psychology textbook. Why doesn't he just shut up already?
"But we have never abused her, Dr. Hale. Is there treatment I mean, I knew some rough stuff has happened in ther past but I didn't that it was this...serious?" My foster mother, Carol, is absorbing every word this moron says. But of course I don't say anything. I'm 'mute.'
"Ah yes, but didn't you say her parents were beaten to death while she was raped at the ripe age of five? That may be the main source of this disorder, the core of it. Therapy is the only treatment we can offer her here at this time. I would watch for signs of suicide and cutting also, it may be a way for her to cope. Now, Ms. Leewood, for safety measures, to see what the severity of the case we are dealing with here, could you please show me your wrists?" I can feel his gaze penetrating me, but I refuse to peel my eyes away from my converse.
"Ms. Leewood, please this is for your own good." His fat, meaty hand wraps around my wrist lightly but firmly. Immediatley, memories come flashing back. Memories of the desperate look in my dads eye that isn't swollen shut, as the strange man binds my wrists, telling me to keep quiet or I'd be meeting Jesus really soon.
The air in the room is gone, the walls caving in. I sit there, gasping, beating against the mans hold. Anything to make him let go. I scratch. I claw. I punch. The whole time I don't make a noise. If I make a noise he will kill me, like those strange men did to my parents ten years ago.
"What's happening?" Carol's voice is distant, and lined with fear. I bet she feels helpless now. Just like me.
"Ma'am, it's alright. She's having a panic attack. My touch must've triggered unwanted memories." My wrist is freed, and I can breathe again. I pull my hoodie sleeves over my hands, in hope he won't try to look at my scars again.
"It happens every time someone holds onto her. She starts gasping and hitting at whatever is touching. I don't understand why she just doesn't say 'Stop.'" I risk a glance at Carol, who still looks a little freaked.
"She will not tell them to stop because she was told that if she verbally refused she would be killed. At the age she was, she would remember that. The feeling of complete helplessness, of utter fear." My breath is still ragged, but my logic is back. This man won't hurt me. Hopefully, anyways.
"So, doctor, you're basically telling me that my child can talk, but she won't, and that if anyone tries to touch her she will freak out?" Her voice is shaky, and I can practically see her clutching her purse, as if its a life preserver, that it'll keep her sane.
"In frank, yes. Now remember, there is a treatment, and we can put her on medicine to help with the panic attacks, and depression. Therapy is an option, but if anything, don't try and force her to talk. That could make matters worse." Maybe I owe Dr. Hale a thanks. Maybe now, people will stop trying to force me to talk.
"Oh okay, well thank you again, Dr. Hale." Carol stands up, and makes a beeline for the door. She doesn't ask me to follow, because she already knows I will. It's the same drill at every office we visit.
Sitting in the minivan, in the parking lot of the doctors' office, Carol breaks down finally. I don't look at her, but her sobs sound gut-wrenching, coming straight from her heart. After a few awkward minutes, she manages to calm down to just a sniffle.
"Camber, honey I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry you have to deal with this. I'm so sorry your parents were murdered. I'm so sorry you were raped. I'm so sorry for everything." The tears escalate again, and I suppress a sigh. Camber, the pity party. The person everyone cries over, the one that's always given special attention. Don't people understand that I just want to be normal, and let go of my past?
*A/N: Photo is of Camber*
YOU ARE READING
Silently Screaming
Teen Fiction"So that brings me back to the dream. I was there again, but this time, I was him. Beating some little kid, wasted out of my mind. I think the dream has to do with when I came home from that party, drunk. It scared the hell out of me, Camber. I don'...
