Life After Death

Chapter 2

Silence follows the end of my story. I refuse to make eye contact with Dr. Goodwell. This memory is perhaps one of the hardest memories to discuss for me. I mean, it's terrible! But I understand why she wants me to talk about it. I've had therapy before and the general idea is that you must change the way you view your "story" in order to get better. If you change your thought process, it can help with your chemical imbalance. 

A chemical imbalance. That's what's wrong with me they say. I was checked into this mental institute after a failed suicide attempt. But that's a story for another time. Although my childhood isn't what necessarily sent me off my rocker, Dr. Goodwell says that it's very important to understand and come to terms with it because my rough childhood did play a roll. She says my childhood an all the events that have happened in the past 3 years all snowballed together and landed me here, mentally crippled. 

The effect of my story is barely concealed in Dr. Goodwell's face. I can tell she's trying to not let her emotions show through. She clears her throat, "That's a pretty horrific event," she says, scribbling some notes down on her pad. I watch her write with thinly veiled disgust. 

My last therapist did the same thing as her. She would write notes but for alI can tell she somehow lost them between one appointment and the next because each time I came in, she would ask me the same questions again. Therapists want to give you the illusion of sentimentality but it's all a lie, I think bitterly. I'm just another damn dollar sign to them. That's it. Why should Dr. Goodwell be an different?

"Well yes, I don't imagine it's every child's dream to get punched in the face and go to bed hungry," I say with a mocking smile. Why am I being so cruel? I have no idea. I want to get better. So why am I making her job so difficult? 

Dr. Goodwell presses her lips into a thin line but doesn't say anything about the remark. 

"Why do you think you have held on to this memory all these years?" she says instead. 

I sigh and look out the window. In the far distance, I see a family at the little park down the street. The father is pushing the little girl on the swing, with each push the girl goes higher and higher. She's laughing so hard, I can almost hear her childish mirth from here. They look so happy. Everyone looks so happy. Why can't I have that? I'm soon green with envy. 

I turn my attention back to an expectant Dr. Goodwell. "I think I have held on to this memory because of how it made me feel. I don't think there has been any other time I have ever felt quite so discarded," I say.
The last word breaks on it's way out and I turn my face to hide the pain. You would think after twenty years I would have come to terms with this incident. But I haven't. The image of my brother scrounging for food on the that gravelly driveway still haunts me to this day. Not that I care much for the bastard, well that's a whole story for another day. Let's just say he didn't quite fit the protective older brother role, the movies and books portray. No it's something else entirely.
It's the fact that somehow in our mother's brain, we were trash and deserved nothing more than trash. I bite back the sob trying tear through me like lightning.
This is why I hate therapy. I try to avoid these memories because it's like living through every single agonizing moment again and I'm left a smaller and smaller version of myself each time.

Dr. Goodwell is carefully examining my features. "It gives you a lot of discomfort to talk about these memories, I see. But with each time, it should get easier. You'll soon be able to reflect on these painful memories with wisdom. I want you to spend some time writing and thinking about your childhood. I'll be visiting every Wednesday, and we can discuss your progress then." She closes her notebook and nods at the guard standing sentry at the door. She's ready to go. She says a polite goodbye and is on her way.
As she leaves, I suddenly have a burning desire fo her to stay. Apart from my daily meal drop offs by the cafeteria workers, she is the only person I see regularly. 
Seeing her go, I feel like a child being separated from their mother for their first day of school.
Child. Children. The thought of children brings a pang to my heart.
I pull out a folded up picture from the front pocket of my white scrubs and unfold it. The edges are worn and the creases are deep. I have habitually been looking at this picture so many times throughout the past two weeks I have been here, I'm surprised the picture hasn't fallen apart.
The picture shows two baby boys both of which, at the time this picture was taken, eighteen months old.
I see familiar smiles lines, almond chocolate eyes, and butt chins looking back at me.
My face. They are a spitting image of me.
I think of their tender skin, the baby powder scent of them, and the intoxicating sound of their laughter and soon I'm in the fetal position, crying as if someone has just died. As if they had died. As if I had died.
My cries grow louder and louder until I'm out of breath and shaking with pain so painful I think I AM dying. I'm screaming but I can barely here it. All I hear are the dark thoughts clouding my mind.
You are a terrible mother. They deserve better. They are better without you. You are worthless.
Something breaks the screaming in my head. Or is that my own screaming? I don't know at this point.
Hands are on me. I try opening my eyes but all I see are flashes of that night, long ago, when everything changed.
My unseeing eyes vaguely make out two nurses trying to calm me down.
Another rushes in with a syringe in her hand. 
A prick to my thigh and the thrashing slowly recedes. They push me down on the bed and tuck me in like a baby.
My vision slowly recedes, along with the pain.
I'm weightless.
The pain is gone. In fact, I feel nothing at all.
Perhaps I am dead.