Cry Until You Bleed

5- Therapy

“How are you today, Ana?” My therapist, Dr. Lombardi, asks me at the beginning of our session on my second full day at Bernard’s.

I flash her a grin and lean forward with my elbows on my knees. “Oh, I’m just dandy. Thank you for asking.”

“You’re dandy?” She wonders with raised eyebrows.

I nod. “Of course I am. I heard that we get cheesecake on Fridays. What else is there to live for?”

She taps the end of her pencil on her notepad as she pretends to think of something to say when I know full well that she knows exactly what she’s going to say already. “I don’t think that you’re so… as you put it, ‘dandy’. I think that you’re probably not very okay at all. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“No, I’m here because I slit my wrists at my own graduation party,” I remind her. “Just because I want to die doesn’t mean that I’m not feeling okay today. I feel just fine.”

“Well, I’ve looked at your file, Ana, and it seems as if you’ve been having problems for the past two and a half years but you were out on your own for a whole year before this. Can you tell me what happened?”

“It’s been three years, actually,” I tell her. “I started having problems on exactly August 8th, 2012 at 12:26 a.m.. I was only institutionalized in December, which is probably where you’re getting the two and a half from. But yes, I have been around the block before. I know how all of this works.”

“Okay, well then why don’t we just start at the beginning, alright? What happened on August 8th?” Dr. Lombardi starts to prod, preparing her pen to start writing when I start talking but she’s about to be royally disappointed with my answer.

“No,” I say sharply, feeling bad for my sudden sharp tone because this therapist is really nice from what I can tell from the only other session I’ve had with her. Especially compared to my business-attitude therapists up in Alaska. My therapist back home in LA that I would see two times a week was really cool though, and I’m not sure of Dr. Lombardi can live up to his standards but she is pretty nice so I like her. “I don’t want to talk about it. I know that you will tell me that I should face my problems- take it head on or whatever- but I can’t do it. Every time one of my doctors makes me relive that night, it never ends well for me. I end up leaving feeling even crappier than I did going in.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“Because. I’ve spent so much time building up walls and walls to keep that memory as far away from me as possible and I don’t plan on ever taking them down. I’m sure all of the psychology classes that you have taken will tell you to tell me that going through that night with you will make it better- it will give me closure or whatever. I don’t care though because none of those classes can ever explain what happened to me. There is no right way to handle this type of situation and I don’t think that you have the right to force me to tell you about it unless you know firsthand what I’ve been through- and I pray to a million suns that you don’t. I don’t mean any disrespect, Dr. Lombardi, I really don’t, but it’s just not going to happen,” I tell her with an apologetic frown. “I can’t do it.”

“I think that you can do it,” She counters. “But if you don’t want to tell me right now, that’s okay too. I want you to take your time and then maybe later, we can talk about it. Let’s talk about something easier. How about your gap. You went through a whole year without an incident, can you tell me what that was like?”

“It was amazing,” I tell her honestly. “I spent a lot of time with my brother and his girlfriend because she’s really nice and awesome. I don’t really have any friends, but I’m on the internet a lot, when I’m not with my family. I was… I don’t know, happier than I was before. Well, I wouldn’t consider it happy, but I was much less miserable than I was up in Alaska, locked away in some prison like an animal, like I am now. I know that it’s for my safety and health and well-being and all of that jazz but I’d still rather be home than here.”