Chapter 9 The Phoenix #3
“I didn’t try to kill myself,” it came out harsher than I had meant it to as I raised my bandaged arm in emphasis. Trying to contain myself when I felt like I was drowning wasn’t easy, and I was tired of repeating myself, tired of being judged, tired of no one taking the time just to listen to me.
“I’m not here to judge you, Rae. I promise we will get to the topic of what brought you here, but I want to get to know you first.” Daxton must have seen the look of defeat on my face, so he added, “For what it’s worth, when I listened to your intake assessment, you didn’t strike me as someone who just attempted suicide.
However, my word isn’t final and won't affect how long you stay here. Once you’re committed, you’re stuck for the entire duration.
I’ve never seen them release a patient early, only ever have I witnessed them extend a patient’s stay if their psychiatric care team feels as though their program isn’t complete. ”
As much as I wished for a light to shine through the darkness, the windows in the room of my mind were always boarded.
Nails were on every board, and every door was locked.
. He didn’t say he believed me, only that I didn’t strike him as a person who was suicidal.
Being a therapist, he also could just be telling me what I want to hear to make it easier for me to open up to him, rather than trying to force me into accepting a false version of events that lead to my metaphorical incarceration.
Daxton didn’t strike me as the people-pleasing type, though.
Maybe it was his rough exterior, unable to be completely hidden by his professional attire, he just didn’t seem the type to waste his time spewing bullshit unless it mattered.
“That’s fine, just know that when I prove everyone wrong, I’ll be coming back to collect either a verbal or written apology.
Either will be fine, I’m not picky.” He smirked at my remark, only I wasn’t kidding.
I could deal with a lot of shit; I had dealt with a lot of shit, but being repeatedly called a liar because of my ex was one of my biggest grievances over the whole ordeal.
“I promise that when you do that, I’ll hand-deliver you a card.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I said, holding his gaze as he smirked at me again, half of his mouth tilting up in a grin.
Daxton made another note in his book before continuing, reining in the session back to the original topic we had started with.
The sun was shining through the bars behind him, making his dark hair almost red under its rays.
Even though his hair was short, it appeared thick, not a bald spot or a single gray hair in sight.
“So I’m going to start with the obvious question: why did you start cutting yourself?” He was right; it was an obvious question, and one I expected to come up during this session. I only wished I knew how to properly answer it.
“It’s been over a decade, so I can’t remember all the details, just that I felt overwhelmed all the time.
I felt like I was never in control of my emotions, let alone knew how to handle anything I did feel.
I don’t remember where the idea originally came from, only that once I had the idea, once I had tried it, I couldn’t get it out of my head again. It helped make my thoughts quieter.”
“When was the first time you decided to do it?”
“I was alone at school, in the bathroom before lunch. My mother and I had been fighting that morning. Fighting was normal, but this time wasn’t normal.
I remember stealing a scalpel blade from science class.
We had just finished dissecting a frog, and there were extra blades still packaged and left out.
It surprised me that it wasn’t hard to take one.
Mr. Harris didn’t count them as he collected them after the class was over, so I just took one.
” More than anything, I wished I had a bottle of water to help with how dry my mouth felt.
Venturing down this rabbit hole never did me any good before.
I was willing to make the journey to try and get someone to understand that I wasn’t crazy, but I couldn’t see if it would be worth it.
“The idea had been with me for a while, like I said, I don’t remember where it came from, just that it was there.
Taunting me. Tempting me like a mimosa during Sunday brunch for an alcoholic.
So before lunch I snuck into the bathroom and tried it. ”
“How did it feel, the first time you tried it?”
“Calming. Things at home were always chaotic and out of control; it was the opposite of that. Comfortable, calming, and it gave me control over the things I couldn’t express. It took all the rage and sadness away and gave me something to feel that wasn’t outside of my control.”
“How long after that first time did your mother find out?”
I had to think back about it, the smell of secondhand smoke almost tangible in the air from how strong the memory was.
How she almost burned my skin with the cherry on her cigarette when she grabbed my arm to forcibly roll up my long shirt sleeve.
The look of disgust was prevalent on her face as she uncovered my secret.
“About a year, give or take,” I said simply.
“What was her reaction?” His questions were clinical, but not without emotion.
It had been a long time since I had been in therapy, but I still knew the probing questions were basically standard.
The Q she was too strung out most of the time to care anyway.”
“How long did you remain in therapy at that time?” He asked without judgment.
Then again, that was the definition of his job: being helpful without judgment.
With the number of patients this place probably saw, his responses were probably almost second nature to him.
Still, his eyes never looked bored or disgusted with what I talked about.
“Since she left it up to me to make sure I went to the appointments, it didn’t last long. I know I probably should have stayed with it, but I was a teenager who thought I knew best, and my mother was too busy passed out drunk or high to know where I was.”
Daxton paused his questions as his notes became a little more in-depth, taking his time writing details down.
I had to wonder how much he could tell about someone during his sessions.
If he could look into someone's words and behaviors and get a glimpse of the person we all tried to hide from the outside world.
That if in a part of all their training and schooling to help people figure out their troubles, they were trained to peel back the masks everyone wore, past the layers of tissue and sinew and glimpse what really lay beneath.
“Was that a normal habit of your mothers?”
“Hers and my dad both. Drinking, drugs, and fighting. I honestly don’t think they ever really wanted to have children. My sister and I spent more time with our grandmother than we ever did with them until we were old enough to take care of ourselves.”
“Did they ever talk to you about your self-harm?”
I had to think back; most of the memories from dealing with my parents had been buried and locked in that room deep in my mind so long ago it was hard to drag them back to the surface.
They wanted to stay hidden where they were comfortable, waiting untouched.
No amount of therapy would change what had happened in the past with my parents.
“No, they never really talked to me about it. Once they found out, my mother made me strip down on the days she was sober so she could inspect me for any new marks. After a while, either she didn’t care anymore or she started to forget, but it stopped after a few months.
My grandmother never knew. Other than my mother dropping us off with her, they didn’t have a good relationship. ”
“What about your sister?”
“My sister knew. She caught me one night when I forgot to lock my door.”
“How did she react?”