Chapter 3
Lennon
“Is this something you really want to pursue?” Rachel asked me, sounding slightly concerned.
I nodded, knowing the extent of what I was asking of my therapist. She had been the one person who had spent the last couple of years trying to keep me alive, and now, after all that time, I was asking for my life to end.
She had to have known that the misery I carried was far too unbearable—far too much for me to keep moving forward in this life.
I’ve wanted to die since I was ten years old, but the desire really didn’t take shape until I turned eighteen.
All the horrific life experiences I had carried made it easy to want a way out, but the hard part had been accepting that this was what life was going to be from then on.
A life of desolate loneliness that would never truly heal.
Sure, I hadn’t remained in the depths of the violence that I had experienced back then, but now that it was all over, all I had left was the pain I carried.
The deep-seated, painful memories that had eaten away at my core each and every day.
Some of those torturous thoughts, I hadn’t even been able to put into words for Rachel.
She wouldn’t have understood—she couldn’t have heard the way my voice would have wavered as I recounted it.
I wouldn’t have allowed it. No, those nightmares had been locked away in a box beneath the floorboards of my mind.
“I know that you’ve tried to keep me going, to help heal whatever bullshit is in my mind.
But the truth is, I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired, Rachel.
” And that had been all it took—a tear had betrayed me by escaping the corner of my eye.
I looked away from Rachel, unable to meet her stare.
She had always held space for me to let out my emotions, but I hadn’t been sure if that made things better or worse.
It made it feel like I had to fill the void and make it all okay again.
“It was stupid, I know,” I whispered as I tried to stop any more tears from making an appearance.
Rachel asked softly, “What do you mean, Lennon? What part was stupid?”
“I don’t know—all of it, I guess. I’m just…I’m just so broken. There is no fixing me. I know you tried. It’s stupid that I wasted all of your time, only to have the end result be someone else killing me so I wouldn’t have to do it myself.”
“Tell me again why you think you haven’t killed yourself already?”
Rachel always tried to be direct with me, never sugarcoating my thoughts or ideas—she said it like it was. I appreciated that about her. She hadn’t made it seem like my wanting to die was such a taboo subject. She had spoken in facts. She had spoken without judgment.
“I can’t bear the thought of someone finding me and being traumatized over it,” I said shamefully.
“Yes, but why is that?” Rachel asked, coaxing me to express a memory that was forever burned into the darkest parts of me.
My eyes shifted toward the window. The bright blue sky hosted white, fluffy clouds that moved slowly with the breeze.
There were other larger buildings off in the distance, but this location had boasted a cozier neighbourhood that didn’t have many high-rise buildings.
My mind drifted, and I wondered what it would feel like to freefall—if only there wouldn’t be such a mess…
Squeezing my eyelids shut for a brief moment to regain my thoughts, I whispered, “Because I saw it. I saw what it looked like.”
“Yes, Lennon. But tell me more. Tell me what you saw?” Rachel’s voice remained soft. She always encouraged me with gentle nudges to share the depths of my soul—the things I had never told anyone. But if I were to share it, it would have been with her.
“I, uh…I saw my mother. I saw what she did after I left her,” I said painfully.
“Remember, Lennon, you didn’t leave her.
You were apprehended by child services, it wasn’t up to you.
Unfortunately, the environment that was provided to you didn’t meet the standards that were supposed to be in place for growing, healthy children,” Rachel offered, trying to soften the blow to my psyche without creating a defence on behalf of my mother.
“Yeah? And how great was it for growing, healthy children to be placed in foster homes where the foster dads raped those same healthy, growing children, huh?” I spit out venomously.
Rachel gave me an empathetic nod. “Lennon, how did you find your mother?”
“I found her naked body that had been rotting away.” I squeezed my eyes shut, the memory too painful to speak, too much to handle.
“She had been hanging, and no one knew. No one fucking knew, because I wasn’t there and I should have been there.
She fucking killed herself because no one was there to take care of her. ”
Rachel leaned toward me, never judging what I said, just listening attentively. Her eye contact encouraged me to go on. “She, she hung herself and her body was there so long that the rope broke, and she fell onto the floor. But not before men used her for their own sex doll, of course.”
I was yelling at this point, manic from the memory of my mother’s lifeless, decaying body that was covered with an inconceivable amount of semen, old and new.
She had cuts, burns, and old blood splattered all over her.
I sat with her for so long that it could have been hours or days, and I wouldn’t have been able to remember.
But that image, that smell, is burned into the valleys of my mind, causing a trajectory of trauma I would never be able to work through.
That image started my fear of dead bodies, but it wasn’t the first or last that I saw.
More people killed themselves in my life than hadn’t, and it was one of the reasons, amongst the many others, that I didn’t make connections with anyone.
People either shattered trust, betrayed you, hurt you, or died.
There was nothing else in this life for me, and I had accepted that. It was okay.
Rachel had allowed time for my breathing to regulate as I noticed I was heaving in and out frantically. Her kind eyes had focused on mine, reminding me to ground myself. I had steadied my breathing, having a physical reaction as I always did to my past traumas.
“Let’s explore your options, Lennon. This is a huge, final-type decision. I want you to make sure you’ve gone over everything,” she said sympathetically. I nodded, knowing that what I was asking was for her to aid in my ultimate death.
“I know…I know about its finality. I just…finally feel like I’ve found a cure, if that makes sense?” I whispered, still coming down from the anxious outburst as I attempted to string together words that didn’t sound harsh, but told Rachel how I was genuinely feeling.
She had pressed her lips together in a tight smile, evaluating what her next chess move would be.
Her eyes left mine and dropped to the floor, realizing that as a therapist, she needed to respect my wishes, my requests.
She was caught between a rock and a hard place.
There were no more moves to make. Checkmate.
“Have you reviewed the application process?” she asked.
Nodding and clearing my throat, I had tried to find confidence in my voice.
“Y-yes, I have. I have it printed here, and completed.” Rummaging through my bag, I located the folded, wrinkled papers of the application I completed two weeks ago, awaiting this moment.
Trying to keep my hands from shaking, I unfolded them, smoothing out the papers as carefully as I could, and handed them to Rachel across the space between us.
She had reached her hand out, closing the space and pulling the sheets toward her.
Although her eyes attempted to remain emotionless, I could see the well of heartbreak in the creases around them.
I couldn’t look at her for fear of rejection, fear of the anger she might spew at me…
but she never had before. No—she wouldn’t, because she was too good. Too good to me.
Looking through the application, Rachel nodded along, acknowledging that everything had been filled out correctly, clearly, and articulately.
I knew it was. The number of times I had read and reviewed the application had been borderline obsessive.
I knew the details were completed to the full extent required—if not more than necessary.
After what felt like an eternity of her flipping through the pages, she looked up at me. “The application is filled out exactly as required. Just my portion remains blank, I see.”
Biting the inside of my lip, I nodded. Breathing out a sigh of defeat, Rachel then responded, “Okay, I guess we can fill out the application and go from there. I see you’ve done your research, so you’re aware there are some other qualifiers that go along with the application, yes?”
She was referring to the group therapy sessions I would have to attend, as well as ongoing therapy—something I was already completing—a psych test, a physical examination by a medical doctor, and other tedious prerequisites.
Rachel proceeded to complete her side of the application while I recited what I knew I had to complete to be eligible for the program.
I watched as Rachel scribbled her information down, and for the first time, I smiled.
Genuinely smiled. Was this what reaching for freedom felt like?
Like my one real wish was coming true? I didn’t think I had ever had a wish come true before.
“Have you looked into the group therapy sessions yet?” Rachel asked as she looked up at me.
“Sort of. I know there’s a waitlist, but I don’t really know much else about it,” I said honestly.
I had done my research, but there hadn’t been much information online—just the name: Group Therapy for Mental Health Outcomes.
What that meant was beyond my understanding, but it was definitely the group session attached to this program, because the link was directly connected to it.
Rachel stood up and said she would make a call to the hospital to add me to the list. Moments passed before someone on the other end of the phone answered.
“Hello, this is Dr. Rachel Montgomery over at Horizons. I’m looking to add a patient of mine to your Group Therapy for Mental Health Outcomes waitlist,” Rachel said, standing patiently while listening to the receptionist.
“Yes, her name is Lennon Becker.”
More waiting ensued. Rachel looked up at me, offering a half-hearted smile.
“Perfect, thank you very much. We’ll be in touch.
” Then she disconnected the line and looked over at me.
“You are officially on the waitlist. I should hear back this week regarding a timeline, but for now, I need you to sign a shared confidentiality agreement so we can discuss your care plan openly.”
“Yeah, of course,” I agreed. Rachel made quick work of printing a sheet for me after clicking her mouse a few times while sitting at her desktop.
She quickly reviewed the form to ensure it was the correct one, then handed it to me.
“This form just says that I can speak freely with the facilitators of the group so that when an opening pops up on the waitlist, I can let them know what you decide, as well as openly discuss your attendance, etc.”
I began signing the sheet without reading it or really listening to what Rachel was saying. I didn’t care what it took—I wanted to be signed up for this. No barriers were going to stop me, no paperwork was too much.
“You waste no time.” Rachel chuckled.
“I’m done wasting time here,” I replied, not fully realizing what that statement carried until Rachel lifted her gaze and our eyes met.
A sombreness drifted in the air, and I felt I needed to comfort her.
Even though she was my therapist, she had invested serious time in me, and maybe she thought I was just quitting on her.
“I know you worked hard,” I whispered. She was the first to break eye contact, and if I wasn’t mistaken, I saw her lip quiver just a fraction.
I inhaled an even deeper breath. “My world has never felt good. There’s never once been a time I’ve felt like anything was improving.
In fact, it feels like it’s only getting worse.
Living has been unbearable. I just want to feel like something is going well for once.
I just want to feel like something in this life is easy. I’m tired, Rachel. I’m so damn tired.”
Rachel looked up, hearing my pleas—maybe for the first time. “I know. Selfishly, I just want you to stay.”
If I had stayed much longer, I knew tears would have flooded the room.
I smiled. “Selfishly, I thank you for being the one person I can share this one happiness with. It may not be something you feel good about, but know that you’ve improved my day for the first time since my dad called me ‘pumpkin’ and held me in his arms.”
And with that, I stood up and left Rachel’s office, knowing she was likely breaking down alone in her office.
Selfishly, I breathed a weight right off my shoulders and hopped into the elevator to go enjoy the rest of my life, knowing my days were numbered.