7. Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Sunshine
“Alright, Sadie, explain again,” Mr. Kensington urges, as his pen scrawls across his legal pad, capturing the things I say.
He doesn’t look up at me when we are in sessions—half the time I think he’s doodling on his bright yellow paper instead of writing, ‘This girl needs to be in an institution.’
“Which part?”
“What do you mean by distractions and self-mutilation? Specifically, the mutilation.”
“It’s a tattoo, Mr. Kensington, not self-harm.”
“In the mind's eye, perhaps. Sadie, you experience intense episodes of disembodiment paired with violence. While you have not aimed it at yourself, partaking in risky activities in your condition is a flag for evaluation. Tattooing your body isn’t one of your normal activities, so I’m going to question the decisions behind it and whether or not you were in control when you allowed the procedure. ”
“You think I chose tattooing to hurt myself because I can’t any other way?”
This is the part where my anger flares, and we enter a standoff or I storm out. I’m trying so hard to be a normal person, not just for myself but everyone around me. While I’m aware I make risky choices, tattooing isn’t one of them.
“Do you understand what I’m conveying, Sadie? This is abnormal behavior and we need to be cautious with your treatment. If you decide to start tattooing more, or don’t tattoo ever again, we need to establish a baseline. Now, please, explain your reasoning.”
Kate is roaring in my ears, clawing at the thick chain wrapped around her neck, thrashing against my skull so we can show Mr. Kensington just how fucking insane I can be—but Liz strokes her elegant fingers through Kate’s greasy hair to calm her.
There are days where I wish I could let all three of them do their worst. Naamah will probably sit back and watch, anticipating when the other two will finally split someone’s skull open. Then remain on her throne of skulls where she judges the rest of us and dictates how we run and when.
Liz is the instigator. She’s the one who whispers malevolently into my ear to release all of my pent-up violence. To free Kate from her shackles, where she may rip, maim, and torment anyone in a hundred-foot radius—including me. Whatever it takes to get her blood fix.
Folding my legs up, I pull my hoodie over my knees and turn myself into a ball on his stuffy couch. Slightly, I lean forward to rest my chin on my knees and stare hard enough to look through Mr. Kensington, looking at the white rabbit.
“I wanted to hide the scars on my arms. Cover up memories that make me want to add to them. My dad went with me; he was supportive and kept me grounded.”
“I see. You think pulling a fancy rug over a pile of dirt makes it go away. Sadie, that’s not healthy.”
“I’m not forgetting, I’m polishing. They remind me of the worst points in my life. The tattoos…I get to see something pretty. If flowers can rise from dirt, then I can bloom in the dark.”
“Poetic, but not sustainable. The mind doesn’t work on hopeful thinking. How’s your medication regimen? Is it still suppressing your urges or have you noticed more triggers lately, since you mentioned distractions.”
This territory isn’t safe either. Half the time I set alarms on my phone to tell me which pill to take and why. Some of them I skip because I don’t need them. My weekend medication I cut in half, then double for school.
Risperdal treats psychosis, Suvorexant for insomnia, and Lithium to stabilize my mood and combat manic depressive episodes. A cocktail of drugs dosed just under perfection, making me crave more but they’re never quite enough. Thus, my home pharmacy skills.
Each has its own set of side effects which we attempt to treat with the others, but if we add any more, I might as well swallow the whole pharmaceutical industry.
“Mostly. Sleep’s few and far between. I haven't lashed out at anyone, but that doesn’t mean I haven't thought about it or created a plan.”
Mr. Kensington stops, putting his pen down. I hate being honest, because it earns me the very stare he’s delivering now.
“Tell me your plan.”
“No.”
“Yes, Sadie.”
Finally, I snap at him, “I said no!”
He doesn’t have to know everything—my mind already isn’t my own.
Letting him in is doing more damage than good—it’s pissing the entities off.
He can try all he wants, medicating me isn’t going to snuff them out.
However, dulling my senses and exhausting the girl makes it easier for monsters to take over.
“How are you managing your anger if the medication is mostly working? You have a plan on how you’d harm someone and struggle to sleep, which exacerbates your symptoms. We’ve talked about what this type of instability can mean for you, Sadie. Why haven’t you told me about this sooner?”
“Because I’m handling it! Fucking hell. I do better when I’m not sitting in this damn office spilling my guts and listening to you pick apart the things I say. If you were in my shoes, would you tell me everything when you managed to find something that works?”
Snatching up his pen and prescription pad, he looks at me before speaking again.
“The difference between you and I is that I see the value in therapy while you see it as an hour of me attacking you. According to your records, you’ve never responded to gentle treatment.
Results came from uncomfortable positioning, so that’s what we’re doing.
It’s called adaptation. I’ll be increasing your Lithium.
You claim to manage your mood swings but the two you just had have proven otherwise. ”
“I’m not taking any more meds. Forget about it.”
“It’s not another pill. It’s a dose increase.
We’re going to find what works, together, or you’ll be forced.
The day you become violent and hurt someone is the day you’re enrolled into an institution.
I’m also suggesting group therapy with similar patients.
There are sessions downstairs every Wednesday at eight p.m. I want to see true effort from you, Sadie. ”
An institution. He’s talking about locking me away with people like my uncle.
If he’s willing to throw me in a room and drug me to high heaven, would my parents make the same choice?
What if they do because I’m too unstable?
I didn’t choose this; if I could make myself better I would, but it’s just… so fucking hard.
“I’m going to decrease your Risperdal dosage and increase your Suvorexant. You need sleep. Trading adequate sleep for the single dose of Risperdal should allow you to regulate with the help of the Lithium. I want you back here every two weeks to discuss any changes and group therapy participation.”
“I’m not sitting in a damn circle with people who—”
“Who what, Sadie? The chances of you ever having a normal life and coming off of your medication are slim to none. You need to find holistic methods that help you regulate from a non-medicated angle. Talking to others will help you find outlets you may be unaware of.”
He slides my prescription across the coffee table between us and sets his pad down, then waits expectantly for me to grab the slip.
Responding to more aggressive providers isn’t necessarily what’s happening. It’s just harder to hide my demons when he’s waving a red flag in front of them and calling their bluff. They goad me into responding and slap on a new pill—that’s not treatment, it’s chemical compliance.
Unfolding, I stand and reach over, snatching the slip without breaking eye contact with him.
I will not be doing group therapy and singing shit campfire songs in a circle while crying.
I can manage my medication at home, then next time, I’ll lie better.
I'll slide on my mask and tell him everything he wants to hear until he changes the dose again.
“See you in two weeks, Sadie.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
The office is nestled in a three-story building with several other clinics, shops, and businesses. I do appreciate the ease of access rather than having to hunt down a specific floor and move through a maze to find the one I suffer in for an hour once a month—twice now, technically.
On my way down from the second floor, I pull my phone out and ignore hundreds of notifications in search of the only one that matters.
I shouldn’t seek him out, but I do. He makes it easy to let go of things that drag me under; responsibilities, for example.
After the other night, and his orders, I’ve waited for this day—for him to scoop me up from my appointment and cart me off into the sunset.
On the first floor, I swing around the stair railing then weave through faceless bodies coming and going from other businesses.
They barely notice me, unaware of the monster in their midst. One who could bring them to their knees before cutting them off.
There will be no relief in passing out, I’ll wait for them to come to then start again—the psychological torment would be agony enough.
Mr. Kensington will be first, then Chelsea from class, they both deserve to have their control stripped from them and brutalized.
I might have told him I have a plan, and I do, but it’s not detailed.
No, it’s short and simple: hurt, destroy.
Whatever happens between point A and B is dependent on my mood—who knows, I might have them kill each other instead of doing it myself.
Stepping through a pair of frosted glass doors, a path framed with perennial flowers and shrubbery leads to the parking lot.
It’s cool outside today, with low-hanging clouds threatening us with rain as summer heads our way.
I love weather like this. It’s easy to burrow into blankets and sleep the day away—well, when I can sleep, that is.