(no subject)
Hey, this is from my writing class and we're discussing it next week, so I just wanted to know your opinions before I have to face the class.
Brittle Glass
The slow ticking of the clock on the wall was deafening in the silence between me and Dr. Chen. We’ve played this game before, waiting for the other to crack first. Dr. Chen sat in his chair staring at me from behind his glasses, clicking his pen against his pad of paper. Occasionally he pauses in his vigil and writes something down. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me, I wonder what he writes.
“So, how would you like to begin our session today, Angela?” He always cracks first. I hate the way he says my name, like we’re best friends or like he’s trying to soothe a crazed animal. He’s looking at me again.
In an effort to look anywhere but at him I stare at Dr. Chen’s desk as he patiently waits for my answer. There’s a lot of nick knacks, but it doesn’t look cluttered. His laptop is in one corner and spread out all over his desk are pictures of his family in beautiful silver and wooden frames. He has another clock on his desk, an old fashioned one that kind of looks like a miniature grandfather clock. The deep mahogany color matches that of his desk which coincidently matches the color of the wooden floor.
“Angela?” My attention is brought back to the good doctor as he starts writing in his notebook again. He crosses his legs in his chair and bites the inside of his cheek like he’s focusing all of his energy on what he’s writing. Dr. Chen sits in his chair about two feet away from me and this is not the first I’ve wondered why he doesn’t ever sit at his desk during our sessions. Instead, he reclines in his black leather chair, looking at me again.
“What are you writing?” I idly start tracing the seam lines of the couch that I’m sitting on. There’s one part of the seam that sticks out but can’t be seen.
“What were you thinking about just then?” Rule 1 of therapist school; always answer a question with a question.
“I was thinking about what you were writing.” A small smirk crosses his face as he shakes his head and silently chuckles at me. He starts writing again and my only guess is that he writes Uses humor as a defense mechanism. My last therapist used to say that to me all the time. My sense of humor is an acquired taste.
“How was your day today, Angela?”
“Fine.” This time I stare straight into his eyes with my head tilted to the side, a slight smile graces my lips.
“What did you do?”
“Slept. Took a shower. Slept some more.”
“You didn’t go to class?” His tone becomes exasperated with my casual answers.
“Classes were cancelled.”
“Uh huh.” This time the doc writes so much there’s a good 5 minute silence. “Why are you so resistant to our sessions?”
“I don’t have anything to talk about. I don’t like to talk just to fill the silence.”
***
The bright red drop against the tile floor looks like blood on the snow. Another drop slides down my arm and the sound of my blood hitting the bathroom floor is louder than the screaming in my head. The knife drops to the ground as my hand spasms and I think I've hit a nerve. I grab onto the sink and pull myself up to look into the mirror. My blue eyes are bloodshot and my skin is blotchy like I’ve been crying for hours. I look like I haven't slept in days. I fumble to wipe the hair out of my face and now there’s a bright red stain on my cheek. It becomes the focal point in the mirror as I stare at it. Everything thing else reflected in the mirror becomes hazy, including my face. The more I stare, the less I look like myself. The images are becoming distorted and my face seems to resemble a Picasso painting, disfigured and disproportional. The coolness of the sink under my fingers calms my nerves and the tighter I grip, the faster the blood flows. I don't remember how I got here.
The blood’s dripping to my fingers now creating a slow moving river from my cuts. My eyes are drooping and it’s a struggle to keep them open. But it doesn’t hurt.
It never does.
***
“Why don’t you tell me about your parents, Angela.” Dr. Chen sits in his chair again, hands folded in his lap. In a new move, he doesn’t have his notebook handy, he’s just listening.
“I haven’t spoken to my father in two years,” I said quietly.
“What about your mother?” My head jerks up to look Dr. Chen in the eyes. He just stares back, expressionless.
“You know the answer to that. You know what happened, why are you asking me about it?” I can’t keep the first signs of anger from creeping into my words.
“I want to hear it from you, Angela.” He takes off his glasses to rub his eyes then places them back on his face. His words are careful and quiet, “Can you tell me what happened?”
I don’t answer right away, I can’t. Instead I stare at the floor, anywhere but him. I concentrate on the knot in the wooden floor and wring my hands together. When my fingers start to hurt I play with my sleeves, picking at the strings that have broken free of the seams. I know he’s waiting for me to say something and I know that we’ll just sit here until I do.
“She’s dead.” My breath hitches at how easy it is to say those words. How can two words sum up the fate of my mother? It seems so much more simple than it really is. “She died in a car accident when I was fifteen.”
“Tell me about that day.” His voice holds that softness to it that occurs when you know someone feels sorry for you. I hated him for his pity.
“I don’t remember much. I know that were we out back to school shopping, but I don’t remember what she was wearing or where we went.” The pattern of the wood on the floor holds my interest far longer than it should have but I still don’t look up.
“What about the accident, Angela?”
“What do I remember about the accident or what have other people told me about it?”
“I want to know what you remember exactly.” By the times he finishes his sentence, I’m already out of my seat and wandering around his office. It’s hard for me to stay still when my mind is moving so fast. There’s plenty of room to wander about it; Dr. Chen’s the best in the city and his office reflects that. My fingers drum against his desk as I walk past it and towards the windows that act like walls separating us from the air on the other side. This building is one of the highest in the city and from the 43rd floor, the other buildings look like little Lego versions of the real thing. I trace each building’s outline on the glass. “Angela?” Dr. Chen’s voice slightly startles me, not enough to interrupt what I’m doing, but enough to shake me out of my thoughts.
“Broken glass. I remember broken glass. There was this loud popping sound and then all the glass in the car shattered. I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t remember how I got out of the car or out of the water, or why my mother didn’t.” I press my forehead against the glass and watch how my breath fogs up the window. Staring down at the ant sized people, I can’t help but think about how this one sheet of glass is all that keeps me from them. One fragile sheet of glass.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Dr. Chen says as he rises out of his chair. I can hear him moving around behind me.
“Me too.”
***
The silence comes faster this time. Everything slows down and I don’t have to think about anything. I don’t worry about the classes I skipped this week or the test I have tomorrow. There’s just nothing.
The cuts are multiplying and now they’re getting deeper. I’m definitely going to scar after this one. As I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, I notice that it’s covered with bumps from the dried paint. I put together forms in my mind, like little constellations. My sheets, damp with my own blood, start to stick to my arms. I roll over and place my arms so that they are above the floor and not on my sheets. A red pool is forming on the wooden floor next to my bed. I wonder if blood stains wood.
***
“Do you know why your last doctor referred you to me?” Dr. Chen was being very professional today as he sat behind his desk. His usual notebook was open next to him with the pen laying next to his hand as if any moment I would say or do something so amazing that he had to catalogue it.
I now sat in a very uncomfortable chair before his desk. His sudden change in routine had me oddly suspicious; why was today’s session so different from the others?
“Because he couldn’t fix me?”
“There’s nothing to fix, Angela. You’re not broken, you just need help. I specialize in something called survivor’s guilt. Do you know what that is?” His expression softens slightly and he purses his lips.
“I’m pretty sure I can guess.”
“You feel guilty about surviving the accident that killed your mother. Your previous therapist believed that you hurt yourself because of the way your father treated you. He blamed you didn’t he?” My eyes close and my teeth clench when he says this. My father and I have had an estranged relationship since my mother died. Dr. Chen was right, but I’m not a very confrontational person; I’ve never talked about it. “But it’s not really about what he thinks, is it? It’s about the fact that you think he’s right. You do think it’s your fault. There was nothing you could do. The car that side swiped yours and pushed you off that bridge, that wasn’t your fault. Your mother did everything she could to keep the car on the road. And it’s a miracle that you were able to get out alright once you hit the water. But on some level, you think that you should be dead, you should’ve died in that crash with your mother. So you cut yourself to distract from the pain, inflict physical pain to replace the emotional. But it only works for so long right? You can’t numb the pain forever. What are you going to do when it doesn’t work anymore?”
“Does this tough love thing work with all the girls? ‘Cause I’m telling you right now, it’s not working with me.” I stand up angrily and gather my things to storm out.
“Don’t run away, Angela, I’m only trying to help. Trust me; it will help you if you confront it.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like you know anything about me. You think that because I come here three times a week and answer your questions, that you know me? You can’t just diagnose me and categorize me into some generalization!” My voice had raised to yelling and his secretary called over the intercom to make sure everything was all right. Check to make sure the crazy person wasn’t hurting anyone.
***
Dr. Chen’s words echo in my head as I lay on my bathroom floor. Pieces of my broken mirror are scattered around me. I had broken it to use the glass instead of my usual knife. I’ve cut too deep this time and my fingers fight to still grasp the piece of glass, but my muscles aren’t working anymore. The tile of the floor is cold on my cheek. For the first time in my life, I’m afraid that I’ll kill myself like this. Maybe I already have. But it doesn’t hurt.
It never does.
Brittle Glass
The slow ticking of the clock on the wall was deafening in the silence between me and Dr. Chen. We’ve played this game before, waiting for the other to crack first. Dr. Chen sat in his chair staring at me from behind his glasses, clicking his pen against his pad of paper. Occasionally he pauses in his vigil and writes something down. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me, I wonder what he writes.
“So, how would you like to begin our session today, Angela?” He always cracks first. I hate the way he says my name, like we’re best friends or like he’s trying to soothe a crazed animal. He’s looking at me again.
In an effort to look anywhere but at him I stare at Dr. Chen’s desk as he patiently waits for my answer. There’s a lot of nick knacks, but it doesn’t look cluttered. His laptop is in one corner and spread out all over his desk are pictures of his family in beautiful silver and wooden frames. He has another clock on his desk, an old fashioned one that kind of looks like a miniature grandfather clock. The deep mahogany color matches that of his desk which coincidently matches the color of the wooden floor.
“Angela?” My attention is brought back to the good doctor as he starts writing in his notebook again. He crosses his legs in his chair and bites the inside of his cheek like he’s focusing all of his energy on what he’s writing. Dr. Chen sits in his chair about two feet away from me and this is not the first I’ve wondered why he doesn’t ever sit at his desk during our sessions. Instead, he reclines in his black leather chair, looking at me again.
“What are you writing?” I idly start tracing the seam lines of the couch that I’m sitting on. There’s one part of the seam that sticks out but can’t be seen.
“What were you thinking about just then?” Rule 1 of therapist school; always answer a question with a question.
“I was thinking about what you were writing.” A small smirk crosses his face as he shakes his head and silently chuckles at me. He starts writing again and my only guess is that he writes Uses humor as a defense mechanism. My last therapist used to say that to me all the time. My sense of humor is an acquired taste.
“How was your day today, Angela?”
“Fine.” This time I stare straight into his eyes with my head tilted to the side, a slight smile graces my lips.
“What did you do?”
“Slept. Took a shower. Slept some more.”
“You didn’t go to class?” His tone becomes exasperated with my casual answers.
“Classes were cancelled.”
“Uh huh.” This time the doc writes so much there’s a good 5 minute silence. “Why are you so resistant to our sessions?”
“I don’t have anything to talk about. I don’t like to talk just to fill the silence.”
***
The bright red drop against the tile floor looks like blood on the snow. Another drop slides down my arm and the sound of my blood hitting the bathroom floor is louder than the screaming in my head. The knife drops to the ground as my hand spasms and I think I've hit a nerve. I grab onto the sink and pull myself up to look into the mirror. My blue eyes are bloodshot and my skin is blotchy like I’ve been crying for hours. I look like I haven't slept in days. I fumble to wipe the hair out of my face and now there’s a bright red stain on my cheek. It becomes the focal point in the mirror as I stare at it. Everything thing else reflected in the mirror becomes hazy, including my face. The more I stare, the less I look like myself. The images are becoming distorted and my face seems to resemble a Picasso painting, disfigured and disproportional. The coolness of the sink under my fingers calms my nerves and the tighter I grip, the faster the blood flows. I don't remember how I got here.
The blood’s dripping to my fingers now creating a slow moving river from my cuts. My eyes are drooping and it’s a struggle to keep them open. But it doesn’t hurt.
It never does.
***
“Why don’t you tell me about your parents, Angela.” Dr. Chen sits in his chair again, hands folded in his lap. In a new move, he doesn’t have his notebook handy, he’s just listening.
“I haven’t spoken to my father in two years,” I said quietly.
“What about your mother?” My head jerks up to look Dr. Chen in the eyes. He just stares back, expressionless.
“You know the answer to that. You know what happened, why are you asking me about it?” I can’t keep the first signs of anger from creeping into my words.
“I want to hear it from you, Angela.” He takes off his glasses to rub his eyes then places them back on his face. His words are careful and quiet, “Can you tell me what happened?”
I don’t answer right away, I can’t. Instead I stare at the floor, anywhere but him. I concentrate on the knot in the wooden floor and wring my hands together. When my fingers start to hurt I play with my sleeves, picking at the strings that have broken free of the seams. I know he’s waiting for me to say something and I know that we’ll just sit here until I do.
“She’s dead.” My breath hitches at how easy it is to say those words. How can two words sum up the fate of my mother? It seems so much more simple than it really is. “She died in a car accident when I was fifteen.”
“Tell me about that day.” His voice holds that softness to it that occurs when you know someone feels sorry for you. I hated him for his pity.
“I don’t remember much. I know that were we out back to school shopping, but I don’t remember what she was wearing or where we went.” The pattern of the wood on the floor holds my interest far longer than it should have but I still don’t look up.
“What about the accident, Angela?”
“What do I remember about the accident or what have other people told me about it?”
“I want to know what you remember exactly.” By the times he finishes his sentence, I’m already out of my seat and wandering around his office. It’s hard for me to stay still when my mind is moving so fast. There’s plenty of room to wander about it; Dr. Chen’s the best in the city and his office reflects that. My fingers drum against his desk as I walk past it and towards the windows that act like walls separating us from the air on the other side. This building is one of the highest in the city and from the 43rd floor, the other buildings look like little Lego versions of the real thing. I trace each building’s outline on the glass. “Angela?” Dr. Chen’s voice slightly startles me, not enough to interrupt what I’m doing, but enough to shake me out of my thoughts.
“Broken glass. I remember broken glass. There was this loud popping sound and then all the glass in the car shattered. I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t remember how I got out of the car or out of the water, or why my mother didn’t.” I press my forehead against the glass and watch how my breath fogs up the window. Staring down at the ant sized people, I can’t help but think about how this one sheet of glass is all that keeps me from them. One fragile sheet of glass.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Dr. Chen says as he rises out of his chair. I can hear him moving around behind me.
“Me too.”
***
The silence comes faster this time. Everything slows down and I don’t have to think about anything. I don’t worry about the classes I skipped this week or the test I have tomorrow. There’s just nothing.
The cuts are multiplying and now they’re getting deeper. I’m definitely going to scar after this one. As I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, I notice that it’s covered with bumps from the dried paint. I put together forms in my mind, like little constellations. My sheets, damp with my own blood, start to stick to my arms. I roll over and place my arms so that they are above the floor and not on my sheets. A red pool is forming on the wooden floor next to my bed. I wonder if blood stains wood.
***
“Do you know why your last doctor referred you to me?” Dr. Chen was being very professional today as he sat behind his desk. His usual notebook was open next to him with the pen laying next to his hand as if any moment I would say or do something so amazing that he had to catalogue it.
I now sat in a very uncomfortable chair before his desk. His sudden change in routine had me oddly suspicious; why was today’s session so different from the others?
“Because he couldn’t fix me?”
“There’s nothing to fix, Angela. You’re not broken, you just need help. I specialize in something called survivor’s guilt. Do you know what that is?” His expression softens slightly and he purses his lips.
“I’m pretty sure I can guess.”
“You feel guilty about surviving the accident that killed your mother. Your previous therapist believed that you hurt yourself because of the way your father treated you. He blamed you didn’t he?” My eyes close and my teeth clench when he says this. My father and I have had an estranged relationship since my mother died. Dr. Chen was right, but I’m not a very confrontational person; I’ve never talked about it. “But it’s not really about what he thinks, is it? It’s about the fact that you think he’s right. You do think it’s your fault. There was nothing you could do. The car that side swiped yours and pushed you off that bridge, that wasn’t your fault. Your mother did everything she could to keep the car on the road. And it’s a miracle that you were able to get out alright once you hit the water. But on some level, you think that you should be dead, you should’ve died in that crash with your mother. So you cut yourself to distract from the pain, inflict physical pain to replace the emotional. But it only works for so long right? You can’t numb the pain forever. What are you going to do when it doesn’t work anymore?”
“Does this tough love thing work with all the girls? ‘Cause I’m telling you right now, it’s not working with me.” I stand up angrily and gather my things to storm out.
“Don’t run away, Angela, I’m only trying to help. Trust me; it will help you if you confront it.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like you know anything about me. You think that because I come here three times a week and answer your questions, that you know me? You can’t just diagnose me and categorize me into some generalization!” My voice had raised to yelling and his secretary called over the intercom to make sure everything was all right. Check to make sure the crazy person wasn’t hurting anyone.
***
Dr. Chen’s words echo in my head as I lay on my bathroom floor. Pieces of my broken mirror are scattered around me. I had broken it to use the glass instead of my usual knife. I’ve cut too deep this time and my fingers fight to still grasp the piece of glass, but my muscles aren’t working anymore. The tile of the floor is cold on my cheek. For the first time in my life, I’m afraid that I’ll kill myself like this. Maybe I already have. But it doesn’t hurt.
It never does.