Sure, why not? How heavy could it get?
"How old were you when you first attempted suicide?" Okay, that was pretty heavy. I began to sweat under my layers of clothes. I crossed my legs awkwardly, so badly wanting to run out of the room.
"That's all in my notes--."
"I want to hear it from you. I want to hear how you felt," he cut in, his eyes boring into mine. God, I felt so uncomfortable talking to him about this.
I nodded, swallowing hard. "Okay. Well, the first time? I was seven." The words made me feel sick, as if I was back to seven years old again, that same feeling of terror racing through me.
What seven-year-old attempts suicide? At that age, my biggest worries should have been what to dress my teddy bear up in, not contemplating death. It freaked me out to think about how fucked up I was.
My first suicide attempt might have been at seven, but the thoughts were there long before then. My earliest childhood memories were full of anxiety and fear of death. There was no reasonable explanation for my behavior. There was no abuse, and I hadn't even had to deal with death as a child. In fact, my first real experience of anyone dying was when I was sixteen and my grandfather died. He was my last living grandparent; the others had all died well before I was born.
"Do you remember what happened? When you were seven?" Doctor Jensen asked.
I remembered it like it was last week. I could close my eyes and be back in that house, on that day. The feeling of dread I felt. The worthlessness. The anxiety that was eating through my body. I’d just wanted it all to go away.
"I remember the crushing feeling in my chest. I remember sitting on my mom's bed, her open pill bottle in one hand, staring at the mountain of tiny white pills in my other hand.” My voice shook as I revealed one of my most intimate memories. “I remember thinking what's the point? We live to die. Death is inevitable, so what’s the point in going through the motions when you’re only going to die anyway?" I laughed, tears welling in my eyes. "I mean, who thinks like that, much less a child?" My chest tightened, the anxiety beginning to rise as I forced the words out.
"What happened after that?" he pushed gently.
I closed my eyes, and imagined I was talking to Alex. For whatever reason, I trusted him and talking to him seemed easier than this guy. "I took the pills. It took me six mouthfuls of water to get them all down. Then I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, waiting.... Waiting for something better. I remember thinking, over and over, there has to be something better than this." I exhaled loudly, picking at a non-existent thread on my skirt. "The next thing I knew I was in hospital. I was so young, that everyone had treated it like it was accident."
“Did you tell anyone the truth?”
“My mother,” I admitted. I shook my head. “Do you know what she did? She told me off for lying.” I laughed through my tears. “She said it was an accident, and we wouldn't be speaking of it again.” I thought back through all the times in my childhood that screamed 'this child needs help'. God, there were so many of them.
Moments where if my parents had acted differently, then just maybe I wouldn't be so fucked up today. I'd always thought that although my childhood was less than perfect, my parents weren't to blame for my problems. Maybe they weren't responsible, but I didn't doubt for a second that the way they handled things had messed me up even more.
Moments where, if my parents had acted differently, then just maybe I wouldn't be so fucked up today. I'd always thought that although my childhood was less than perfect, my parents weren't to blame for my problems. Maybe they weren't responsible, but I didn't doubt for a second that the way they handled things had messed me up even more.
“Look, I have to go. I'm sorry, but this was a bad idea.” I stood up, wrapping my jacket around me. I grabbed a handful of tissues, and headed for the door. Before he could respond, I had fled the office.
Outside, I struggled to breathe. My lungs felt deflated. I couldn't handle another therapist. Opening myself up and pouring out all my secrets and problems to a total stranger made me feel more anxious than the actual problems did. That wasn’t getting help; that was setting myself up for failure.
I rounded the corner, heading toward my car, trying to stem the tears that were flowing down my cheeks. I glanced down momentarily and ran into something hard. And muscular. Did I just squeeze his chest? Oh god, shoot me now.
“Rose?”
I looked up into Alex's warm eyes. He reached for my hand to steady me. I was shaking, and even more embarrassed that it was Alex, and not some random stranger.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, leading me off the path and over to a bench.
Sitting down, I shook my head, and looked up at the tree that was towering over us. Tiny white flowers were beginning to blossom.
“I can't do this, Alex. I can't talk to Doctor Jensen about my problems. I can barely understand them myself, and I feel like he's judging me.” I sniffled, accepting the tissue he handed me. He grinned as I loudly blew my nose. “What?” I shot back. He shrugged, still chuckling.
“I feel like I get judged by him too if it helps,” he joked. I giggled. It did help, a mental image of Alex and Jensen entering my head.
“How about you talk to me?” he asked gently. I glanced at him, not sure if he was serious.
“You?” I repeated, as though I'd never heard anything more stupid in my life.
“Yes. I’m a psychologist Rose. I do have some experience in this kind of thing.”
I blushed as he chuckled.
"Rose, I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t talk to me."