They are not the only staff members that talk about the patients in a derogatory way.
They say, we’re all, nut…nut…nuts!
Just tie em down and feed em pills!
The funny thing is that they think we don’t hear them.
We do.
I do.
What I’d really like to say to them is; please don’t judge me unless you know what it’s like to walk a mile in my shoes.
And I’ve had a hard life.
And I’ve walked a lot of miles.
Sometimes when I hear a crazy jab I think about asking the staff member if they have any regard for other people’s feelings? Then I talk myself out of it because deep, down inside I already know the answer.
They don’t.
Wrangling patients into their cells every day is paycheck for them. Caring about them isn’t an added bonus.
My thoughts are interrupted when I hear heels clicking against the wood and I peer over my shoulder at my doctor. Long, tan legs. Black stilettos and a matching tee length black dress, covered by a white lab coat. A shoulder length coal black bob that curls under at her neckline.
Vivian Swell.
Dr. Vivian Swell.
The name Vivian Swell reminds me of some cinematic starlet. Not a woman who cures the crazies.
“Good morning, Adelaide,” she greets me with a monotone yet chilly tone to her voice and I keep my eyes on her as she walks around the side of her desk. Then she sits down in her chair, the same chair that belongs to Elijah, and crosses her long legs. “Do you remember where we left off on Friday?”
I make eye contact, my eyes bore into her dark chocolate eyes and search for some kind of sympathy in them and there isn’t any.
I don’t like Vivian Swell.
To her, it doesn’t really matter if I make progress or not. How do I know this? By her actions. She doesn’t try any extensive therapy sessions. Whenever I talk she simply nods and it always seems like she isn’t even paying attention. She gives me answers like; I see and continue. She reminds me of Dr. Morrow with her no regards for people attitude except she doesn’t display any cruel behavior.
“Well, Adelaide?” she probes, lifting an eyebrow.
I blink and respond with, “Aren’t you supposed to know that?”
A faint smile spreads across her lips and she shakes her head the slightest bit. “We’re not working on trying to get my memories to return, Adelaide,” she states. “It’s up to you to try and remember the sort of things we discuss during our sessions.”
I clench my jaw and clasp my hands together in my lap. “Right.” I purse my lips together and let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t remember where we left off.”
“Very, well then,” she says as she pulls open the top left desk drawer and pulls out a manila colored folder.
It’s that moment that I realize that I don’t dislike this woman particularly just because of the reasons I’ve listed above. I dislike her because she’s not him.
She’s not Elijah.
Over the last couple months since I’ve been seeing her, I’ve requested repeatedly to be put in his care. I’ve tried to explain to her that my sessions with him are pertinent in order for me to make a full recovery and be able to remember my past. I’ve tried to tell her that I need him in ways that she’ll never understand.
Because he knows me.
He gets me.