understand?"
"Why don't you try? You haven't even tried. Why don't you turn around and open it?" the doctor insisted.
"It's got a door knob, and it won't turn. Can't you see that?"
"Try it."
"It's no use to try." There was momentary relaxation, but it was the relaxation of resignation, of doomed acceptance. "They won't let me do anything. They think I'm no good and that I'm funny and my hands are funny. Nobody likes me."
"I like you, Peggy."
"Oh, they won't let me do anything. It hurts. It hurts bad." Peggy was sobbing. "The people don't care."
"Dr. Wilbur cares. She asks you what's on your mind."
"Nobody cares," Peggy replied defiantly. "And the hands hurt."
"Your hands?"
"No, other hands. Hands comin' at you. Hands that hurt!"
"Whose hands?"
"I won't tell." Again there was that childlike chant. "I don't have to tell if I don't want to."
"What else hurts?"
"Music hurts." Peggy was speaking again in a low, breathy whisper. "The people and the music."
"What music? Why?"
"I won't tell."
Gently, Dr. Wilbur put her arm around Peggy and helped her back to the couch.
Moved, Peggy confided softly, "You see, nobody cares. And you can't talk to anybody. And you don't belong anywhere." There was a tranquil pause. Peggy then said: "I can see the trees, the house, the school. I can see the garage. I want to get into the garage. Then it would be all right. Then it wouldn't hurt so much. Then there wouldn't be so much pain."
"Why?"
"It hurts because you're not good enough."
"Why aren't you good enough? Tell Dr. Wilbur some more about how it hurts and what's the matter."
"Nobody loves me. And I want somebody to care a little bit. And you can't love somebody when they don't care."
"Go on. Tell Dr. Wilbur what the trouble is."
"I want somebody to love, and I want somebody to love me. And nobody ever will. And that's why it hurts. Because it makes a difference. And when nobody cares, it makes you all mad inside and it makes you want to say things, tear up things, break things, get through the glass."
Suddenly Peggy grew silent. Then Peggy disappeared. Seated where Peggy had been was Sybil.
"I had another fugue?" Sybil asked as she quickly drew away from the doctor. She was frightened, anxious.
The doctor nodded.
"Well, it wasn't as bad as the last time," Sybil reassured herself as she looked around the room and saw nothing out of place, nothing broken.
"You mentioned music to me once, Sybil," the doctor replied in an effort to discover what Sybil knew about what Peggy had said. "Why don't you tell me a little more about it?"
"Well," Sybil replied with composure, "I took piano lessons, and Mrs. Moore, my piano teacher, used to say, "You have all the native ability. You have a good ear, nice hands. Your fingering is good. But you must practice more. You can do all this without practicing. What would you do if you did practice?"' But I didn't practice. And I didn't tell her that I didn't because mother was overcritical. Whenever I made a mistake while practicing, mother would holler, "That's not right. That's not right." I couldn't stand it, so I didn't practice when mother was around. But the minute she left the house, I'd drop whatever I was doing and dash to the piano. I could always work things out at the piano. If I didn't have that, the tension would have gotten me long before it did. When I started teaching, the first thing I bought was a piano."
"Umm," Dr. Wilbur replied. "Tell me, do you have any special feelings about glass?"
"Glass," Sybil echoed thoughtfully. "Mother had some lovely crystal. So did my grandmother. Both grandmothers, in fact--Grandma Dorsett and Grandma Anderson. Oh, I remember something. When I was about six, we were visiting the Andersons in Elderville, Illinois.
We went there for three weeks every summer until Grandma Anderson died. Well, this time my cousin Lulu and I were drying the dishes. She hurled a lovely crystal pickle dish through the French doors. She was a real brat. And
"Why don't you try? You haven't even tried. Why don't you turn around and open it?" the doctor insisted.
"It's got a door knob, and it won't turn. Can't you see that?"
"Try it."
"It's no use to try." There was momentary relaxation, but it was the relaxation of resignation, of doomed acceptance. "They won't let me do anything. They think I'm no good and that I'm funny and my hands are funny. Nobody likes me."
"I like you, Peggy."
"Oh, they won't let me do anything. It hurts. It hurts bad." Peggy was sobbing. "The people don't care."
"Dr. Wilbur cares. She asks you what's on your mind."
"Nobody cares," Peggy replied defiantly. "And the hands hurt."
"Your hands?"
"No, other hands. Hands comin' at you. Hands that hurt!"
"Whose hands?"
"I won't tell." Again there was that childlike chant. "I don't have to tell if I don't want to."
"What else hurts?"
"Music hurts." Peggy was speaking again in a low, breathy whisper. "The people and the music."
"What music? Why?"
"I won't tell."
Gently, Dr. Wilbur put her arm around Peggy and helped her back to the couch.
Moved, Peggy confided softly, "You see, nobody cares. And you can't talk to anybody. And you don't belong anywhere." There was a tranquil pause. Peggy then said: "I can see the trees, the house, the school. I can see the garage. I want to get into the garage. Then it would be all right. Then it wouldn't hurt so much. Then there wouldn't be so much pain."
"Why?"
"It hurts because you're not good enough."
"Why aren't you good enough? Tell Dr. Wilbur some more about how it hurts and what's the matter."
"Nobody loves me. And I want somebody to care a little bit. And you can't love somebody when they don't care."
"Go on. Tell Dr. Wilbur what the trouble is."
"I want somebody to love, and I want somebody to love me. And nobody ever will. And that's why it hurts. Because it makes a difference. And when nobody cares, it makes you all mad inside and it makes you want to say things, tear up things, break things, get through the glass."
Suddenly Peggy grew silent. Then Peggy disappeared. Seated where Peggy had been was Sybil.
"I had another fugue?" Sybil asked as she quickly drew away from the doctor. She was frightened, anxious.
The doctor nodded.
"Well, it wasn't as bad as the last time," Sybil reassured herself as she looked around the room and saw nothing out of place, nothing broken.
"You mentioned music to me once, Sybil," the doctor replied in an effort to discover what Sybil knew about what Peggy had said. "Why don't you tell me a little more about it?"
"Well," Sybil replied with composure, "I took piano lessons, and Mrs. Moore, my piano teacher, used to say, "You have all the native ability. You have a good ear, nice hands. Your fingering is good. But you must practice more. You can do all this without practicing. What would you do if you did practice?"' But I didn't practice. And I didn't tell her that I didn't because mother was overcritical. Whenever I made a mistake while practicing, mother would holler, "That's not right. That's not right." I couldn't stand it, so I didn't practice when mother was around. But the minute she left the house, I'd drop whatever I was doing and dash to the piano. I could always work things out at the piano. If I didn't have that, the tension would have gotten me long before it did. When I started teaching, the first thing I bought was a piano."
"Umm," Dr. Wilbur replied. "Tell me, do you have any special feelings about glass?"
"Glass," Sybil echoed thoughtfully. "Mother had some lovely crystal. So did my grandmother. Both grandmothers, in fact--Grandma Dorsett and Grandma Anderson. Oh, I remember something. When I was about six, we were visiting the Andersons in Elderville, Illinois.
We went there for three weeks every summer until Grandma Anderson died. Well, this time my cousin Lulu and I were drying the dishes. She hurled a lovely crystal pickle dish through the French doors. She was a real brat. And
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