something that no group therapy session will ever help with. I am going to have to be honest with my parents.
So I have made a decision. I am not going to let myself be manipulated any more. No one will make me blame myself for what my mom went through, or for whatever caused my father to become abusive in the first place.
I have also made a decision. When I get out of here, after my parents are done screaming, yelling, crying, or grounding me (or maybe even all of those things), I am going to sit them down. I am finally going to be honest with them and tell them exactly what caused me to feel like I had to end my life. If I have to face the past, then they are going to have to, too.
CHAPTER 13
The wrong doctor
I sit in Dr X’s office, waiting for him to show up for our appointment. As I wait, I draw intricate spirals on a blank page in my journal.
At last the door opens. To my surprise Dr Murphy hurries in. I am shocked and disappointed and don’t try to hide the fact.
Dr Murphy walks around to Dr X’s desk and sits in his chair. I am irritated by his assumption of that chair; the one that belongs to
my
doctor, not to him.
Dr Murphy has my file, and begins to explain that Dr X isn’t here today becauseof a family emergency. I start to tune him out, but doing that isn’t going to help my case. I take a deep breath and calm myself.
Dr Murphy goes through a series of questions, checking them off as he asks them. He writes short notes underneath the questions, ‘to give to Dr X, later’.
I can reply to most of the questions with short answers. Are you feeling suicidal today? No. How are you sleeping? Fine. Are you having any problems with your medications? No. Are you following your treatment plan? Yes. Do you have any questions about your treatment plan? No.
After about ten minutes, without even looking at me, Dr Murphy ends the session. I walk out of the office confused, and to be honest, kind of hurt. I watch a string of patients go in and out of that door the way I did. I feel slighted by the way that man has treated me. Like I am just another thing to deal with on his list of daily chores.
I remember how my father had done that to me when I was growing up, and how much it had hurt me. Half the time, when he talked to me, I warranted so little of his attention that he didn’t even look up at me. Dr Murphy had inadvertently done the same thing to me in our session.
Logic tells me that he has most likely been thrown into doing the individual counselling sessions at the last minute. That still doesn’t make me feel better though. Just as it hadn’t made me feel better when my mom had tried to defend my father’s constant dismissal of me as a child.
I feel horribly, inexplicably alone all of a sudden, even though I am in a room full of people. I remember the pay phone in the hallway, and picking up my journal I walk over to it. My heart races as I stare at the phone. Since I’m not allowed to have my cell phone in here, I can’t remember any of my friends’ phone numbers. I try to think of someone I can call.
I pick up the phone and carefully dialthe only phone number I can remember. The phone rings and rings. Eventually, the familiar voice of my mother comes down the line.
‘Hi, I’m not in right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’ The machine beeps for me to leave a message, but a lump has come to my throat, and I don’t dare speak for fear of crying. I hang up the receiver and walk back, head down, to the group room.
I watch the frenzy of activity around me – people scurrying here and there, to the bathroom, to the doctor’s office, to get something from their room, to rifle through magazines and old books with missing pages on the beaten-up bookshelf. Desperate, I look for Ricky and find him, playing draughts with some kid whose name I don’t know.
I start to feel very sorry for myself. I remember going to school as a kid and how I could never seem to make many
So I have made a decision. I am not going to let myself be manipulated any more. No one will make me blame myself for what my mom went through, or for whatever caused my father to become abusive in the first place.
I have also made a decision. When I get out of here, after my parents are done screaming, yelling, crying, or grounding me (or maybe even all of those things), I am going to sit them down. I am finally going to be honest with them and tell them exactly what caused me to feel like I had to end my life. If I have to face the past, then they are going to have to, too.
CHAPTER 13
The wrong doctor
I sit in Dr X’s office, waiting for him to show up for our appointment. As I wait, I draw intricate spirals on a blank page in my journal.
At last the door opens. To my surprise Dr Murphy hurries in. I am shocked and disappointed and don’t try to hide the fact.
Dr Murphy walks around to Dr X’s desk and sits in his chair. I am irritated by his assumption of that chair; the one that belongs to
my
doctor, not to him.
Dr Murphy has my file, and begins to explain that Dr X isn’t here today becauseof a family emergency. I start to tune him out, but doing that isn’t going to help my case. I take a deep breath and calm myself.
Dr Murphy goes through a series of questions, checking them off as he asks them. He writes short notes underneath the questions, ‘to give to Dr X, later’.
I can reply to most of the questions with short answers. Are you feeling suicidal today? No. How are you sleeping? Fine. Are you having any problems with your medications? No. Are you following your treatment plan? Yes. Do you have any questions about your treatment plan? No.
After about ten minutes, without even looking at me, Dr Murphy ends the session. I walk out of the office confused, and to be honest, kind of hurt. I watch a string of patients go in and out of that door the way I did. I feel slighted by the way that man has treated me. Like I am just another thing to deal with on his list of daily chores.
I remember how my father had done that to me when I was growing up, and how much it had hurt me. Half the time, when he talked to me, I warranted so little of his attention that he didn’t even look up at me. Dr Murphy had inadvertently done the same thing to me in our session.
Logic tells me that he has most likely been thrown into doing the individual counselling sessions at the last minute. That still doesn’t make me feel better though. Just as it hadn’t made me feel better when my mom had tried to defend my father’s constant dismissal of me as a child.
I feel horribly, inexplicably alone all of a sudden, even though I am in a room full of people. I remember the pay phone in the hallway, and picking up my journal I walk over to it. My heart races as I stare at the phone. Since I’m not allowed to have my cell phone in here, I can’t remember any of my friends’ phone numbers. I try to think of someone I can call.
I pick up the phone and carefully dialthe only phone number I can remember. The phone rings and rings. Eventually, the familiar voice of my mother comes down the line.
‘Hi, I’m not in right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’ The machine beeps for me to leave a message, but a lump has come to my throat, and I don’t dare speak for fear of crying. I hang up the receiver and walk back, head down, to the group room.
I watch the frenzy of activity around me – people scurrying here and there, to the bathroom, to the doctor’s office, to get something from their room, to rifle through magazines and old books with missing pages on the beaten-up bookshelf. Desperate, I look for Ricky and find him, playing draughts with some kid whose name I don’t know.
I start to feel very sorry for myself. I remember going to school as a kid and how I could never seem to make many
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