“My friend needs me and I’m stuck here in a mental institution with no way out. Of course I’m going to be thinking about her.”
“And how do you feel when you think about her?”
“I just told you,” I say impatiently.
“No, you told me that you’re thinking about her. That she needs you. And you’re stuck in a mental institution. I asked how you feel .”
I agonize over her words.
“Guilt,” I answer, slowly. “I feel guilt.”
My fingers curl around my elbows. And something ominous starts to cover my shoulders. My muscles tense up instantly.
“Why guilt?” she asks.
I start to answer but stop. There’s a blissful moment of silence. I hear no voices in the hallway. No birds chirping outside or wind blowing against the window.
And then my ears pop.
Suddenly, there’s an echo of voices. They come up on me slowly before they’re in my head all at once. There’s so much noise. Distorted voices speaking at once. There are shrieks, shouts, laughter, crying, and moans. It becomes impossible to think straight. I’m being pushed out of my own head.
My hands shake.
I really am starting to lose it and it’s all Dr. Rutledge’s fault. Before our sessions and group therapy things weren’t perfect, but they definitely weren’t as bad as they are now.
Everything starts to build up inside me. I feel like I’m slowly fading from my own body. It’s terrifying to lose mental control. Even though I’m sitting down, I feel off balance. My body pitches forward.
I go into full out panic mode.
I jump out of my chair. I stumble away from her desk until I touch the wall.
“I know what you’re doing.” My voice shakes. Dr. Rutledge looks at me with alarm. “You tell me that you want to see me get out of here but you don’t. You’re like every other doctor here. You ask your questions so you can go through your checklist of symptoms. And, if I have a few of them, then, Oh! I must have this disorder or that disorder. But I don’t want or need your help!” I yell over the voices. “I’m the only sane fucking person in this place, but now you’re starting to make me into the other patients!”
Dr. Rutledge is sitting up straight. “Calm down, Naomi,” she says cautiously.
“No!” I point at her. “Try having your own family admit you into a mental institution. Try having everyone that you need and love disappear on you when you need them the most!”
My hands curl into fists; I bang them against my head.
If I hit hard enough maybe I’ll knock out all of the voices.
“Stop.” She stands from her chair. She looks frantic, almost scared. “Stop it!” she shouts.
I close my eyes and keep slamming my fists.
“Naomi! Stop!”
Her voice is closer. It makes the voices in my head panic. Their volume increases; their voices shriek and my ears start to ring. It hurts so much tears start to stream down my face.
And then I feel her grab my hands.
I freeze. It’s like a balloon has just been popped.
I raise my eyes. I don’t try to hide my fear and pain. I let Dr. Rutledge see it all.
I watch her pupils dilate as she takes it all in.
My darkness.
My frustration.
My pain.
My humiliation.
She drops my hands. They fall to my side like heavy weights. She walks around her desk, and lays her palms on her desk. Her body hunches over the same time her eyes slam shut.
We stay quiet. Me rocking back and forth against the wall and her staring down at her desk helplessly. Until she lifts her head and glances at me. The title of M.D. disappears. She’s a person. One with flaws. One with scars.
“You know why I became a psychiatrist?”
I stare at her blankly and wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands.
“Why?” I say reluctantly.
“I’ve always been fascinated with the human mind. How we process things. How we feel. What emotions we project,” she admits.
So far, I’m not impressed.
“During my residency, I realized that maybe there could be something more behind my decision in
“And how do you feel when you think about her?”
“I just told you,” I say impatiently.
“No, you told me that you’re thinking about her. That she needs you. And you’re stuck in a mental institution. I asked how you feel .”
I agonize over her words.
“Guilt,” I answer, slowly. “I feel guilt.”
My fingers curl around my elbows. And something ominous starts to cover my shoulders. My muscles tense up instantly.
“Why guilt?” she asks.
I start to answer but stop. There’s a blissful moment of silence. I hear no voices in the hallway. No birds chirping outside or wind blowing against the window.
And then my ears pop.
Suddenly, there’s an echo of voices. They come up on me slowly before they’re in my head all at once. There’s so much noise. Distorted voices speaking at once. There are shrieks, shouts, laughter, crying, and moans. It becomes impossible to think straight. I’m being pushed out of my own head.
My hands shake.
I really am starting to lose it and it’s all Dr. Rutledge’s fault. Before our sessions and group therapy things weren’t perfect, but they definitely weren’t as bad as they are now.
Everything starts to build up inside me. I feel like I’m slowly fading from my own body. It’s terrifying to lose mental control. Even though I’m sitting down, I feel off balance. My body pitches forward.
I go into full out panic mode.
I jump out of my chair. I stumble away from her desk until I touch the wall.
“I know what you’re doing.” My voice shakes. Dr. Rutledge looks at me with alarm. “You tell me that you want to see me get out of here but you don’t. You’re like every other doctor here. You ask your questions so you can go through your checklist of symptoms. And, if I have a few of them, then, Oh! I must have this disorder or that disorder. But I don’t want or need your help!” I yell over the voices. “I’m the only sane fucking person in this place, but now you’re starting to make me into the other patients!”
Dr. Rutledge is sitting up straight. “Calm down, Naomi,” she says cautiously.
“No!” I point at her. “Try having your own family admit you into a mental institution. Try having everyone that you need and love disappear on you when you need them the most!”
My hands curl into fists; I bang them against my head.
If I hit hard enough maybe I’ll knock out all of the voices.
“Stop.” She stands from her chair. She looks frantic, almost scared. “Stop it!” she shouts.
I close my eyes and keep slamming my fists.
“Naomi! Stop!”
Her voice is closer. It makes the voices in my head panic. Their volume increases; their voices shriek and my ears start to ring. It hurts so much tears start to stream down my face.
And then I feel her grab my hands.
I freeze. It’s like a balloon has just been popped.
I raise my eyes. I don’t try to hide my fear and pain. I let Dr. Rutledge see it all.
I watch her pupils dilate as she takes it all in.
My darkness.
My frustration.
My pain.
My humiliation.
She drops my hands. They fall to my side like heavy weights. She walks around her desk, and lays her palms on her desk. Her body hunches over the same time her eyes slam shut.
We stay quiet. Me rocking back and forth against the wall and her staring down at her desk helplessly. Until she lifts her head and glances at me. The title of M.D. disappears. She’s a person. One with flaws. One with scars.
“You know why I became a psychiatrist?”
I stare at her blankly and wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands.
“Why?” I say reluctantly.
“I’ve always been fascinated with the human mind. How we process things. How we feel. What emotions we project,” she admits.
So far, I’m not impressed.
“During my residency, I realized that maybe there could be something more behind my decision in
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