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Therapy




“I… I don’t know. Please.”

I could see her hands fluttering anxiously in her lap. Clench, open, clench, open. Her chipped, broken fingernails made angry red crescents in the skin of her palms. One of her trembling feet glanced against the coffee table between us and she cringed back into her chair, relentless tremors racking her lean body. Like a frightened animal, I thought, jotting my observations down on the thick white notepad in my lap. The scratching of my pen against the paper seemed very loud in this tiny, stifling room. It was a shame I couldn’t open any windows, but rules are rules.

She leaned in closer, her mouth stretched in what was almost a caricature of pure dismay. “What are you writing? What are you writing about me? Please… I’ve told you… I’ve already told you…”

I cut her off quickly, knowing that this conversation would only go in circles. She had insisted time and time again that she didn’t know where she was, who I was, why she was here. Sometimes she would refuse to talk and would huddle in the corner, her face red and swollen with tears. Sometimes she did not know who she was. By the end of almost every session, she would become overwhelmed by anxiety and paranoia, screaming at me to take her home until her voice was hoarse and cracked. The delusional babbles of someone losing grip on reality. It saddened me to think that maybe some patients were truly beyond my help.

“I regret to inform you, Elizabeth, that this will be our last session.”

“That’s not my –”

“Do not interrupt!” I snapped, tutting loudly. People these days really do lack respect. Nonetheless I feel that she could be pardoned, considering her unfortunate condition. “As I was saying, I do not feel that your stay at this facility has been… curative. However, there is one last treatment we have yet to try. Perhaps we can fix you yet!” I looked up, a grim, determined smile on my face. She blanched and began to sob weakly, hair hanging limply over her face like a shroud. She was probably remembering the failed attempts at electrotherapy. But no matter. This one was sure to work.

“I only want to help you, Elizabeth,” I murmured, holding my scalpel up to the light. The sobs rapidly turned to shrieks of terror, the metal shackles clattering violently together as she thrashed in the chair. “Don’t be afraid. This is all part of the healing process.”

It really was rather stuffy in this room. But the windows had to remain latched – after all, I couldn’t have the neighbours hearing my patient’s therapy. They might misunderstand my work.

And I do so love my job.

—
Credits to: godger

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