Session One — New Patient

“First of all, welcome. So, according to your first-time patient form we had you fill out while you were waiting, you prefer to go by ‘Jessica Snow’ rather than your birth name… this is fine… and you checked off quite a bit,” the therapist says, flipping through the three paged packet on her clipboard. The good news is that she sounds neither surprised nor patronizing. She may actually want to help me. Why? I’m not special. “I specialize in DBT, that’s ‘Dialectical Behavioral Therapy’. A fancy way of…”

“Fancy way of saying you communicate well and can help people by talking. That’s just basic therapy,” I say, unimpressed and frankly, quite hopeless. “I’ve been through so many therapists. I don’t want to play the feelings game. I just want answers.”

She looks at me with a slight irritation behind her red glasses frames. “What would you like the answers to, Jessica?”

Is this a trick question? “Everything,” I say quietly, looking up at the doctor from my shoes, “I guess I just want to know why.” There’s a bit of a pause between us, making me think she has no clue what I mean as she sits there, analyzing me. I roll my eyes slightly, “Why I’m the way I am. I mean I know why… but why me? What did I do to deserve…”

“You didn’t,” the doctor interrupts softly and stiffens her posture, pushing her glasses back up onto her nose. “Whatever you’re thinking, you didn’t deserve any of it. You checked off PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, possible BPD, possible OCD, Auditory Hallucinations, and just… general feelings of hopelessness. Even if PTSD wasn’t checked off, by looking at this paper and then listening to you speak for less than a minute… I can tell you’ve been hurt pretty badly.”

I’m not sure what to say. Either this doctor is really good or really sly. It also could be my tone, I’ve been through this song and dance so many times.

“How many therapists have you seen?” she asks, changing her clipboard to a new sheet of paper, her pen at the ready.

“A lot. I started in middle school. I lived in Wisconsin at the time. This girl I went to school with, Melissa, spread rumors about me and they got too serious.” Remembering that really hurts. Just… why? What the fuck? Why are children, kids, such abusive little assholes? “She convinced the school staff that I wanted to bring weapons into the school and hurt people. Specifically a hammer, for some reason.”

“Did you?” she asks, “Did you want to?”

“No. I mean who hops out of bed thinking that it’s a great day to show off your new off-brand hammer?” I roll my eyes, “I was a middle school outcast who couldn’t afford a six dollar pack of Pokémon cards. Couldn’t afford any fancy, ten dollar hammers,” I say, trying to make light of a bad memory.

My joke worked, she’s smiling a bit. “You do that a lot? Use humor to make a point or… maybe feel more dominant?”

“Dominant?” Why’d she pick that? “It was kind of a dumb question. Who desires to bring a hammer to school?”

“Any frustrated and overly-abused little girl who just wants it all to stop and has no access to better weaponry,” she says matter-of-factly. “If you could go back in time with your current mind… would you want to take a hammer to school?”

That’s interesting. Okay, maybe I like her. “No. I guess not. I didn’t want to then, either. Never thought of it, but I wouldn’t want to, no.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m not that kind of person.” I answer, following with a short pause, but clearly indicating that I still want to speak. She watches me, legs crossed and pen waiting. “I… don’t want others to hurt.”

“Because you know what it is to hurt for twenty-nine years straight?” she asks.

“That… and I just don’t see the point.”

“Typically, school-terrorists are after revenge and feel that causing their abusers pain will relieve their trauma,” the doctor explains, “they figure that some time in jail is better than some time in a classroom full of people who hurt them. You never felt like that?”

“I never thought of storming up any school I went to, but no I’ve never wanted to hurt other people.” I start to nervously bounce my leg, a sign of anxiety and a self-soothing method. “I’m… I’ve always kind of been… suicidal?” I say, my voice cracking a bit.

“When did that start becoming a thought for you, Jessica?” the doctor says, scribbling notes.

“Earlier than middle school,” I say with a scoff, implying dark humor, “I was about nine… sitting in the corner of my father’s kitchen where two counters met, sitting on the floor against them, kind of by the stove. I was crying and I remember sounding just… hopeless.”

“Do you remember what led to the crying?”

“Not specifically that time, but my father beat me and abused me a lot. Rape, hitting, screwing with my head… I’m a goodie basket thanks to dear ol’ Dad.” I watch her scribble down more notes that I wish I could see. “But um… yeah, no I don’t remember the exact thing making me cry that time. I said out loud to my father, though, ‘I might as well just kill myself’, and he was like The Flash, just suddenly all up in my face, screaming at me. I’m sure he hit me. The rest of that moment is a blur.”

The doctor nods, writing her notes and tucking some brown hair behind her ear. After making a punctuation, she sighs, sitting back in her seat and looking at me with some weird form of pity.

“Don’t… do that,” I say, trying to be genuinely kind this time. “I know that look. Do not feel sorry. Please.”

“Part of accepting trauma from our past is also accepting sympathy or empathy in our present,” she says, her glasses lowering as she looks at me over them. Must be mainly for reading. “I don’t pity you, but I am sorry for any child that has to feel like you did.”

“Sorry won’t fix it…” I say softly, “But, thanks. I’m not used to people caring for real so… forgive me if I seem indifferent.”

“Noted.” The doctor rifles through her very few notes and looks at my form again, “So the PTSD is very much a result of the childhood abuse. Was that ever talked about in your middle school therapy?”

“Nope… not until much later. My first therapist was only interested in turning me to God.” I sigh, “ I don’t feel comfortable talking about God stuff yet so… let’s not.”

“Noted. So I’m to assume that in middle school, you talked with your therapist about the bullying and wanting to die?” she asks, “Did you tell her about what lead to your needing therapy? The girl who bullied you?”

“Kind of,” I say with a scowl, “but nobody takes children’s mental health seriously, so I assume I just looked like some bratty, naughty kid.”

“What about therapy from then onward?” she asks. “You said you’ve done this a lot. Were they just unwilling to help you?”

“Nah… but the people I kept being passed around to, the people who would drive me to appointments, kept kicking me out or abandoning me. No home kind of means no way to get to therapy appointments.”

“You can’t drive, I take it,” she nods, her voice soft and understanding. “Now when you say you were passed around…”

“I was tricked into relationships since I was about sixteen,” I sigh, sick of this already. “Every guy or girl I got with made the first few weeks to a month seem promising. They’d get their sex and dump me. If I didn’t put out, they’d rape me and leave me. When I lived with my mother, it was sucky, but… I moved out because my stepfather hates me, so when it kept happening, I’d have nowhere to go if I didn’t just let it happen.”

“I’m sorry, that’s rough,” she says, trying not to pity me, I can hear it. “Did you ever come to realize the signs of a bad relationship?”

“Sometimes I could catch the red flags… but other times I’d have to let the flags flap in the wind, because I had nowhere to go.” I sit up straight, crossing my ankles, “This is gonna sound crazy, but… I’d rather be raped by someone I know than by a complete stranger in a homeless shelter.”

She says nothing, making more notes. “You used to live in Wisconsin, but now you’re in Kentucky. Do you have family here?”

“No.”

“So why are you here?” she looks at me, confused, “Friends, maybe?”

“I fell in love,” I smirk with a shrug, “That’s a long story… but a lot happens and… I think I’m more damaged because of it all.”

“Being in love or the long story?”

“The story, actually. My history with partners is… horrible, but this one feels different. For real, different.” I can’t hide my smile thinking about him. I’m comfortable now that I’ve opened up a little. I get ready to brag about my amazing lover with a brief, smiling inhale.

A rather friendly, soft chime goes off as the therapist’s smartphone screen lights up.. “And… that’s our first session. That was good!”

“No way was that an hour,” I say, looking skeptical. “If you’re sick of me just say so,” I say, clearly joking.

“Actually, Jessica… I think we made a little progress already. I’d like to see you on Saturdays and…”

“Saturdays?” I ask. Behavioral health services typically only operate on weekdays. “That’s weird... why Saturdays?”

“You deserve help, Jessica,” the doctor says, smiling as she uncrosses her legs, sitting with them tightly together, ready to stand. “We are going to work hard to find those answers you want.”

Is she serious? I swear to God if she’s just giving me that motherly paid-to-listen act, I’m better off going back in time and finding a huge, massive hammer.

“Now… come with me and we’ll make you an appointment for Saturday at the front desk.”