Here, this is a picture of me.
I took this on my phone three days before my mom took me to visit a psychiatrist. She said he wanted to talk to me about the things I had been saying to myself when I thought no one was listening, the things I did when I thought no one was watching. She said he wanted to help me.
I didn’t know I needed to be helped.
“So tell me about yourself, Shane? Your mom told me that you like to talk to yourself when you’re on your own. I don’t think you’re talking to yourself at all. I think there is someone talking to you.”
I stare at him, wondering how he might have guessed. I’m sure he deals with this all the time, crazy people, that is. He thinks I’m crazy. They all do. Ever since I grabbed that scalpel and nearly threw it at the kid who had been teasing me during fourth period Chemistry.
Cale says he deserved it.
“Who is Cale, Shane?”
He shows me a hand-written note that I don’t recognize. I don’t understand. My handwriting is usually very neat. I’ve always prided myself on my handwriting. The note was written to me, from Cale. He was telling me about how much of a weakling I had been, to not walk over and kill that kid where he stood. He said I was too soft. He said he would fix this.
“I can’t talk about him.” I reply, looking down at my hands, at the cuts that laced my wrists. Mom didn’t want me to wear long sleeves today. She wanted me to show the Psychiatrist. She said he would help.
He wasn’t being very helpful.
He adjusts in his seat, leaning forward and gazing at me as if he was trying to read into my thoughts. I stare back.
“You know, Cale isn’t real Shane. He can’t do anything to harm you. You can certainly talk about him here. This is a safe place.”
I feel this sense of hollowness in my chest, and it’s more and more painful as I look at this man. So easy for him to say these things. I can feel my hands going numb. There is a ringing in my ears, and I feel as if I am looking at the scenario from twenty feet away.
Like I’m in a fog.
“NO WHERE IS SAFE!” I scream, but it isn’t my voice.
It’s Cale’s.
I took this on my phone three days before my mom took me to visit a psychiatrist. She said he wanted to talk to me about the things I had been saying to myself when I thought no one was listening, the things I did when I thought no one was watching. She said he wanted to help me.
I didn’t know I needed to be helped.
“So tell me about yourself, Shane? Your mom told me that you like to talk to yourself when you’re on your own. I don’t think you’re talking to yourself at all. I think there is someone talking to you.”
I stare at him, wondering how he might have guessed. I’m sure he deals with this all the time, crazy people, that is. He thinks I’m crazy. They all do. Ever since I grabbed that scalpel and nearly threw it at the kid who had been teasing me during fourth period Chemistry.
Cale says he deserved it.
“Who is Cale, Shane?”
He shows me a hand-written note that I don’t recognize. I don’t understand. My handwriting is usually very neat. I’ve always prided myself on my handwriting. The note was written to me, from Cale. He was telling me about how much of a weakling I had been, to not walk over and kill that kid where he stood. He said I was too soft. He said he would fix this.
“I can’t talk about him.” I reply, looking down at my hands, at the cuts that laced my wrists. Mom didn’t want me to wear long sleeves today. She wanted me to show the Psychiatrist. She said he would help.
He wasn’t being very helpful.
He adjusts in his seat, leaning forward and gazing at me as if he was trying to read into my thoughts. I stare back.
“You know, Cale isn’t real Shane. He can’t do anything to harm you. You can certainly talk about him here. This is a safe place.”
I feel this sense of hollowness in my chest, and it’s more and more painful as I look at this man. So easy for him to say these things. I can feel my hands going numb. There is a ringing in my ears, and I feel as if I am looking at the scenario from twenty feet away.
Like I’m in a fog.
“NO WHERE IS SAFE!” I scream, but it isn’t my voice.
It’s Cale’s.