Unravel(26)

Mary knocks once on Dr. Rutledge’s door before she opens it. She looks at me and nudges her head for me to go in. Reluctantly, I go inside. Rutledge looks up and smiles. She sits in her chair, looking so prim and composed, like she has the answers to all my problems.

I stare at her with rebellion.

She gestures toward the chair in front of her desk. “Will you sit down?”

I cross my arms.

Dr. Rutledge sighs. Just sighs. And I’m struck by the sweet, soothing sound of it. I want to sit back and sigh like that and pretend that there are no problems weighing me down.

“Are you still giving me the silent treatment?”

“I’m not giving you the silent treatment.”

She looks at me dubiously. “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re still angry about group therapy, and ignoring me is the only way for you to handle the situation.”

I flinch, like she has thrown a knife at me, missing me by inches.

“Can you blame me?” I say.

“Of course not. I’ve already admitted that group therapy was the wrong choice.” She pauses and says in a gentle voice. “But I’m not against you, Naomi. When I ask my questions it’s for a reason.”

I walk forward. The whole time I stare at Dr. Rutledge with cautious eyes. “What’s the reason?”

“You’ve had no proper diagnosis,” she explains. “And I want that for you. You’ve been here almost two months and that is two months too long.”

I sit down slowly. It seems we finally have something we can agree on. But I’m not going to open up instantly. Why should I make this easy for her?

“How has your day been so far?”

“Okay,” I say reluctantly.

“What activities do you do during the day?”

“Stay in my room for a little bit. Go to the rec room…” My voice drifts. She lifts a brow. “I’m locked up in a crazy hospital. What do you expect?”

“So you do nothing?”

“Nothing,” I confirm.

“Do you like to read?” she asks quickly.

“No,” I respond instantly.

“How about movies?”

“No.” Another lie.

She continues to ask questions. I answer, my responses coming out in rapid succession. I wait for her to give up but she never does.

“Do you have any friends here?” she asks, her eyes never leaving my face.

“A few.” Still lying.

“How has your appetite been?”

I frown. What a dumb ass question. It’s so pointless and stupid that I answer honestly. “Fine.”

“And how are you sleeping?”

“I’m not,” I respond instantly.

Dr. Rutledge sits back in her chair with satisfaction. I fell into her trap. It was only a matter of time until one of us slipped up. I look away, angry at myself. But in a way, it feels good to have the truth out there.

Seconds tick by with neither one of us saying a word. I pick at the loose thread on my sleeve. The whole time I feel her eyes on me.

She’s the first one to speak.

“Why can’t you sleep?”

I grit my teeth together and say nothing. The minutes tick by.

“You look upset,” she says. “What are you thinking?”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “Lana.”

“What about Lana?”

My head tilts. “Did you just ask that? ‘What about Lana?’” I mimic her voice. “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 f*cking person in this place, but now you’re starting to make me into the other patients!”