my first therapist

“Why do you think you harm yourself?” he asked me. He adjusted his hips on the chair. 

 

“I don’t know.” I said, truth spillling before I could lie. 

 

“I understand your highschool contacted your parents when someone saw your arms.”

​

I looked down at the scars decorating my left wrist and forearm. Some longer than others, representing the amount of anger I had in the moment. 

 

“Yeah and then my doctor inspected me and referred me to a teen suicidal program, but they couldn't afford it.” 

 

“Oh, I see. Do you ever think about ending your life?”

 

“Sometimes, but then I think about the aftermath.”

 

“The aftermath?” shifting in his velvet chair, books decorating the wall behind him. Everything was old, but not in a charming style, the messiness in his office made him seem approachable. 

 

“My mom finds me or my dad, what if I survive and have to face it all? What if I don’t and it destroys them? Sometimes, I don’t know if it’s that I want to die or that I just really don’t want to live. . .  they don’t feel the same,” I trailed. 

 

“It’s normal to feel what you’re feeling,” he explained, “can you tell me when it all started for you?” 

 

“It always just felt like it was there, so I can’t really remember, but I do know the moment I really thought about ending my life,” he nodded slow as I carried on, “I remember crying on the bathroom floor and holding a bottle of advil, I wasn’t even sure it was enough to kill me, but I wanted it to. I kept opening it and closing it. I grabbed a razor and started cutting my wrists, wondering what it would be like if I went deeper. I knew that whatever my parents would walk into would destroy them, they’ve worked too hard and they only have me.. . all they want is for me to be happy and all I want is to not be in pain.” 

 

Our conversations were like tennis volleys. I would answer, but never in too much detail. I knew that I had to appear believably reformed to let him allow me to be removed from close monitoring at school. 

 

I was often touted at how mature I was from my elders. I often questioned if I was mature or just frozen. Frozen by fear and depression, too calm to seem erengetic and angry like my peers. Buy my demeanor didn't reflect the internal that seemed to have dulled my tongue over time. 

 

So by the time everyone else had caught on, at school and at home, I was being ripped by my comfortable weighted sadness. I didn’t want to talk about why or how. I didn’t want to explore.  My parents thought this therapist, which they could barely afford, would help me. My mom waited tables  at a mexican cantina in our small town 18 miles outside of manhattan. My dad worked a union labor job during the day at a local hospital placing heavy slabs of sheetrock into the walls of surgical rooms. On weekends he would work for wealthy neighbors by building them cabinets or retiling bathrooms. So while they worked, I decided to try, to go to this therapist that would prevent me from slitting my wrists the long way on the bathroom floor.

 

My mom would drive me every other Wednesday at 4pm before we had to hurry home for her evening shift, often hiding her  She’d write a check every time from her purse and hand it to the therapist. Knowing she had served dozens of enchiladas and burritos to earn that, I winced knowing what it cost. 

 

He would place it in his drawer and summon me to the back room with a nod. 

 

His shelf has books of childhood development and psychology lining the walls. But on his desk he had a snow globe that was decorated with the San Francisco skyline and the golden gate bridge. I found it ironic that there was fake snow in it, because everyone knew it didn't snow there. 

 

“I’ve always wanted to go to San Francisco,” I told him. 

 

“We moved from there four years ago,” he explained. 

 

“Nice, I always loved the show Monk as a kid. I’d watch it on Friday nights with my best friend Mary.”

 

“Ah yes, the neurotic detective. You know, you just seem so mature and capable for someone of your age.” 

 

“Adults always tell me that, but I feel 16 most days,” I explained. 

 

“Many mature adolescents are depressed, it's very common. Tell me more about. . ."

​

Our sessions would often bring me to a place where I would cry, unsure of why I felt the way I did. Why I wanted to end pain that I did not recognize or understand. He would listen intently, scribbling things down and looking calm, something I appreciated. He never seemed worried about me, which was a nice relief from my parents and teachers. 

​

One day, as the session was coming to a close, he looked concerned for the first time. 

 

“This might sound strange, but would you want to babysit my children this weekend? They’re great kids and my wife and I struggle to find a sitter. We still don’t know a good one."

 

I froze, it felt weird, someone who heard me talk about wanting to kill myself was asking me to watch his two children, ages 7 and 4. 

​

I just stared at him, calculating how to say no politely. But I depended on him, I needed him now. He might help me. 

 

“You could pop over and meet the whole gang one time and you could see how you feel. You really have no idea how hard it is to find a good babysitter."

 

“Sure, okay, sounds good,” I didn’t feel sure, but I felt obligated to say yes. He knew so much and I didn't want to start over with someone new. 

 

I didn’t tell my parents, because I knew something was wrong about it, something felt off. So I drove my dad’s car to his address, lying that I was going to Mary's.

 

His wife was waving at the front door as I parked on the street. 

 

“Hi, I’m Lena,” I said, as she opened the door to let me in. 

 

“Hi! We’re so excited you’re here! We haven't been out in so long, Mark will be down soon.” 

 

“All good,” I said, rocking slowly on my feet. 

 

She showed me the kids' routines as they sat sitting at the dining room table coloring. Each one waved and smiled. 

 

Mark walked in and exclaimed, “thank you so much again!”

 

He placed his hand on my back. Softly, but present, it lingered. I froze. It felt like pity, not sexual. Maybe he felt bad for my mother who had to work nights to afford his services. Or for me, someone who badly wanted to end her life before she was even legally an adult. I’m not sure why he used it, his power, to console me in a fucked up manner, but he did and I felt odd and gross. I felt like I was betrayed in ways that would make no sense to anyone. He didn’t harass me, but he wielded something that felt like a destruction to what hope might feel like. And I was trapped.

 

“Of course”, I said. 

​

Mark and his wife gathered their items and made their way to the door as they explained their children's routine and to call if there was trouble. 

​

"Oh, before we leave, don't forget to keep this door locked, once someone left it open," he smiled. 

​

"Don't worry, we won't be going outside," I reassured. 

 

The kids were normal. Well tempered and polite. By 10pm they were in bed, asleep. I started watching Bravo, something I did when I babysat because my parents didn’t have cable. Around 11ish, I heard Mark and his wife rustling with keys. 

 

They rounded the corner into the living room, close to the front door. 

 

“The front door was open,” he said, as if I should know. He looked strange, maybe drunk?

 

“What door?” I asked, confused about what he was talking about. 

 

“The front door was ajar and unlocked,” he stared at me disappointed. The wife just nodded in agreement. 

 

“I really have no idea what you’re referring to, I didn't even go near the door,” I tried explaining. But I knew they didn’t believe me by the lines in their foreheads. The downward corners of their mouths. 

​

He offered to walk me to my car, I said I didn't need assistance, but he walked along side me to the front door. 

​

"How are you doing?" he asked longingly. 

​

There it was. The pity. I felt disgusting, I wanted to run. He was able to navigate these two worlds. Seeing me as a patient and a child all at once. Because that's all I was, was a child. 

​

"Better," I lied. I turned and started walking faster, waving without looking behind me. I crumpled the two twenty dollar bills into my purse that he handed to me as he touched my backside again, I’ll see you next week. . .

 

Next week came and went and I listened to his voicemail. He was concerned, “You haven't shown up to your session. I'm worried about you."

 

I deleted it. I never saw a therapist again for eight years.