Who Can Really Blame You?

“Well, well, well,” my psychologist says, putting his pen to his lips. He does this every time we see each other. Well, well, well, what have we got here?

“Your weight is still very low, Ainsley. Did you know that?” he asks, rifling through his clipboard of big words and bullshit.

“I figured,” I reply, twisting my hands a bit. We sit in silence for a bit.

“Well, well, well,” he says, but doesn’t continue. He never does. I sit there, waiting for him to strike me down with his triton. He honestly reminds me of a Greek god, but not in the good way. He’s weird, and his beard is scraggly, and everything about him screams “There’s no indoor plumbing here.”

“So,” he says, “We have your diagnosis, and we’re discussing your treatment options this afternoon with your aunt.”

“Diagnosis?” I ask. I knew I was in here for evaluation, but I had no idea from how they act that I was actually being evaluated.

“Yes, yes,” he says, flipping through more papers yet. I glance around the room, green carpet under my shoes. “We’ll be starting you on an anti-depressant, and something to help you sleep, I do think.”

I stare at him.

“I don’t want medications,” I say suddenly.

He finally, for maybe the third time in us knowing each other, looks up from his papers and stares at me.

“Why ever not?” he asks, yanking his beard slightly.

I don’t answer.

“Ainsley?” he asks.

“I don’t want any medications. I just want to be left alone.”

We sit in silence for a long while.

“You know, no one really wants to be alone,” he says, “I do think that you need personal space for recovery, but it’s imperative that after your release, you see your friends, and most importantly have fun. There’s no point to live without doing it well, you know.”

“I know,” I grumble.

“Well, I do think we’re finished for today, my dear boy. You have about,” at this point he glances at his watch, again away from me, “About fifteen minutes to get over to
group.”

“I hate group,” I mutter, standing.

“For now,” he says.

I really do hate group, and I think I always will, honestly. I am the only boy in the abusive relationships support group. They all stared at me first day, until I explained that my boyfriend (ex) beat me, not my girlfriend.

I hate group.

They all sit there, clapping for each other, and how far they’ve come, and it makes me want to puke. It’s annoying, honestly. They’re all just sitting in the circle, explaining their stories, and then looking to me to do it also.

I do not want to tell them, I didn’t, but the group leader decided that after our fifth meeting of me not speaking that I had to tell them. I don’t want to tell these girls that he raped me, so I keep it simple. He beat me. Isn’t that a bit harsh, though? She made me stand up and proclaim to the world what happened, and I feel, still, like I’m making some huge deal out of nothing.

I did feel that way, until a new girl came in. Literally, she had one arm in a cast; the other was wrapped in gauze. She limped slightly, and she stood up on the first day and told us what happened.

Her boyfriend had been telling her that he would be out late, working, while she was at the doctor’s office for her checkup on her pregnancy. She got out of the appointment earlier than expected, and went home. When she got there, her boyfriend was there, and he had a girl in their bed. She was furious, and yelled at him, and the girl left. Then she told him to leave too, that they were breaking up, and he hit her. Then, he beat her, and tortured her (cut off her finger and burned her arm badly). Finally, he went to simply finish her off and shot her in the chest, and left.

She dragged herself to the phone, called 911, and that’s that. She lost her finger, her baby died inside of her, and then she was in the hospital for about three weeks, healing. Then she was transferred here.

She’s only 17.

I feel like such a child for being afraid to tell them. Nothing happened to me. I have my health (well, a decent amount of it), and I’m alive.
This is alive, isn’t it?

I am not allowed to leave on schedule. I’ve been here for a week, sitting in group and hating it, and then going to talk to my therapist a few times a week, and eating (still, not really. This stuff is awful), and sleeping, and then waking up and doing it again.

Apparently, I am not progressing well enough. Apparently, I am subpar, even in my mental health.

I hate being here, and it makes me hate living more than anything in the world.

They say that I’ll be here for a few more weeks, until they get me stabilized. I’m not crazy, so why am I here?

I sleep through the next week, almost entirely. The medications they put me on make me sleep. It must be for the best, because I sleep (which I’ve lost my talent for in the past few months) for 13 hours a day now, and when I wake up, I’m starving, and I can eat. Maybe they’ll let me leave soon. This is improvement, right?

I do have to admit though, that I can’t sleep for 13 hours a day during school. That won’t work out.

“Ainsley, right?” I hear, and I look up from my plate, orange, that’s still full of vegetables and instant mashed potatoes.

I glance up, avoiding her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” I admit, but I recognize her, her bright pink cast catching my eye instantly.

“Deidra,” she replies, and slides into the empty seat next to me, “Can we talk?”

I look at her.

“I guess so,” I say hesitantly.

“You’re in my group, right?” she asks, leaning her side into the edge of the table and resting her cast on the table top. I stare at the distance between her chest and mine.

“Mhmm,” I reply, and go back to staring at my plate. Suddenly, my medications make it impossible to eat. I just want to stop taking them.

“Well,” she says, apparently aware of the awkward silence now, “I was just wondering… Why you don’t talk in there.”

“I did, before you came,” I tell her. She nods slowly, we fall silent.

“Can I just sit here?” she asks suddenly, “Everyone else stares at me.”

I look up, about to ask why, and I look at her face for the first time since she got here, and I stare for a moment at the harsh red scars on her face, running up and down under her eyes.

“Sure,” I reply, and look back down.

“Thanks,” she says faintly. I nod, and smash my food with my fork.