Status: story in progress.
Love Letters & Suicide Notes
Large Chair, Small Self-Worth
“Was there a sense in which you felt you would like to get revenge?”
Dr. Emerson leaned forward in his ridiculously over-sized chair. The back stretched past the top of his golden hair, and when he rested his elbows on his knees, he looked even more ridiculous sitting in what a therapist might consider “overcompensation.” Large chair, small self-worth, maybe.
“Candace?” he said. He furrowed his eyebrows and stared at me like if he looked long enough, he might actually see into my soul.
“What?” I asked.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
He blinked his large, brown eyes. “Well?”
Revenge wasn’t a term I used lightly, but if he wanted me to be totally and completely honest with him like he’d been insisting for the last forty minutes, there were a lot of people I could’ve exacted vengeance upon. I could’ve gotten revenge on my mother for sending me hours and hours away to Chatham, Massachusetts—a town I’d never even heard of until she’d embarked on her trip to an island called Obsessive Research in the I’m Just Worried About You bay. I could’ve gotten revenge on my grandmother for doing nothing but insisting I was crazy when all I’d needed was her help. I could’ve gotten revenge on my classmates, who thought my paralyzing fear of closets was absolutely hysterical. And, if I had the powers to resurrect the dead, I could’ve gotten revenge on Cody for making me this way in the first place.
I had everything. I was visiting and applying to colleges. I was receiving acceptance letters and scholarships. In another year, I would have graduated high school, and I would’ve been off to some university somewhere not here and not home where I’d probably be playing soccer for the school team and driving to visit Cody on the weekends. Instead, I was at Sunnyside—a juvenile psychiatric treatment center, where parents sent their troubled children when they were too much to handle.
“No,” I said.
Dr. Emerson nodded slowly and sat back in his gargantuan brown leather chair. He scrawled a few notes on his clipboard before setting it back on his lap. He tapped the pencil against the paper. Bits of graphite flew into the air and vanished.
“I somehow get the feeling you were hoping I wouldn’t ask that question,” he said.
“I don’t care what questions you ask.”
He smirked, like the whole thing was big joke to him.
“Why is that so funny?” I asked.
“Because that’s the most you’ve said to me in the past forty-five minutes,” he said. His eyes squinted a little, and his smile widened. “Candace, you’ve been here for two months, and we still haven’t made much progress.”
Yeah. A whole two months in this terrible place. They tried to jazz it up and make it look livable, but it was all padded cells just the same. They just gave us a campus, so we could feel independent. They gave us our own rooms with our own furniture that, depending on the restrictions set by our own designated therapists, we could decorate however we wanted. I heard the whole speech on the first day, when the center’s unnaturally cheery tour guide had taken me and my group around.
They showed us the main building, the therapy building, the residence hall, the dining hall, and the recreation center. They’d really outdone themselves on the presentation, but as any patient at Sunnyside will tell you, it’s all talk. The food is shitty. The dining hall looks more and more like a prison yard the more you eat there. The residence hall carpets are stained with puke and god knows what else. There isn’t any air conditioning, and there are still scratch marks in the wall from the last residents. The only good thing that happened was that my roommate never showed up. Ellie from down the hall said I was lucky. If my luck didn’t run out, I’d live alone for the rest of the year.
“Thats because there isn’t a problem,” I said. “So there’s no progress to make.”
Emerson crossed his legs and nodded slowly. He softened his voice. “Candace, I want us to try and make sense of this together. I understand that some things are difficult to talk about, but you’re gonna have to help me to help you here.” He tilted his head down and raised his eyebrows. “I want to see you at the same time on Thursday, okay?”
I nodded, but before I stood up, he made it a point to reach out and touch my hand.
“I’m really glad we had this discussion.”
Dr. Emerson leaned forward in his ridiculously over-sized chair. The back stretched past the top of his golden hair, and when he rested his elbows on his knees, he looked even more ridiculous sitting in what a therapist might consider “overcompensation.” Large chair, small self-worth, maybe.
“Candace?” he said. He furrowed his eyebrows and stared at me like if he looked long enough, he might actually see into my soul.
“What?” I asked.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
He blinked his large, brown eyes. “Well?”
Revenge wasn’t a term I used lightly, but if he wanted me to be totally and completely honest with him like he’d been insisting for the last forty minutes, there were a lot of people I could’ve exacted vengeance upon. I could’ve gotten revenge on my mother for sending me hours and hours away to Chatham, Massachusetts—a town I’d never even heard of until she’d embarked on her trip to an island called Obsessive Research in the I’m Just Worried About You bay. I could’ve gotten revenge on my grandmother for doing nothing but insisting I was crazy when all I’d needed was her help. I could’ve gotten revenge on my classmates, who thought my paralyzing fear of closets was absolutely hysterical. And, if I had the powers to resurrect the dead, I could’ve gotten revenge on Cody for making me this way in the first place.
I had everything. I was visiting and applying to colleges. I was receiving acceptance letters and scholarships. In another year, I would have graduated high school, and I would’ve been off to some university somewhere not here and not home where I’d probably be playing soccer for the school team and driving to visit Cody on the weekends. Instead, I was at Sunnyside—a juvenile psychiatric treatment center, where parents sent their troubled children when they were too much to handle.
“No,” I said.
Dr. Emerson nodded slowly and sat back in his gargantuan brown leather chair. He scrawled a few notes on his clipboard before setting it back on his lap. He tapped the pencil against the paper. Bits of graphite flew into the air and vanished.
“I somehow get the feeling you were hoping I wouldn’t ask that question,” he said.
“I don’t care what questions you ask.”
He smirked, like the whole thing was big joke to him.
“Why is that so funny?” I asked.
“Because that’s the most you’ve said to me in the past forty-five minutes,” he said. His eyes squinted a little, and his smile widened. “Candace, you’ve been here for two months, and we still haven’t made much progress.”
Yeah. A whole two months in this terrible place. They tried to jazz it up and make it look livable, but it was all padded cells just the same. They just gave us a campus, so we could feel independent. They gave us our own rooms with our own furniture that, depending on the restrictions set by our own designated therapists, we could decorate however we wanted. I heard the whole speech on the first day, when the center’s unnaturally cheery tour guide had taken me and my group around.
They showed us the main building, the therapy building, the residence hall, the dining hall, and the recreation center. They’d really outdone themselves on the presentation, but as any patient at Sunnyside will tell you, it’s all talk. The food is shitty. The dining hall looks more and more like a prison yard the more you eat there. The residence hall carpets are stained with puke and god knows what else. There isn’t any air conditioning, and there are still scratch marks in the wall from the last residents. The only good thing that happened was that my roommate never showed up. Ellie from down the hall said I was lucky. If my luck didn’t run out, I’d live alone for the rest of the year.
“Thats because there isn’t a problem,” I said. “So there’s no progress to make.”
Emerson crossed his legs and nodded slowly. He softened his voice. “Candace, I want us to try and make sense of this together. I understand that some things are difficult to talk about, but you’re gonna have to help me to help you here.” He tilted his head down and raised his eyebrows. “I want to see you at the same time on Thursday, okay?”
I nodded, but before I stood up, he made it a point to reach out and touch my hand.
“I’m really glad we had this discussion.”