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Author's Chapter Notes:

Sorry its taken so long to update, my computer screen was smashed by a certain 9kg cat.... that bastard better take on a fucking paper route to pay the $500+ it cost for repairs....

The psychologist was a raven-haired, older woman who wore a black power suit. She tried to look casual as we both sat comfortably on a opposing leather couches, but she looked uncomfortable.

I’d been here before; I’d seen enough psychologists in my time to know the drill. I knew what information they needed from me and had come to expect the questions. I’d never kept consistent appointments though, I never felt comfortable enough to speak my heart. I had heard people talk about breakthroughs but it never actually happened for me.

I wasn’t expecting miracles. I just wanted to get through my time.

No, that wasn’t completely true. I wanted to not only get through the time in treatment, but I also wanted to get better.

She introduced herself as Raia and was friendly enough. She approached me with a warm smile. I sat down, trying not to be defeatist. I wanted to give it all my best shot.

She gave me a run down about her obligations as a psychologist, blahblahblah, I thought to myself as she nattered away, I’d heard it all before. She asked me if I had any questions.

“No,” I shook my head, “No, its clear-cut. I know all about the legal requirements and mandatory requirements.”

“Okay great,” she got a little more comfortable in the chair. She looked as though she were in her 40s. She wore a lot of gold jewellery and the most beautiful pair of gold diamond earrings that I couldn’t help but to focus on.

“I like your earrings,” I remarked randomly. She smiled at me and touched her ears as if she couldn’t remember which ones she had chosen to wear for the day.

“Thank you, they’re very sparkly, aren’t they?”

I nodded and shifted, focusing back on the session.

“So, lets get started,” she began, “how are you finding your way around so far?”

“Its okay, everyone is really nice. I like it better here than in the hospital,” I replied.

“Why do you think your parents discharged you from the hospital to come here?” she asked me in that patronising way that psychologists asked their questions. It was obvious that we both knew the answer, but she just wanted me to humour her.

“Because I had a tantrum because my day leave was revoked and I thought it was ridiculous for a treatment facility to not recognise that self-harming was my way of coping with situations. Instead, they wanted to punish me for coping, which actually just made me want to harm more.”

“Okay, well… lets go back a little bit, and lets talk about your self-harm history, is that alright if we do that?”

She was starting to sound like a Kindergarten teacher.

I just nodded. I couldn’t help but to yawn. Sleeping all day made me sleepy. I thought of Michael and how that comment would have made him laugh. Man, I couldn’t wait to lay next to him again and feel his arms around me. It was one of the best nights of sleep I’d had when we had shared his bed.

“What do you hope that you’re going to get from working with me and the rest of your treatment team? Do you have any goals in mind?”

I had been propping up my face on the arm of the chair trying not to look bored, trying really hard to give it my best shot—but this question was the same as every other time I’d been to a psychologist. I let my arm drop and rested my head back against the arm chair and stared at the ceiling. I shrugged.

“Take your time in answering, its okay if you want to think about it,” she assured me in her kind, gentle voice. I felt bad; I didn’t want to be difficult, but sometimes my ways of coping turned me in to a child. Probably didn’t help that my parents still babied me.

Slowly I lifted my head, talking to myself internally; stop being a child, you’re not a child, its time to take responsibility, you’re not even an angry 18 year old, you’re a full-fledged adult… talk about this, do it for you; be the best person you can be for those who love you.

Michael’s face flashed in front of my eyes, his eyes as he told me I had his heart. I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to live through the shame of him finding bloodied razors, or finding me with my wrists or legs bleeding. I wanted to save us both from that.

I looked at Raia who was patiently waiting for an answer, “Its my hope that you an help me find better ways of coping with my stress and anxiety than cutting or falling in to a pit of depression that leads me to worse places,” I answered honestly.

“Good,” she made some notes and looked at me again, “those are some good goals Malania and I have no doubt that they are totally achievable as long as we both put in the footwork.”

It was the first time that I was pleased to hear something from her mouth.

“Can you tell me about the cutting? Can you remember the first time you cut?”

I thought about it for a few minutes, flashing back to the time my brother had hit me in front of his friends. I nodded. She asked me to explain to her the situation.

“I was 14 or 15, my brother hit me in front of his friends and I was embarrassed and hurt and I saw that I had a little cut on my palm from where I’d fallen, and I sat there and watched the blood run out and it felt … calming. I was a bit transfixed by it or something and when it stopped bleeding, I felt anxious all over again… so I tried to do it again with a tiny, subtle little pin prick, and I guess it escalated from there,” I replied.

“And what about the last time that you cut, I would love it if you could be brutally honest with me, this is a safe space, remember…” she reminded me.

“The last time I cut or the last time I attempted to cut?” I asked with a wry laugh.

“Both if you’d like,” she managed a smile at me.

“The last time I cut I was at a friends house on day leave from the hospital.” No one had found out that I’d harmed myself on Michael’s watch, I didn’t want anyone to blame me. “And I tried to cut myself yesterday because I had anxiety about coming here but someone walked in on me and stopped me.”

“Okay,” Raia put down her notes and folded her hands in her lap. She seemed to get more comfortable and relaxed. She casually folded her legs beneath her in the armchair. “Malania, can you tell me what motivated you to cut when you were on day leave?”

I thought about that moment. I had shared a bed with Michael and had taken great offense to something ridiculous. “My friend and I had a disagreement, I’d said something stupid and accused him of something pretty awful.”

“And Malania, what would you say has been the worst occasion that you’ve cut? The time where you’ve thought, ‘oh no, I’m in trouble, I’ve pushed this too far?’”

I rolled my sleeves up and showed her my wrists from where I’d pushed things too far when I was 16. “When I was 16, my first hospitalisation.”

“Was that from cutting? Or was that an intentional suicide attempt?” she wondered.

I thought for a moment, “I guess it’s a bit of both, I was very upset back then,” I admitted.

“What about your family?” she asked, “what is your relationship like with them?” she adjusted her hair, brushing some baby wisps out of her face.

“My Mama and Papa are still happily married. I see my sister who is a almost two years older and I have two elder brothers, one is three years older and the other is 5 years older – he lives in London now.”

“Who supports you when you are having a hard time? Do you go to your Mom or your Dad… or a friend?” she wondered, suggesting different relationships.

“Michael,” I told her, “he’s my uh… my friend, I guess. Before he came in to my life, I guess my Papa was really good for company.”

“Do you share your emotions with your family or with Michael?”

“With Michael, yes.” I nodded, “With my family its very hard, I don’t want to upset anyone anymore than I already have. I probably share my anger with my Mother or at my mother…”

“We might go back to that in a moment if you don’t mind, but I do really want to make sure we touch on all of your background, is that okay?”

I nodded again.

“Do you have any history of drug or alcohol abuse either with you or your parents?” she asked. I shook my head.

“And,” she began gently, “have you ever experienced any physical or sexual abuse?”

I shook my head no even though my mouth almost blurted out yes.

“You’re hesitating, are you unsure?” I hadn’t realised I was hesitating, but I realised that instantly I became agitated. I fidgeted, I pulled my hair from its restraint and raked my fingers through it.

“I’m not unsure,” I replied, “I guess…well, yes,” I mumbled, “yes I was sexually abused,” I kept remembering Michael’s words.

“Okay, lets talk about that for a moment,” she began, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready, and I already felt my stomach churning and seizing up as it usually did when I let my mind wander back to those times.

“Lets not,” I replied.

“Okay, I respect that,” she smiled at me, “something such as sexual abuse can be so deeply personal, and considering we’ve just met, I totally understand you not wanting to talk about it.”

“Thanks…” I murmured, slouching in my chair and fiddling with my hands.

“Its my hope though, that when we get to know each other better, we can talk about it. I feel like it might have an impact on why you’re actually here, so…for now, thank you for trusting me enough to be honest, I know that probably wasn’t an easy thing to say out loud.”

“Its not,” I agreed, “I get anxiety just talking about it.” I shook my hands out a little bit because my palms were tingling. It felt the same way when I’d admitted what had happened to Michael and my sister. As if, speaking the words from my mouth were like an out of body experience; the words leaving my lips weren’t my own, it was someone else overtaking me and speaking for me.

“Okay, lets just take a moment to do something breathing,” she suggested. In a kind tone, Raia talked me through some very simple relaxation techniques for deep-breathing to control my racing heart.

She asked me more questions about my previous hospitalisations and what worked for me or what didn’t. Obviously none of it had worked or else I wouldn’t have been back for my third inpatient stay.

“Malania,” she smiled at me, I got the feeling our time was almost up and I was glad. I liked her, I’d decided, but I really felt like I’d talked enough. “how would you describe yourself?”

I actually chuckled and finally shrugged. “I don’t know? Arty?”

“Have you ever done something that you’re really proud of?” she asked.

“I finished college, I guess,” I laughed, “That was a feat on its own. I hated college.”

Raia laughed too. “So you’re arty, huh? What kind of arty are you?”

“Painting, drawing, anything really…” I replied, “I like to write.”

“So why don’t you do something for me? You seem to struggle to talk about a way to describe yourself, so why don’t you think about that and next time you and I get together, you can tell me.”

I almost laughed the way she made it seem like we’d be getting together for a chat over coffee.

She may as well have dismissed me to go back to my room or join in the art therapy or whatever the activity was.

I really just wanted to be alone for a little while.


**

Eating dinner was a different experience. There were a few patients who needed to be closely monitored by a nurse to make sure that they actually ate. Peyton was one of those patients and I figured out pretty quickly that they were the ones who suffered eating disorders.

When Cassie’s shift changed, another nurse was assigned to my area; her name was Clair. Clair had the longest, most beautiful, sleek red hair I’d ever seen on anyone. It fell just on to her backside and looked as if every single hair was in place. It was not fuzzy or wispy or unhealthy looking and it shone.

I was suitably jealous of hair like that. So far all of the nurses that I’d encountered were very nice and not condescending. I’d witnessed one who had been nice to me, giving an eating disorder patient a hard time about eating something. Aside from that, I gathered that as long as I was a compliant, non-resistant patient, they were going to be nice and friendly to me.

Clair smiled a lot. She had soft, snow-like delicate features and the most beautiful grin. She looked like she belonged in a ball gown in a Disney movie instead of in a treatment facility for mental health patients. She was tall, about as tall as Michael and thin and was completely charismatic. Instantly, she was my favourite.

Even though all the nurses had been nice, Clair didn’t treat any of us like we were less-than. She wasn’t patronising, she was firm with one of the girls who had tried to skip out on dinner, but she didn’t make matters worse. She spoke to us like her peers which I felt was important. I liked that, it made me feel less alien and more human.

My eyes peered over at Peyton who I saw having a melt down on the opposite table. She was crying and kept pushing her food away. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help it. I felt for her. Only two girls were at my table and one of them was Julia who seemed to be making a great effort to chat to me all day. She seemed sweet enough.

Peyton scowled at the bowl of soup before her and back up at the nurse before wiping her eyes, taking a few breaths and slurping up a spoonful. She dropped the spoon back in to the bowl with resentment. “Are you HAPPY!?” she snapped at the nurse.

“Jeez…” I muttered under my breath.

“I’m not happy, Peyton,” the heavy-set, older looking nurse responded evenly, “you’re not supposed to be doing this for me, Peyton, you’re doing this for you, you want to be the best that you can be for the people that love you, remember?”

“Fuck them,” she spat the words back.

I’d heard that a lot since my hospital visit. Everyone kept reminding me. Be the best that I can be for the people that loved me. It was true, I reminded myself often as well. I didn’t mind doing that for Michael, but I was reluctant to be the best for those who should have also done the same for me.

She caught eyes with me. I quickly looked away, feeling awful for staring.

“Fuck you too, Asia,” she called across the way to me. I ignored her, pretending that I didn’t know she was talking to me. I concentrated on eating the salad and roast chicken that had been on offer. It was no Mama-cooking but it wasn’t the worst.

“Walking in here, too good for everyone, probably just as fucked up as everyone else, if not more…” she ranted in a voice just soft enough for everyone to hear, totally ignoring the nurse’s warnings to stop using bad language. She was warned that her behaviour would be noted and that she would lose privileges if she kept it up.

“I think she’s talking about you, Malania,” Julia whispered across the table. I looked at the brunette before me and I couldn’t help but to smile in an uncomfortable, almost tension-relieving way. As far as I knew, I hadn’t said or done anything to imply that I was better than anyone.

Peyton was accompanied back to her room because she couldn’t seem to control her anger. I was sure it happened a lot, but it sure did make things tense. When I thought about my breakfast time with her, I realised I had only seen her shuffle her food around very craftily to make it look like she had eaten something. I was pretty sure no food had even passed through her lips.

“Why is she mad with you?” Julia pressed as our company got up, finishing her soup and excused herself.

I looked at Julia and couldn’t help but to laugh in disbelief. “I have no idea… that was so awkward.”

A couple of people looked at me, but given from the lack of surprise from everyone, I guessed Peyton had a history of having tantrums. The dining room was pretty cafeteria-like. The linoleum floor was a weird, distasteful salmon colour and the tables weren’t really dining tables, but more like trestle tables that had been set up and neatened with a couple of plastic table cloths.

It was how I had actually imagined prison to be if you traded the guards with officers, and the mental health patients with a bunch of women with a criminal record… However, given that some of these women were deeply troubled, it might not have been a shock that some may have had a record.

I knew though, that the treatment facility was not for those without money. I was very aware of that, I knew my family were blessed with money, but at the same time, I knew my brother had a hand in my the obliteration of my family’s life-savings which was why my father was still at work in his fifties; the time he really would have preferred to retire.

“Don’t feel bad, she is really moody sometimes,” Julia replied. “Hey, after dinner are you going to come to watch the movie?”

According to the activities sheet, there was going to be a movie screening in the entertainment area around 7:30pm. “I don’t think so,” I replied, taking my last mouthful, “I can take or leave television.”

It was true. I wasn’t a huge fan of TV. I preferred reading or writing or doing something a bit more creative.

“Do you want to hang out and do something? Have you been to the recreational room yet?” she asked.

“Not yet, I dunno, I’m kinda tired, I was thinking of going and reading in my room.”

“Oh, okay.” Julia seemed disappointed and made me feel bad. “What will you do then?”

“I don’t know…” she shrugged, “I guess I could do some painting.”

“Oh?” my interest was piqued. “You like to paint?”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m very good, but I enjoy it,” she explained, “There’s in the activities room, there’s some space in there for painting or art therapy—sometimes I go in there with my earphones and Walkman.”

I never thought to bring my Walkman. I would put it on the list of things to ask my parents or Michael to bring to me before they visited. “Well, I could join you for awhile if you wanted. I like to paint too, might be a bit of our own art therapy, what do you think?”

“Okay.” She smiled at me. She had a bit of a goofy smile, but she sure was cute; endearing almost. She’d informed me earlier that she was 16 and the actual youngest patient in the treatment centre. She had spent time in a hospital, but her parents weren’t satisfied with the care. Sounded like a familiar story.

**

Something I learned was that we had to be supervised by someone at all times except for when we were sleeping and even then, we weren’t to have our doors closed.

Most of the girls ended up going to the movie; save for a few who hung out in the common area watching TV or playing board games or something so Clair agreed that we could both hang out in the art area with her.

I was surprised by the elaborate set up. It was almost like an art classroom. There were easels with expensive paints in the cupboards that I liked to use at home. I considered that given the amount of money our families were spending on treatment, the least they could do was make with the good paints.

“What are you guys going to paint?” Clair asked curiously as I set up my paints the same way that I would at home. I went to use a large piece of art paper, but Julia and Clair returned from a storage cupboard with some flat canvases.

“I don’t know yet, something for my boyfriend maybe…”

“Whoa, you have a boyfriend!” Julia asked, surprised and slightly in awe.

I couldn’t help but to smile. I was getting a bit used to thinking of Michael as my boyfriend. “Well, yeah…” I replied, avoiding their eyes bashfully. “I guess that’s what you’d call it, a boy who’s a friend,” I simplified it with a laugh.

I knew Julia was not a painter when she set didn’t bother mixing her colours on the palette. I knew that was a bit snobby of me to think, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to set it up for her.

“Sounds very new...” Clair remarked with a curious tone.

“It is, kinda…” I shrugged.

“Well, spill.” Julia commanded, “tell us about him! I can’t believe you have a boyfriend!”

“Why?” I asked absently as I figured out what I was going to paint. I mixed some blues together, “am I that hideous that you just can’t believe it?” I joked knowing that wasn’t even nearly what she meant.

“No, I just mean… how does he deal with your cutting? Or does he have problems too?” she asked curiously.

I laughed, “Well, we all have problems,” I answered diplomatically, “but he tries to help me, he makes good choices in life and he is understanding…”

Clair didn’t say anything, she observed our conversation as we stood side by side at our own respective easels. I was just painting in a way that was natural to me, letting the energy in my body guide the brush across the canvas.

“What’s his name? How old is he,” she fired off questions, “wait, how old are you?”

“I’m turning 23 next month,” I told them, “his name is Peter and he’s about to turn 30 about two weeks after me.”

“Whoa…” she was definitely in awe and there was a little part of me that liked the idea of someone kind of looking up to me. “That’s old…”

Both Clair and I laughed. “Hey!” she exclaimed, “I’m thirty! That’s not that old.”

Julia clapped her hand over her mouth, embarrassed, “Sorry Clair, you know I love you!”

Clair smiled at her, “Its alright, sweetheart, I forgive you…”

“So with Peter, how did you meet him? And what does he do?” she was full of questions. I felt like I had to almost make up this fake person.

“How we met is a very long and boring story, but he’s an artist…” I answered.

“What’s the most romantic thing he’s ever done! I love romance, that Disney romance crap…”

Both Clair and I laughed. Julia was cute, she was definitely growing on me. “Uhm… he made me climb to the roof of his apartment to watch a sunrise with me three days ago, I thought that was pretty cute and romantic.”

“Oh my god!” Julia exclaimed. She was glancing at the mess she was painting on her canvas before paying attention back to mine. Watching the sunrise with Michael was playing on my mind so I had been absently painting a sunrise and was also the reason why it came to mind as the most romantic thing he’d done for me. “Clair! Look at Malania’s painting!”

“Whoa! Malania, that is amazing!” I had so far only created the horizon and part of the sun. “Wow, you have some serious talent!”

“Nooo… stop,” I laughed, feeling my cheeks flush.

“Look at my painting, Picasso!” Julia laughed, “gosh… are you giving that to your boyfriend? Its so beautiful.”

“Maybe…” I shrugged, “I just like painting, its relaxing.”

“Can you teach me how to paint better?” she asked, “mine is totally crap…”

I smiled, “its not crap, I studied art at college and during school so I had a lot of time to fine-tune my art… I can teach you a few things, I’m sure.”

Together, I showed her how to mix her colours, how to add light and shade and perspective to her piece. We started out with simple things like houses and water and agreed that we’d work on art every night.

It was nice to hang out with another female and to have Clair joining in with our conversation here and there. I liked talking about Peter with them, I’d never had a girlfriend to gush to about boys and things. It was nice.

I never thought that I would feel it, but my first day of treatment wasn’t at all bad.

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