10—DON’T DREAM
“It’s time to go, Naomi.”
I turn away from my window and stare at Mary. She stands in the doorway, tapping her foot impatiently. But there is no way in hell I’m going back to Dr. Rutledge.
I cross my arms and give her a level look. “No.”
Mary tilts her head to the side, a stern expression on her face. One that says, ‘Do we have to do this the hard way?’
For the past week this has become our routine. Mary tells me I need to go see Dr. Rutledge. I tell her no. Mary calls for assistance and another nurse helps drag me down the hallway. I struggle, trying to break out of their hold, but in the end I always find myself sitting across from Dr. Rutledge. After group therapy, I put a wall up, afraid that any other methods Dr. Rutledge had in mind would destroy me.
So she sits there, behind her desk, asking her typical questions:
“How are you?”
“Did you sleep well last night?”
“What are you thinking about right now?”
I never respond. I watch the clock tick the time away and it becomes a standoff. Me saying nothing, refusing to back down and Dr. Rutledge persistently talking, trying to get me to open up. In the end, I outlast Dr. Rutledge and she lets me leave. But I never leave her office feeling victorious, because the truth is that my nightmares have gotten worse. No matter where I go, I see him. Dr. Rutledge has upped my Ambien. It helps some but not enough.
I’m scared that soon the medicine will stop being my hiding place. I’m afraid that he’ll find me and rip me to pieces.
I walk around in a complete daze. The line between sane and insane is starting to become blurred. Everything is starting to confuse me. And the most terrifying thing of all is that I’m starting to become one of the patients that sits in the rec room, staring blankly at the television for hours on end.
I sigh and move away from the window. Today, I’m too tired to put up a fight.
Mary gives me an approving nod. She’s proud. She thinks this is a step in the right direction.
We walk slowly down the hallway, treating this like a stroll through the park. If you think about it, this stale air and the sterile walls really is my park.
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!”
Dr. Rutledge is sitting up straight. “Calm down, Naomi,” she says cautiously.
“No!” I point at her. “Try having your own family admit you into a mental institution. Try having everyone that you need and love disappear on you when you need them the most!”
My hands curl into fists; I bang them against my head.
If I hit hard enough maybe I’ll knock out all of the voices.
“Stop.” She stands from her chair. She looks frantic, almost scared. “Stop it!” she shouts.
I close my eyes and keep slamming my fists.
“Naomi! Stop!”
Her voice is closer. It makes the voices in my head panic. Their volume increases; their voices shriek and my ears start to ring. It hurts so much tears start to stream down my face.
And then I feel her grab my hands.
I freeze. It’s like a balloon has just been popped.
I raise my eyes. I don’t try to hide my fear and pain. I let Dr. Rutledge see it all.
I watch her pupils dilate as she takes it all in.
My darkness.
My frustration.
My pain.
My humiliation.
She drops my hands. They fall to my side like heavy weights. She walks around her desk, and lays her palms on her desk. Her body hunches over the same time her eyes slam shut.
We stay quiet. Me rocking back and forth against the wall and her staring down at her desk helplessly. Until she lifts her head and glances at me. The title of M.D. disappears. She’s a person. One with flaws. One with scars.
“You know why I became a psychiatrist?”
I stare at her blankly and wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands.
“Why?” I say reluctantly.
“I’ve always been fascinated with the human mind. How we process things. How we feel. What emotions we project,” she admits.
So far, I’m not impressed.
“During my residency, I realized that maybe there could be something more behind my decision in pursuing this field.”
I don’t understand where this conversation is going. But I know these conversations between doctor and patient never happen. They ask the questions and expect answers. They never open up and tell you something personal about themselves.
I slowly stand up. “What do you mean?”
“I have family members that have struggled with mental illness. My fascination stems from them. I wanted to figure out where all their pain came from. Why it seemed like they couldn’t shake the darkness constantly looming around them.” Dr. Rutledge sighs.
I don’t think it’s so light and sweet as before. This time I see the pain and sorrow behind it. She has darkness in her past.
I look down and trace the veins running across the back of my hand. “Have you found an answer?”
“Sometimes I think that I have,” she says carefully. “But then I read something new, or start meeting with a new patient, and I realize that I’m trying to solve the impossible. We’ll never have a sound answer. Everyone is different with the way they feel, think, love, and express themselves. I guess that’s what makes the world go round.”
I think of Lana. She’s in the bathroom, staring at her reflection. She’s given up. She’s tired of all the pain. I’m standing in the doorway, telling her not to give up, but she won’t listen.
Goose bumps cover my skin. And I try my best to shake the image away.
Dr. Rutledge laces her fingers together and takes a deep breath. I know confession time is over and she’s back in her normal role. “I’m not Dr. Woods. When you talk, I listen to you. I believe you. But I need you to trust and open up to me. Okay?”
I know why she went back to the doctor mode, but I already miss the other side of Dr. Rutledge. When she talked to me, my humiliation lessened. I didn’t feel like a failure who doesn’t have control over my own mind. Somewhere, during our talk, a small fragment of trust started to appear. It was hardly noticeable, but at least it was something.
“Okay,” I say.
“I know this isn’t easy for you. Just remember that even the purest of souls have darkness in them. It might be hard to spot. Perhaps they’ve perfected the art of covering it from the world. Or maybe it’s hidden in a dark corner of their mind. But it’s there. No one in this world is scar free.”
My shoulders relax. I nod and that seems good enough for me.
“All I want is for you to tell your story the best way you know how.”
I take a deep cleansing breath. To say I had just begun with my story was an understatement. I wasn’t even close to scratching the surface.
“I told Lana that maybe we should stay at my house. That she would be safe there…”