By: Lauren Barclay
She kept her hands clean of me, wrapped in latex as she dutifully operated. She separated the now from the then, the here from the there. I wanted nothing in the world as much as I wanted to be close to her. I began to crave the time we had together, drinking up the feelings of validation and acceptance she poured on me like water. I lived my life for the hour a week we sat in her office, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and houseplants dripping down the window frames. I felt like she understood me more than any family member, any boyfriend or girlfriend ever had. I opened my chest to her, pulling my ribcage apart and offering up the softest places, the rawest pieces of me. She picked at them with tweezers made from surgical steel, eyes peeking out from behind a cotton mask over their mouth. This is a therapist, she said.
I laid there quietly while she went to work, waiting to be better. One day, in her office, she finally placed her scalpel on the deepest part, on the part that was causing so much of this pain. I was ready for the operation to continue, to finally fix this piece. Only, she stopped.
“This is too advanced for me to treat.” She laid her instruments down, pulled off her gloves and shook her head. “You will need to see someone new.”
“What?” I said, sitting up. Blood spilled from my chest onto her clean blue rug. “You can’t leave me like this.” I gestured to my open cavity, to the ribs peeking out, vulnerable and raw, with jagged edges.
“I don’t have time to sew you up. There are other clients I have to see. Here is a list of other therapists in the area. Please leave.” She gestured to the door.
To her, it was nothing. She saw something she didn’t know how to address and declined to treat it. To me it was the end of a relationship, a relationship I valued as much as any romantic one I’d ever had.
All my relationships have ended in icy goodbyes, both parties ready to go separate ways. But at this, fire blossomed somewhere inside of me, roaring in my ears. Thoughts stampeded through my mind, uncontrollable. I felt anger, sadness, despair, rapid-fire. I wanted to key a car, to burn something down, to cry uncontrollably until her couch was soaked with tears. I could refuse to leave, I thought, desperate.
“Please,” I begged. “Don’t leave me. Not like this. I’ll do anything.” But her eyes were already far away, thinking of the next person in her schedule. I knew it, then – she was lost to me. I packed my things and stepped out the door, trying hard not to vomit, leaving a trail of blood seeping from my open chest.
I hope I stained her carpet.