Psych Eval
When I was twelve my aunt taught me how murdering was different than wanting to murder someone.
She said that if wanted to kill the president that was ok, as long as you didn't do it. I don't think there is anyone I've truly opened up to. I don't know why she said that. But I look back at it now and by god I hope its true.
"Have you ever lied to a psychiatrist?"
"No."
"Have you ever lied to anyone?"
"A few times but only small things. Like, whether the milk had gone old," I shifted in my seat and smiled, "or whether I had eaten cookies on my bed." The psychiatrist sitting across from me smiled. "That's good. It makes sense. We all lie about those things. I'm asking you whether you lied to your mom or other important people in your family about... " at this he paused and bit his lip, as of not sure what he should say. "hurting them?" I finished. He head dipped to the side and he made an expression that seemed to express remorse and resolve at the same time. He had wanted to say did you ever lie about wanting to kill them, but thought it might be inappropriate because I was in a emergency psych eval for suicidal tendencies and other things…
"I'm going to go talk to your mom for a few minutes and I might speak with your dad. I was hoping he might get here soon, maybe clear things up." I nodded and smiled. When he left I curled up in a corner. I stared at the window; the only thing that wasn't black or white. I think when I'm bored, so I started thinking. This room's colors had been chosen to calm the inmates. It was green (the chair) but it was a grass green that wasn't too bright so it wouldn't be distracting.
I rehearsed what I would say in my head, not really worried about it though because I knew I could get away with anything. I replayed the scene in my head. My little sister was in the car. My mom was blaming me for hurting her. She parked in a parking lot. She was angry. I was angry. She stepped out of the car, supposedly to calm down. I saw her call my dad. His name and number showed up on the car Bluetooth. I heard every minute of what they said. My mom was concerned that I was going to hurt her. She said I was hurting Elly emotionally by having 'this conversation,' in the car in front of her. I buried my head in my hands. I knew I was hurting her, but it was worth it. I had to protect myself and I had to protect her. My mom was dangerous and I knew it. My dad mumbled about not doing anything extreme and then she started talking about taking me to a mental hospital. “Is she taking her medications?” my dad asked. “Yes,” my mom responded, “but they're not working.” Now she turned it off speaker, realizing what was going on. “I'm taking her to (a mental hospital).” she said, closing the door from which she had just unplugged the speaker from the car. A few moments later I saw her hang up. She took some time to calm down, take a few breaths. During that time my little sister asked me a question: why do you hate our mom?
"I don't hate our mom. I just have some angry feelings towards her."
"then why don't you love her anymore?"
"I do love her." I said. If I had been a more emotional person I would almost cried. Instead, I concocted a response that would help my sister understand as much as she could. "I said I hate mom. I didn't say I didn't love her. You can feel both those things at the same time." I smiled, hoping she understood I wasn't trying to be the bad guy.
That memory brought up emotions in me I couldn't comprehend, things I knew all too well: hate, fear, envy, hope, love, desperation. That last one was the worst. It made me do terrible things I didn't regret.
The man I had been talking to earlier came back in the room. "How are you doing?"
"Good," I said, nodding and showing just enough emotion for him to think I was scared. "Just been sitting here."
"Kind of boring in here, isn't it?" he smiled and half shrugged, apologizing for the inconvenience. I knew why it had to happen. I had been suicidal before. I knew anything could tip you over the edge.
"let's discuss why you're here."
"Yeah..." I said, squirming a little bit. A flash came back to me of me practicing my emotions in the mirror, learning to smile and hide my tears. I had gone outside a second later. My mom didn't notice anything was wrong. A week later I wanted to throw myself out a window. Back to the present. He was staring at me as if it was not possible to understand how I could be here if I had such a perfectly normal mom and dad. White parents, rich house, everything seemed right What was going on? Counter: I wasn't always rich. I remember arguments about what to buy us at Christmas, asking if they could afford gifts at all. I remember my dad being so tired after two days at work, no breaks. I remember him getting angry because I wan't scared enough when he yelled. He was frustrated I had left stuff on the floor. Even at seven I knew he wasn't wrong, he was just tired. I played the little girl, waited for him to stop crying. Told him I was sorry and said I just wanted him to come home, I just wanted a hug. It was all true, but it didn't match the expectation for disappointment or the plan I had when I sat myself on the couch in full view of the door. Get out of your head! I told myself, you have a job to do. Lock in. Luckily the emotion in my eyes played into the part well. Girls weren't supposed to be strong. I knew what he was already expecting. Everyone is human, even psychiatrists. I smiled to myself, knowing I could out play him, and started speaking. "My mom is wanting me to stay at her house and I want to go to my dads. I was upset because she wouldn't let me go away." I buried my head and tucked my legs against my chest. A sob (deep breath) caught in my chest. He nodded. Go on, he seemed to say. "We were in the car. So was my sister." I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking back and forth in the single, small chair I was given. "And ," (gasp/hiccup) "I was asking my mom... to let me go home. I hate being at her house. She's not a real mom. She's... she's... she's..." I buried my head deeper and started trembling for lack of a better word. He just nodded and stared at me. "What happened after that?" he asked.
"She said she would take me to a mental hospital if I didn’t stop"
"Stop what?"
"Stop..." I took a deep breath and made myself presentable again: back strait, arms by my side, voice in normal range. I took a deep breath. And then another one. I looked outside. "She wanted me to stop yelling in front of Elly."
"Why?"
"Because she didn't want me to hurt her!" I carefully let my face dissolve and show every emotion I felt. "I want to tell mom how much she's hurting me, but every time I try to Elly’s in the room and I can't! Or she finds some other excuse, like..." I waved my arms around as if searching for something. "My brother." I flopped down. He looked at me, concerned I had said I was being hurt by my mom. "It's nothing serious!" I reassured, "Just emotional stuff." Here my voice got weak, as if I didn't think I should be upset. "I just needed to change something. I can't keep just let her hurt me without say something about it." I ducked my head in shame, "even if it does hurt Elly." I stared outside the window again. He was trying to let me rant, I knew it. Get it out if your system. I heard someone say in my mind. I wasn't letting him fix me. This was a delicate game; be upset enough not to have to go back to mom's house but be sane enough not to be locked up. The man across from me shifted, fidgeting almost as much as me. I knew what this meant. He was a nerd and his text book of psych advice wasn't helping him now. It was just bare bones human emotion, my territory. I just stared at him for a while. (people get uncomfortable when you stare. I learned that one not too long ago) He asked me a few more questions. I said my mom was bad and I was just a girl trying her best in a world not meant for children's idea. He went back to my mom and dad's room. I heard mumbling through the door. I didn't want to listen. I knew they'd be arguing and worst of all: I didn't want him to think my mom was sane.
I was let out of the room after about thirty minutes. I didn't have a clock. They had taken all my devices away. Me and my dad went home. We stopped by my mom's car on the way out. My dad saw the pile of trash sitting in the passenger seat. "What happened?"
"It didn't hit her. I wanted to go to your house and said if she didn't let me I would keep putting things in the passenger seat. From a few seats back. On the highway."
"Did you tell the psychiatrist about this?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I didn't want him to know I was hurting my mom."
"Elisabeth, you didn't hit her with anything." he said, staring at the sky in bewilderment.
"Yeah, but we were on the highway and Elly was in the car."
"How does being on the highway make it dangerous?"
"I could have distracted her and made her crash. That's why I didn't hit her with anything. I think my aim is pretty good. I'm surprised I hit every shot." I surveyed the pile, noticing its height. My dad looked disgusted. "What is it?" I asked. He waved at the seat and slapped his hand to his forehead. I knew what he wanted to say. A trash pile that reached two and a half feet high. I remember my cousins making fun of me for how messy our car was: food on the floor, three week old garbage. I remember my mom getting upset at me for not cleaning it out while she 'cleaned the kitchen'. I remembered the other time she said that. I had made the yard presentable while she watched Tik Tok on the bar stool. I could see it through the window. The whole two hours of it. She asked me to help clean the kitchen when I came inside. No, I had said, disgusted. With five minutes left she was still scrolling as she put things away and yelled at me for my inadequacy. I didn't come out to talk to the guests that night. She still won't admit she did something wrong. Just a few hours ago she had denied the fact that that scene ever occurred. She denied that I was suicidal. She denied that covid was gone: keep them in the house forever! She had told me she wanted that. Said she wanted us to live with her forever, never growing old. Our husbands could move in with them and we could all sleep together. I shuttered. "Do you want some Indian food?" My dad asked. "Yes." I nodded. The thoughts were closing in; a knife to the chest. Ignore them, push them back but they keep coming anyway. Three years later and I still dreamed of the end. I still remember every day at school when scissors sucked me in. I remember the terror I felt when ever those urges wouldn’t quit.