Being cracked

It wasn't that she didn't want to get better. It's that she didn't know how to get better. And she didn't think he knew either


1. Being cracked

Being cracked

  "You know, I get paid whether you get better or don't get better, so there is really no point in trying to spite me by ignoring me."

  I kept mute. Letting my gaze wander out the hospital window, ignoring the ignorant therapists words. The sky, what was previously a brilliant radiant blue, littered with clouds, was now turning an alluring orange colour in the twilight hours. It seemed that since my last session, I had completely separated myself from him. If I had been an untouchable fortress before, now I was practically invisible. 

  We stayed like that, basking in silence, for a few long moments, only filled with the obnoxious ticking of the different clocks, all running at different speeds. I clenched my teeth. Eventually he spoke again, this time, with a sense of euphoria replacing his previous frustration.

  "You don't want to sound selfish! That's why you aren't speaking to think that wanting to get better makes you selfish!" he green eyes widened bit at his epiphany, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. A baby step, just a baby step, towards cracking me.

  I felt anger swell in my stomach, I tugged at my long blonde strands of hair, creating an unplesant jerking sensation that I couldn't bring myself to care about.


  No. Just because he has some fancy diplomas, that looked good on walls and impressed mindless beings who just so happened to waft in power, he thought that he knew how I was feeling. Well he didn’t.

  The anger and frustration that had been building up for so long flexed and roared and splashed like a sea during a fatal storm. And what annoyed me most was that he was right.

And so I finally, acknowledged him. "You don't understand!" I hissed, hating how cliched I sounded, like another patient that he could easily navigate to recovery, because we were all identical, not individuals. Just a label with an illness. He just shook his head a bit.

  "I understand more that you think I do..." he sighed exasperatedly, rubbing his eyes "Just tell me."

  He didn't specify what to tell him, but somehow I knew and didn't know at the same time.

So I let myself be cracked, like an egg, the gooey, messy contents spilling over to be cleaned up by some unfortunate soul -like my current therapist.

  "This is selfish but," my voice was defeated and tired, tired of fighting him, tired of fighting everything.

"why can't mental illness be like any other kind of illness where you go to hospital and your relatives come and tell you that they love you and hold your hand and recovery is easy straigtforward,

"Why can't that happen instead of awkward silences and embarrassing tears and a bunch of other stuff no one likes to talk about?!"

  I was panting, as I tried in vain to calm down my sea of emotions, my was vision blurring n my heart was pumping against a stale force called gravity. He barely reacted, save for a low response moments later.

"I can't find a single thing selfish about what you just said, Gemma."


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