Radical Acceptance

Trigger warning: Sexual violence, mental health, substance abuse, physical violence, suicide or self harm

“Are you listening, Elliot?”

No. Obviously I wasn’t.

“What? Yes, yeah. Of course.”

Dr. Cohen tilts her head, pen poised. Her pad is filled with scribbles, the loopy letters of a doctor. I had been zoning out whilst she droned on about something called DBT manuals, skills, lack of control, whatever- I stopped paying attention after the word 'trauma'.

“Are you sure about that? Because you do seem quite dissociated.”

I grunt in response and itch my elbow. I'm nearly certain these clothes are just sandpaper dyed a mind-numbing shade of baby blue.

“Would you describe it more as depersonalization or derealization?”

Rolling my eyes, I cross one leg over the other and prop my cheek up on my palm. The starkly bright walls are causing my eyes to ache, my nose twitching at the odour of chemicals wafting through the door.

“Honestly, I don’t know the difference. What does it even matter? Nothing’s wrong with me, I’m not some traumatized, pathetic thing. When can I go home?”

Dr. Cohen sucks in a sharp breath and raises her eyebrows, jotting 'denial' and circling it twice. I rub my thumb over the bumpy crook of my nose and check the clock. Most of our sessions go like this- me sitting on the couch, her waiting for me to talk about something that didn't even take place.

“You know, a lot of people who are victims of sexual violence-” A snort escapes me.

“I’m not a victim of anything- you’re acting like I was raped or something! Nothing bad happened. Can you just answer my question?”

“If nothing bad happened, why did you try to kill yourself?”

Involuntarily, I slam my hands down on the cushions, causing the wounds on my wrists to tingle in pain. I can feel my cheeks flush, and she takes notice, flipping to the next page on her notepad.

”I didn’t try to kill- I wasn’t- I was just drunk, okay? I wasn’t thinking. And stop avoiding my question!”

”Elliot, what fourteen-year-old is ‘just drunk’?”

I huff. This stupid bitch thinks she knows everything about me. Nothing bad happened, I’m sure of it. And I didn’t actually want to die. Nothing is wrong with me.

“With all due respect, doctor, you’re not exactly good at your job. First of all, you keep deflecting. Also, teenagers experiment all the time with alcohol. And everyone knows boys don’t get sexually assaulted.”

"Then why did you?"

I sit up, startling her. I may be fourteen, but I’m an early bloomer- my skin tugs taut at my limbs, my muscles bulge as if begging to burst through the flesh. I loom over her, showing my teeth.

“You’re wrong. You’re fucking wrong,” I spit, then storm out. I know the penalty for leaving sessions early, but I can’t give a crap right now. A nurse notices me stomping in rage and follows to my room. To be honest, calling it a ‘room’ is a bit of an overstatement. In the corner are two hard plastic beds that creak when I do so much as breathe, and of course they don’t have any sheets or pillows. The walls are a startling white of messy paint from the amount of blood they had to coat over- I’ve seen it firsthand. There’s a small bathroom with a cracked mirror and no door, and of course we're not given the privilege of a shower curtain. Speaking of the shower, the rusty pipe can barely spurt out icy brown liquid for more than two minutes. The food here is absolute shit, topped with mold and an occasional maggot. I know there are good asylums out there, but this definitely isn't one. There are about twenty other patients, all with various mental disorders and illnesses, varying from schizofrenia to autism to dermatillomania (whatever the hell that is). I know one thing for sure: I do not belong here.

Upon seeing my roommate curled up in a ball on his bed and rambling nonsense, I give up and decide to head to the main room instead. Word has already spread about my walking out on Dr. Cohen. Most people know why I’m here- even though it's not even true- and they tease me for it relentlessly. It’s impossible hiding anything from anyone in the psych ward. Today, though, the mocking is worse. A seventeen-year-old kid, Elsie (drug addict with PTSD), approaches me, licking her lips. A twinge of memory bolts through me at the gesture, but I shove it down. Nothing happened. Nothing. Happened.

She steps close to me, too close, but the nurses don’t intervene. The nurses never do anything to help, let alone stop a conflict. Elsie runs a finger along my chest, chuckling softly. The other patients watch intently, pining for entertainment, with little ooh's and snickers. Searching for some rationalization, I focus on the deep bags under her eyes, the sweat built up on her cheeks, the sour smell of vomit on her breath. She's going through withdrawal. She can't control herself. She's just playing with me.

“A little birdie told me boys can’t be sexually assaulted,” she whispers sweetly, rubbing her torso against me. I turn my face to the side. This is when the adults should break us up, step in, stop this from getting any further. And yet, no one says anything, eliciting a mischievous grin from the girl's crooked mouth. I set my jaw- I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of getting to me. I repeat this to myself, but I feel her hand on my thigh, creeping inwards, and my brain short-circuits. I see a face, the face of a person that I never want to think about. Someone screams. I think it’s me.

Elsie’s on the floor, her nose gushing blood. I stare, dumbfounded, my knuckles stained red. Fuck. An alarm blares, BEHAVIORAL RESPONSE TEAM ringing over the loudspeakers. My arms are seized, and a needle slides into my shoulder. A warm feeling spreads through me as the world darkens, slipping away.

I wake up under the gaze of Dr. Cohen, who greets me with a curt “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

My brain is foggy, my voice garbled. I'm on a cot, I realize, in what must be the room they put the unconscious patients in when they're sedated. I've seen the people hauled in here before, usually homicidal little shits or kids in the midst of seizures. In other words, nothing like me. I try to sit up, but I’m pressed down. The quick movement, meant to ease my drugged body away from fainting, sets me off instead. Pinned down can't move can't speak can't think- I leap from the cot, stumbling to gain my balance, fists automatically raised. My eyes buzz with lightheadedness.

“Elliot, calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I look around frantically, wildly, like an animal. She was going to hurt me, she was going to touch me- she-

“Elliot. Do you hear me? I’m not going to hurt you.”

My ears are pounding with memories. A bed, sprawled sheets, betrayal, shock- I’m slamming my hands against my ears, trying to block it out. The tiled floor is cold, seeping through the thin socks they give us, the ones with little dots on the bottom to stop us from falling, but my mind sure is slipping. Hands pinned down, a hot coiling in my stomach, tongue traced along my neck- My heart is racing, my chest is pounding, my lungs unable to expand. Am I having a heart attack? Am I going to die? Do I want to die?

I’m screaming. I think I’m screaming. A hand is patting me, but the skin only puts me more on edge. I writhe under Dr. Cohen's 'reassuring' touch. I'm dying. I'm dying, and that person is there, hurting me, I'm dying this can't be happening nothing happened no, no, no, no- no- no-NONONO-

Ice.

There is ice on the back of my neck. Shocks go through me, radiating from the spot of cold. My breathing slows and the world comes back into view. Ice. Ice, lowering the panicked heat. Ice, soaking up the sweat. Ice, tethering my body to this room.

I pant, trying to gather my thoughts. As my throat hitches, I start to sob. Tears pattern my legs before I can stop my eyes from spilling.

"Something happened that night, didn't it?"

The words send electricity through my veins, more than even the ice could. I shiver under the gruesome, stained memory, avoiding her eyes. The weight of that night, that memory, presses on my shoulders. Yes. God, yes, something happened.

"Elliot? Did someone hurt you that night?"

My hands tremble. Breathe, like Dr. Cohen taught us. In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four.

Slowly, finally, I nod.