Trying to Forget

(Sensitive Content: Involves mention of blood, school shooting/violence, mention of death/dying, detailed panic attacks, and mental health issues.)

“What do you feel when you start thinking like that?”  The therapist asked, giving me a pointed glance and tapping her pen on her desk. I hate that sound. A long silence creeped between us. I tried to ignore the words she’d spoken, the tapping of the cheap ballpoint pen against the dark wood. I looked at the two sad, bland, colorless pillows on my left side, sitting with me on the formal gray couch.

And I stayed quiet.

The couch was uncomfortable. I avoided her gaze as I shifted my position, pulling one of the depressing pillows to my chest and holding it close. I started moving my fingers as the voices in my head threatened to drag me away. Scraping my nails– short and bitten– and my fingertips, repetitively against the rough gray pillow. It hurt, and the texture made me want to cringe away, but I needed something to hold onto as I ignored her words. The small scratching sounds were soothing, a reminder of my home, far away from this person meant to help heal me. The sound was nearly the same sound that my cats made as they clawed at any the torn corner of our sofa. My mind started to drift to thoughts of home. The sunlight shone through the window into my shaded room. The sofa in our sitting room wasn't scratchy or boring or formal, instead being the color of early fallen leaves, the cushions soft and comforting. “Iris, I can’t help you if you don’t talk.” The doctor said. Her words brought me back to reality. I nodded once, my eyes blank, then I resumed staring at the ground, the floor still terribly uninteresting. The plain black and gray rug that seemed to reflect only sadness. It looked like school carpet. Who ever said I wanted help? I wanted to scream at her, scream like the voices in my head have ever since last Tuesday. Yet I remained silent, staring at the ground. The lights beaming down on me had felt so artificial. The harsh brightness made my head ache. I probably deserved to be uncomfortable anyways, i'm not supposed to be alive at all.

The doctor tried to prompt me to talk, "i'm here for you," she says, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of hearing my voice. My story. I focused on her fake chocolate brown hair that clashes terribly with her grey eyebrows and the wrinkles that appear as she smiles or frowns. She only sighed and went to fetch my mother. My fingers started moving in a panicked fashion then, as I listened to the exchange. Listening is the only thing I'm actually quite good at. “She’s a tough nut to crack.” I heard the lady say, trying to be positive, trying to make me seem like I'm healing. “But I think we’re going to make some good progress next session.” Dr. Cress said with her best soothing voice. My Mother replied harshly and without hesitation, sounding worried as she always seemed to be. “Did she even talk this time?” Mom seethed. “Dr. Cress, I'm paying you to help my daughter, not sit in a room with her, hoping that she stops panicking! If she gets worse she could end up hurting herself.” Her voice rose an octave, but became increasingly muffled as they walked further and further away from the stupid gray room with its stupid gray couch and the stupid fake lights.“I know.” Cress said, her voice sounded little more than a whisper, “But she refuses…” They walked even further and I couldn't hear them anymore. 

I couldn't hear them anymore. 

The pure silence hit me. Unriddled silence is hard to come upon. Silence like that cannot remain. Silence is always interrupted by loud sounds and screaming. I found myself scratching even more at the coarse fabric of the pillow, as I squeezed my eyes shut tightly. Fingertips weren't enough and I scraped my entire hand on the surface of the pillow, rubbing my hand against the surface until it starts to sting and burn, sting and burn. I didn't care though. I’d already gone down the maze of my thoughts and my past. Where are they going? Why have they left me here– alone? I was hyperalert, looking around like an animal who'd just figured out they were prey.

Then I heard it. The sound that had haunted me since last week, gunfire and screams ringing in my ears. Fight or Flight kicked in and I started to panic, my anxiety spiraling out of control as my brain rushed through every single negative scenario possible. Every way that things could go wrong again. Mom’s never coming back. She’s never coming back. I’m going to die. She’s already dead. She must be. Just like my best friend Elide, who’d squeezed my hand tightly trying to comfort me. Consoling me as red flooded out of two holes in her abdomen, her face paling as seconds ticked by. Just like my other classmates, who'd screamed and screamed and fallen quiet. Just like my teachers, who couldn't fight back, because dead people can't save their students. Panic flashed in my gaze, and I felt the walls caving in, the array of formal gray cushions from the couch crushing me like a bug. I started hyperventilating, my breath coming in short, rapid gasps. I could feel myself shaking and breaking and shattering into a million pieces that I can promise will never fit back together. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. A strangled cry escaped my clenched teeth, and I clutched the pillow to my chest. I kept holding it tighter and tighter as though it were a shield, protection from the person who'd broken my life and so many others. I found myself curled in a ball, frozen. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I was trembling and I somehow ended up gnawing at the stubs on my fingers, stubs that I can’t even call my nails anymore. My head is fuzzy and I can’t think rationally. Without knowing how, I managed to scramble to my feet, I dropped my pillow and stumbled across the room, taking shelter underneath the desk, where I collapsed in the corner. My entire body quivered uncontrollably as I relived the nightmare from the week before.

That’s where they found me. I didn't hear them coming, but suddenly they're with me. Dr. Cress was picking up the pillow I'd abandoned in the middle of the room off the carpet, trying to get me to breathe. My Mom was telling me that “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Dr. Cress muttered something about a filing cabinet shutting, being too loud. A trigger, she said. Over and over they said the same words. I lashed out, once, twice, not recognizing the familiar face in my panic, and red lines struck across my Mother's cheeks. Then I was crying. The tears made paths down my contorted, panicked face. Despite all my Mom’s reassurances and Dr. Cress’s fancy breathing techniques, it still took them over forty-five whole minutes for them to get me back to my Mom's car, Dr. Cress walking with her hand on my wrist all the way till the passenger side door was shut, the doctor's face sullen. I can’t do this, I can't, I can't, The voice in my head wailed. I didn't even bother to look back, I buried my face between my hands so Mom couldn't read my expression. Dr Cress said that I need to go to a place to heal. A place where a girl cannot make red lines appear on her Mother's face, she said. A place where I will be safe, she said. I'm too much of a danger to myself, to others, for me to go home, she said. As the car stopped in front of the Stress Center, I tried to forget the unforgettable as my world crumbled.