Courage

I took a breath, drink a sip of black coffee as the door opened up revealing a disheveled woman with long dark hair, with a weak smile on her face, her eyes sunken with dark circles.

She was hunched, and her hands was trembling as she neurotically looked everywhere around the room but me. The room was simple, with a beige background and a warm picture of a child hugging a golden retriever, and a bookshelf at the left side of the room showcasing picture books and psychological textbooks.

A lavender incense sat atop my desk, along with colorful crystals to cleanse the energy of the people in this room. A gentle classical record is playing, lulling my patients into some sort of makeshift fantasy of a safe haven.

She stood a while in front of the door, and looked at me with an afraid look.

I gave her a smile and asked her to sit down in the coach before me, while my heart aches for her with empathy.

"Coffee or tea? Or would you prefer a cup of hot chocolate?"

She looked at me blankly. As if confused by my sudden question, she scrunched her eyebrows. "Tea, please."

I gave her another reassuring smile and yet a sunken feeling somewhere in my detached heart began to resurface. In each of my patients, I see a shadow of my old self. Confused. Lost. She was sitting while I was pouring a cup of hot water and brewing the tea slowly.

"It's Jasmine tea. I liked the smell," I said, feeling her curiosity as she peered behind me.

She looked at me, surprised, like a deer caught in headlights. It felt as if she was not used to be spoken to. She nodded awkwardly, and looked down at her fingernails, dirty and battered from being constantly bitten.

Rebecca Jackson had been a victim of domestic abuse and she was found half-dead in her apartment as her husband was carried away by the police, shouting and screaming and raising hell. The social worker in charge of that case had referred her to me.

I let the tea warm and allow a comfortable silence to settle between us.

She took it gratefully, enjoying a small sip, happy that she is not forced to talk. There were something child-like about her gaze, innocent and unblemished, despite the pain she had went through.

I sat and sipped my tea also, trying to establish rapport by common grounds.

"I-", she started, and looked at me for affirmation, as if afraid of being lashed out by speaking up. I nodded affirmatively, urging her to continue.

"I don't know what to do."

She said it abstractly, yet I knew she meant the word simply. With the pattern of a domestic abuse history, victims are normally tied down by control freaks as their partner, micro-managing their every step and not letting them express their personal preferences. From her case file, I saw that she was a housewife with an only child, and a high school education. She had gotten pregnant during high school and had not been talking with her parents, who greatly opposed her marriage.

"It's alright, we can take it slow."

A burst of impatience imploded inside of her as she shouted, her voice shrill with fear, "But, my son- he needs food and education, without my husband, we won't survive-"

A small sob came out from her throat, mangled and distorted by grief and helplessness.

"God, when did things go so wrong?"

"Rebecca, I'm here with you." I said, grabbing her hand. "My name is Dr. Annie Wilkes, you can call me Annie. I know it's too much to register but I'll be here every step to accompany you. You are not alone."

She looked at me confusedly, as if she was not used to acts of kindness. Her hunched figure looked smaller, and she shrunk and looked down. Like a wild animal, she was not used to trusting people.

"Rebecca, I was in your position just eight years ago. My husband committed suicide and I was left alone to handle all of his debts. He used to beat me daily and called me useless."

I cringed, internally remembering the cigarette burn marks that stayed forever in my scarred back, never disappearing completely. I had felt horribly lost when he passed away, not sure what step I would take.

"And by god, I was in a sunken place at that time. I tried suicide and I did drugs just to escape, but I assure you that it is not hopeless to try. I'm not saying it's going to be easy, but the first thing to do is to understand that there will always be hope, that things would one day change for the better."

I looked at her and I knew I have sent the message across.

Her eyes warmed and I knew she had recognized me as a fellow survivor.

"We are strong beyond our imagination. It is our mind that had taught us that we are weak, it is our mind that had us fooled that we need someone else to feel happy, worthy and loved. But, nothing could change the fact that we are worthy of being loved, perfect and worthy by ourselves. I wanted you to know that."

More tears began to flow down her cheek, I have no idea how long it had taken for her to self-sabotage herself, tell herself that there is no hope, that she can't ever amount to anything. I know, because the scars on my wrist bears the role of a silent witness of the unspeakable pain that I myself had went through.

During those dark times, I had been saved by a therapist who would then become my teacher. It was on that day that I decided to be just like her and help others to understand the importance of independence, that despite attempting to turn yourself for the better, there is no deeper lesson than to be kind to yourself.

I let her sob for the rest of the session because I knew she needed it, she needed to let out those years of indoctrination, anger and pain out of her system.

When we ended our session, I saw her red eyes and I knew that it is going to end up well. She had strength to do this. 

After she went out of the room, I took a deep breath, to convince myself that I too have gone a long way. The weight of the missing ring on my finger did not feel as palpable as before, and I readied myself to meet another survivor of the same pain I'm going through.

Those with the courage to live and move on from their old paradigms and pains.