“Have I ever really been all that forthcoming with you?”
“That’s part of why I’m confused. You’ve been here for six months and shown no sign of wanting to rehabilitate yourself for life outside the Center, you’ve refused medication, your DBT skill practice has been spotty at best, you’ve refused to talk about your father’s suicide or the events that -precipitated your own attempt, and we’ve all tried to strike a balance between patience and persistence—now suddenly you tell me that you’re leaving tomorrow. I do care about you, Millie, as hard as you may find that to believe, and I would like some reassurance that you’re ready for this step.”
“What kind of reassurance do you need?”
“You could start by telling me about your plans. Are you going to go back to school?”
I set my teeth against a familiar sharp throb of pain, like an old war wound. “Of course not.”
“Why ‘of course’ not?”
“You’re not a film person, so you don’t get it. Getting into UCLA was a huge deal.”
“But you did get in.”
I felt my blood pressure rising. I hated optimism; it served only to remind me how inconceivable the depth of my failure was to normal people.
“Yes, I got in, and then I blew it. Even if they would take me back—which they would not—he’s still there.”
“Who is?” She frowned. “Are we talking about the nameless professor?”
“He has a name. Just because I won’t tell it to you, that doesn’t mean I’m making him up.”
“Millie, if he’s real, and he assaulted you, someone needs to—”
“Stop.” I held up a warning hand; I could feel something ugly threatening to open up just under my solar plexus, like a door to a spider-infested crypt. “I am not talking about this.”
“If not with me, you need to tell someone. Let the authorities decide the appropri—”
“I said stop it!” I grabbed the box of tissues from the table between us and flung it at the wall. Not helping my case for being functional. My heart was racing; my jaw was locked; my breath was coming fast and loud through my nose. The woman across from me was no longer Snow White but an old hag hawking apples.
“You’re angry,” the hag said.
It was like a seizure, something that swept over me unopposed and turned my blood to venom.
“Shut up,” I said between clenched teeth. “Just shut up right now or I swear to God I will punch you in the mouth.”
“Millie, let’s do what we talked about. What number are you at right now?”
“Fuck you.”
“If you can do this, it will be easier for me to believe that you are able to manage on your own.”
Once again I was reminded that Dr. Davis was smarter than I generally gave her credit for. “Eight,” I said.
“And what word did you assign to eight?”
It was hard to think through the fog of rage. But I had never been able to resist an urge to prove myself, and I knew she knew it too. “Furious,” I said. “I’m furious.”
“Can you tell me your ‘up thoughts’? If they are private, you can write them down.”
Any emotion, good or bad, lasts only a few moments unless we feed it. We are especially good at feeding anger, and Dr. Davis called the bits of kindling we toss onto the fire “anger up thoughts.” We use them without thinking, and it takes practice to pick them out.
“It’s not that simple,” I said.
“I know it’s hard to—”
“I’m doing it!” I snapped. “That was one of them.”
“I’m sorry.”
I stared at the wall, unable to address the thoughts directly to her, unable to look her in the eye with the full force of my fury, because the better part of me knew she was the only reason I’d made any progress at all.
“Leave it alone,” I said to the wall, struggling to make words out of the rage-doughnuts I was doing in the parking lot of my mind. “I told you to leave it alone and you ignored me. I’m sick of it. I’m not some poor little lamb with broken legs. Everyone here thinks they know me better than I do. I am not a fucking child.”
I went on like that for a while; then we sat in silence for half a minute. When a fresh wave of anger hit, it was only a 4. Frustrated, I was able to do some mindfulness exercises, following my breathing in and out of my lungs. My pulse slowed, and my fists loosened. I turned the corners of my mouth up in a slight smile, as I’d been taught, but it felt ridiculous and I stopped.
“Are you angering down?” she asked.
“You can’t just verb any noun you want. But yes.”
“Can you share your ‘down thoughts’?”
I heaved a sigh and complied. “She didn’t mean it, she doesn’t understand the situation, she means well even if she doesn’t have a clue what she’s talking about.”
I shot her a glance, but if she was hurt, it didn’t show; I imagine therapists get good at that.