The larks sing sweetly
to herald in, in
the Sun matching
golden tints the daffodils
Joy envelopes the fields
and the sprouts – they sprout!
By now, the sky has shone through
Reflected through my lens
every colour of the prism
The red of passion,
yellow of happiness,
green of virility,
blue of serenity,
indigo of teasing,
violet of FREEdom.
As the sky turns every hue
If only I was looking in
not out
“Is that really all you have?” my therapist asked. I looked down at my hands and my sleeves. If only I was the only one who knew about the drawings underneath. “I told you to express what you really feel, not some poem about bees and daisies.”
“Are you even listening?” she asked. I glanced around the room, scouring every space that didn’t have her in my point of view. The clock ticked in the same monotone way it always did when I came here. “Look, anyway, for the last time, nobody is trapping you if that’s what you mean by this,” she said, tapping the poem and simultaneously pinching her forehead, as if this was paining her, more than it was me.
“Anyway just remember, you should stop cutting yourself, you have no reason to.” With that, she heaved off her spinny chair and escorted me towards her office door. “I’ll need to inform your mother that unfortunately, we still have not made any progress. It’s been 3 months. I have arrived at my wits end. At some point you will need to open up to me, just as much as I have to you.”
I looked down at my hands. Oh. They’d started trembling again. I wonder why. What was I so scared of? Imaginary problems? Probably. Problemly.
I knew this would happen. The only reason I was here was to appease my mother’s concerns for my mental wellbeing. 3 months ago, I’d slipped up. 3 months ago, Mother had seen me carving pretty little artworks on my wrist; it didn’t go over too well with her. Well, it’s slightly difficult to be secretive when you don’t have a door in your room. But I can only blame myself for the consequences. After she swiftly disciplined me, she’d gone back down to the telly to lament to her friends i.e., similarly minded old quacks about what a failure of a daughter I am, and why she shouldn’t have stopped at one child. As if producing more offspring fixes the root issue. Pathetic.
Anyway, that brings us to today, 3 months into therapy (you’d never guess whose amazing friends recommended another therapist quack), and yeah, it’s getting nowhere, something I can agree on with that wrinkly raisin.
As she opened the door, I already knew what I dreaded to be true. My mother was standing right outside, waiting expectantly.
“Well? Has she been a good girl?” demanded my mother. As I stood next to my mother, I felt her hand clench tightly on my shoulder. My stomach dropped.
“She’s rather hostile. Over 10 sessions and we still seem to be getting nowhere.” said Mrs. Quack bluntly.
“Is that so…?” replied my mother. “Don’t worry, I’ll whack some sense into her,” said my mother jokingly, smiling sweetly at the therapist to show half rotten teeth. It wasn’t a joke for me.
“Just you wait until we get home,”, my mother gritted through her teeth as we walked out of the waiting room and exited the clinic. I heard a faint yell: “Next!”, as I left. I wonder if Mrs. Quack was helpful to others or just a complete fraud. Either way, I’d need to start fooling myself as well.
The first thing that happened when we got home was my discipline for being uncooperative. As if that was my fault. But I kept my mouth shut and waited for it to be over. Finally, it was.
I got up to look at myself in the vanity mirror. Leaving aside the bright pink on one side of my face, there was nothing else there. No tears. My eyes had dried out, my heart, shrivelled up. Was this what it felt like to be dead inside? But I was alive, so how could that be? I was alive. I looked at my hands. My palms were sweaty and pink. I was inhaling. Exhaling. I was breathing. I was alive. I am alive.
I looked outside my window. The sunset was pretty. The sun was freed of the clouds chaining it up to the sky, and sank gracefully down, below the horizon.
Closer to my window, I noticed the lighting was off. A shadow was cast where it shouldn’t have been.
As I looked at this shadow, two slits like eyes opened up, like a seam ripped in fabric. I jumped back, towards the safety of my bed. It crept upwards, until it was right up against my window, facing me. The only object separating me and that thing was a fragile glass pane. It stared at me. I stared back. The shadow seemed to be enlarging, concealing the light from outside. That had been the only source of my light. I was being engulfed, consumed.
I didn’t want it to end like this. It was my new beginning. How could I have been so foolish as to think I deserved another chance? I didn’t deserve to live. At least I didn’t have to die by my own hands.
Accepting my fate, I closed my eyes opened my arms, allowing myself to be consumed. I felt peaceful. Now nobody could hurt me. I was free.
Huh?
Was I still alive?
“Don’t worry child, you are safe.”
A voice from nowhere and everywhere comforted me. My arms felt warm and tingly. Was this what death felt like? An illusion of being alive so the cycle of suffering could continue for eternity? I didn’t realise I needed disciplining to that extent. But I knew I deserved it all.
I heard what felt like a light giggle from another voice.
“It’s not a joke, you actually are alive!”
Slowly, I opened my eyes and saw the last rays of sunlight escaping my field of view. My feet were firm on the ground. I was grounded. But I was not chained to the ground. For now, I felt alive.
Feeling confidence surging through me; I ran down the stairs, thudding noisily as I went, but I didn’t care. Mother could discipline me all she wanted, but I would stand resilient. I heard the static of the TV, and slowed my stride slightly. A voice in the back of my mind urged me back. My own personal alarm bells, signalling the danger.
But I resisted and moved forward.
Mother wasn’t there. I decided to check outside. Did I want to find her; or was I simply confirming her absence? For the first time in many years since my father had left us, I crossed the threshold to the outside world, feeling the blades of grass cushioning my bare feet; the cool summer breeze (or was it winter?) whipping my hair around my face.
I peeked out through the window, into my living room. On the reclining chair where Mother usually sat, there was a shadow where it shouldn’t have been. As I saw it, it opened its slits that turned upwards, as if smiling at me.
I was finally free.