I went to see my therapist today. And she told me that I was getting better. That I was climbing up the ladder of my progress chart. That I should write again in my journal tonight. She looked me right in the eye and told me, “You’re going to be all right.” It would have felt good if it were true. But it wasn’t.
So I told her I was still lonely. I told her I never turn off the TV at night because I need some noise to drown out the clamor inside me. I told her I didn’t want to hurt myself anymore. That I’m tired of pretending that nothing is hurting me.
She asked what was stopping me from inflicting myself pain. She looked at me and I could tell that she didn’t take me seriously. She doesn’t believe that I am beyond lonely just because my arms don’t have any scars. But I don’t have to cut myself before she could call it self-harm. My thoughts are more than enough to make me bleed. By telling myself repeatedly how I’m such a mistake, I will bleed and bruise in places no one will ever see.
People die from internal bleeding, so why couldn’t my own shrink understand me? My wounds go deeper than the thin layer of skin that separates my fears from the rest of the world.
Sometimes I hear the bad thoughts louder than my own heartbeat. Can feel them more alive than the steady but weak pulse on my wrists. Can rely on them more easily than anyone who’s ever claimed to have loved me.
Next week, I will see my therapist again. And I will smile at her and say that I think I’m getting better. I will tell her what she wants to hear, make my voice a little louder and more crisp to hide the echoing emptiness inside my chest. I will laugh a little, tell her that I’ve been writing in my journal again for the past week. But she will never know that this is all I’ve been writing.
Because no one hears a cry for help if they don’t know how to listen.