Mare Moody - [blank]

My words come off much harsher than I intend. I am confused and annoyed but I don't usually express that to people.

"Well," The doctor's voice is much cooler than mine, "you attempted to kill yourself."

Although this should shock me, I don't doubt it for a second. The voice have convinced me to try before.

"Ok." I say. The doctor is not sure about my response. Most people probably react more extremely to the news. My react however is not candidly nonchalant.

"How?" I ask. Hopefully I was creative.

"You tried to hang yourself." He seems slightly apprehensive to tell me. Perhaps he takes me as a repeat offender. He isn't necessarily wrong. If I was just a tad more sociopathic, I would make a mental note that hanging doesn't work for me.

I slowly nod my head. I know that this is going to hit me later. I am more inclined to offset stress for a moment when I am alone. I hate showing people weakness unless I am in a deep depression. Even then, I am hardly in charge of my body.

"So how long am I going to be here?" I ask. It's not like I have a place to go other than Tabitha's but preferably, I'd rather be at her house than in a mental hospital. No matter how appealing a mental ward sounds to some. The doctor looks down at his feet. I know this is a bad sign.

"We are putting you on a 72 hour hold." The doctor sighs, "however, after that you are able to check yourself out but I suggest you stay at least a week."

"So I have to stay for 3 days but I can leave after that?" I clarify, "Can I have visitors?"

"At certain points in the day, you can have people come see you," Dr. Simmons reassures.

"So the suicide is the only reason I am here?"

"Well, we also think you might have underlying problems."

I am confused. I don't know what he is referring to. I know I'm crazy but I didn't think any of the issues were asylum worthy.

"You had a hallucination while they were trying to get here." He tells me.

"Hallucination?" These words are confusing me more.

"Yes, you saw something that wasn't there." He says, "It could have been the stress of the attempt but we need to make sure you don't frequently do that."

I nod my head. I think of all of the times that I have talked to people who have passed. I assumed that I could just talk to spirits but maybe they weren't there? I have always taken pride in my introspectiveness but now I am at a loss for words. Am I more fucked up than I originally thought?

Dr. Simmons picks up a clipboard and a pen. He looks me straight in the eye. Temporarily, I feel like a child.

"Do you hear voices?" He asks. He is so straightforward that it makes me wonder how easy it would be to just lie to him. He has no way to crawl into my brain and see if I am lying or not. It makes me guess that so many people have done that to their doctors. I realize how distracted I have become and push myself into reality yet again.

"Huh?" I ask. I wish I hadn't gotten so distracted.

Dr. Simmons scrawls something on his clipboard and reiterates himself.

"Do you hear voices?"

"I hear thoughts," I say, "if that's what you mean."

I know if I admit to the voices that I will be placed here for much longer than I'd like. But another part of me wants to tell him. Maybe he could actually help me. I could get medications that would stop the voices. Maybe?

"Are the thoughts your own or do you hear someone else's voice talking to you?"

"Someone else." I say it slowly. I know this is where he realizes how crazy I am. There is now way out now. Down the rabbit hole we go.

"Do you know who it is?"

Why are you talking about us?

Stop telling him.

"Uh, no," I stammer. It is harder to concentrate when the voices are interrupting.

Dr. Simmons scrawls yet again.

"Are they talking now?"

NO.

"Y-yes…" My voice gets less sure as I continue on.

Stop!

"What are they saying now?"

Don't tell him!

"They are telling me to not tell you," I say. I feel so uncomfortable in this situation. I hate talking about it. I don't want to anger the voice or they will get louder. I don't know what to do. If I don't tell him, I have no way of getting help. If I tell him, the voices get stronger. I have to think in the long run.

"Why are they saying that?"

"Because if I tell you, they know that I will get rid of them," I say quickly. If I don't get it out then they will try to convince otherwise still.

"Do you tell anyone about them?" The doctor asks, his pen in hand, "like your boyfriend or parents?"

"Uh, I told my boyfriend." If he is even my boyfriend anymore.

"And your parents?"

"My father wouldn't care…" I say sadly. I wish he would.

"And your mother?"

My mother. I assume she had the same problem as me. My father did say that it ran in the family. Maybe my grandmother did too. Maybe, if I have this baby, they will too. I don't want to put the curse on them. My mother most likely didn't want the same for me. Then why did she kill herself?

"She-uh." I try to form the sentence. It was so easy to say to Noah. Perhaps the glass of wine in front of my face made it easier.

"She killed herself," I finally say.

The moment of hesitation does not go unlooked by his busy pen. I assume my file is going to look like thirty toddler went ham on a piece of notebook paper.

"When was this?" He goes into business mode. He has to remain unattached from the patients. He can't feel sympathy. This works for me. I don't want pity. I simply want understanding. Now that I am out of my deep hole on Grove Street, I can feel my mind refreshed the longer I stay away.

"When I was 17," I say, I swallow my consonants down my dry throat.

"How was that?" He asks.

I have no idea what he means. Does he want me to tell him how the suicide was, how it made me feel or how it happened?

"Uh," I stammer yet again.

He writes again.

There is a sinking feel that surfaces when you say something and the doctor writes on his notepad. You know you have fucked up.

"It made me feel alone." I fast track my interpretation of his question, "she abandoned me."

"But you still have your father," he says. He picks the pen off of the clipboard and waves it as he talks. He continues to babble but my eyes glue to it. The shiny metal tip with a black dot in the middle. The plastic white body with blue writing on it. It is tucked securely under his thumb and on top of his index finger. This minute thing has so much power over me. Whatever it traces is what becomes of my brain. What I am perceived as. I am insane. He may as well scribble that on his pad. He click the top of the pen and the metal tip is retracted.

"Are you listening?" He asks. He could see my eyes fixated on the pen and clicks it again.

His wrists flex as he brings the pen down the paper. The pen swiftly follows his movement. Each tiny muscle that is stretched makes huge movements from the utensil. He gleams up at me while writing.

"Are you ok?" He clicks the pen closed again. This time he puts it in the pocket of his white button up.

"Um, yeah." I ask, pulling myself out of the zone I had entered.

"If you still had your father, why did you feel alone and abandoned?" The doctor resumes our discussion.

"Because my father never cared much for me," I say. This is hard to say. I don't like admitting this because this is the equivalent of admitting defeat in my eyes.

His elbow flexes and his fingers reach for the white pen, yet again. My eyes center on it. I don't want him to write anymore.

He sees my expression and stops trying to get it. Instead, he reaches over to his desk and grabs a different pen. He thinks that I am just obsessed with that specific pen but in all honesty, I just want him to stop writing on the pad all together. He scribbles down something on the clipboard with the new pen. I sigh and sit back farther into the fluffy cotton couch.