Elizabeth Flock - But Inside I'm Screaming

Kristen did her best to answer her mother, even though she was petrified to talk about such a personal, and apparently horrific, thing with her angry mother. She told her mother the truth: that she and Billy had decided together that they were going to make love. That Billy had not forced himself on her in any way. That Billy used a condom. Kristen was humiliated, recounting what she had presumed was a wonderful experience to her disgusted mother. Kristen had no idea what she had done was so terrible, but now, seeing her mother react the way she had, she began to see sex as a shocking, dirty, humiliating act.

When her mother asked her where they were when they lost their virginity, Kristen lied. She knew she was forbidden to be alone at Billy’s house (she had also promised that the two would never be alone in Billy’s room) so she told her mother they had been in Billy’s car.

A few nights later, Kristen snuck into her room when her parents were distracted and called Billy. Whispering into the phone, Kristen sketched out the situation for him and told him that she had lied about where they had lost their virginity (“I just want to get our stories straight so if she asks you…”). Kristen heard a thump outside her door.

The vise that still had a grip on her stomach tightened and Kristen got off the phone within seconds.

She opened her bedroom door and there was her mother, crumpled up on the floor at the threshold of Kristen’s room.

“Mom?” Kristen was sick to her stomach. “Mom?”

Her mother pulled herself up off the floor and headed to the master bedroom with Kristen on her heels. Quietly, her mother faced the mirror in the bathroom and again started to pull clumps of her hair out. Kristen grabbed her wrists.

“Mom! Stop it.”

“Quiet!” her mother spat like a feral cat.

“Okay, okay.” Kristen didn’t know if she had any more strength left for her mother’s volatility.

“Go away!” her mother snarled, shoving Kristen out of the bathroom.

Kristen stared at the wood-grain patterns of the closed door. She turned and went into her own bathroom.

Once the door was shut and locked, Kristen opened the medicine cabinet. She scanned the shelves. There was a bottle of Tylenol, but Kristen knew there were more options in her parents bathroom. Options that could release her from the guilty hell she was living in as a result of her repulsive behavior.

She was caught between hope and dread. Between the allure of escape and the danger of deeper trouble.

She decided to wait until her mother came out of her bathroom.

Kristen shuffled back to her room to listen for her mother’s bathroom door opening. She would put an end to all the pain swirling around inside her. The decision made her feel calmer than she had in days.

When Kristen finally heard her mother emerge from her bathroom, she steadied her queasy stomach and opened her bedroom door. Silence. Her mother was nowhere to be seen.

“Mom?”

Kristen timidly walked downstairs to the kitchen, to find her mother who was busying herself by peeling back the tiny square of tin foil that covered the dessert section of the Swanson frozen dinner.

“Mom?” Kristen whispered.

Her mother carried on with the frozen-dinner preparation as if she hadn’t heard a sound.

“Mom?” Kristen’s whisper was slightly louder this time.

Again, no reaction from Nora.

Kristen left the kitchen and went back upstairs, this time to her parents’ bathroom.

She reached for a prescription bottle that had her father’s name on it. He had blinding headaches from time to time so Kristen reached for what she was sure was a painkiller. The bottle felt huge in her hand. She was mesmerized by the orange-tinted plastic.

She let the faucet run for a minute to get the water really cold.

“ We need to discuss your medication.”

“What about it?”

“For one thing—” Dr. Seidler looks concerned “—it doesn’t seem to be working. You are trying to battle severe depression.”

Oh, God.

Isabel has been switching from pill to pill for most of her adult life and knows that changing medication is a traumatic event. “But,” she stammers, “I don’t think about killing myself as much as I did when I first got here. We talked about that, didn’t we? I don’t think I need to change.”

Side effects. Jesus, shaky hands. Upset stomach. Plus they won’t let me out while I’m still “adjusting to new medication.”

“I hear that this is scary for you but it doesn’t need to be. Recently we’ve discovered ways to work with older methods in order to reduce side effects. I want to talk with you about something that I think could be extremely effective for you.”

Isabel knew what was coming. Her therapist in Manhattan had told her about it. Three Breezes is known for successfully treating suicidal depression with a mix of antidepressants. Patients call it the “cocktail.” Individualized to meet different needs and bodies, it consists of combining the two or three most powerful antidepressants on the market in order to boost their effectiveness.

“I know all about the cocktail.” Isabel wants to beat her therapist to the punch.

“Ah, the cocktail.” The doctor laughs awkwardly and then clears her throat. “Well, no, actually. That’s not what we’ve discussed in reference to your case. We are considering what’s nicknamed ECT… electroshock therapy. It sounds like the Dark Ages, I know.” The doctor moves quickly to explain since Isabel’s face has fallen into a long look of horror. “But it’s not at all like you would imagine. In many cases it can be the single most effective way to combat severe depression. It has little to no side effects and we happen to specialize in it here.

“I can see from the look on your face that you are thinking about something. Why don’t you share what’s on your mind, Isabel.”

“Frances Farmer.” That is all she can say. All she sees is Jessica Lange portraying the old film star.

“Heh, heh.” Another throat clearing. “That movie did more damage to ECT than anything before or after. I get your point, though. The image of electroshock therapy is quite scary if you’re not familiar with it. Is that what you mean?”

I think she ended up having a lobotomy, a frontal lobotomy. Frances Farmer. That’s what did her in in the end. Wasn’t it a lobotomy?

“Oh, my God.” The implications of the doctor’s suggestion are starting to sink in. “Oh, my God, you think I need shock therapy?” Isabel starts taking in deep breaths.

“I think I’m going to pass out,” she says while she slips down farther into the club chair she always chooses for her private sessions.

“All right. Okay. We don’t have to talk about this anymore today.” The doctor is looking alarmed. “Take it easy. I’m sorry I upset you, Isabel. I didn’t mean to—”

“Do you ever get any takers for that? For E-C-T?” she asks in angry disgust. “I mean, does anyone actually say ‘Hey, yeah! Let’s stick some electrodes to my temples and then crank some electricity into them! Cool!’?”

“I hear that you’re upset.”

Isabel starts to cry.

Hold on. Just hold on until you get out of this office. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“Isabel? You can cry in here, you know. You don’t need to hide your tears.”

“I’m going now,” Isabel says sharply. “I want to take a shower and forget this conversation ever happened.”

Dr. Seidler looks at her watch, notes that they still have fifteen minutes to go in the session, pauses, and thinks better of urging her patient to stay. “Okay. That’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. If you want to talk before then you can ask the nurse to page me.”