CONCEAL, DON’T FEEL, AND NEVER
REVEAL
Lizzie
MARCH 22, 1999
“HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW, LIZZIE?”
“Fine.”
“That’s not what your mother told me.”
I didn’t respond.
What was there to say?
“Your mother told me that you’ve been cutting again.”
Shrugging, I pulled at the sleeve of my jumper and stared at my jean-
clad thighs.
What could they do about it?
Not a damn thing.
Of all the things in life I could depend on, it was the doctors’ inability to
fix me.
Because they didn’t listen.
They didn’t ask the right questions.
They didn’t believe me.
So I stopped believing in them.
I knew what would happen next.
It was the same thing as last time.
They would either up the dosage of my current medication, or they would try a brand of chemical-dependent poison.
It wouldn’t work.
Because broken minds like mine were immune.
“Can you tell me what you’re thinking right now?” the doctor asked, wheeling her chair over so that she was facing me. “And I want you to be completely honest.” Taking my hands in hers, she offered me a warm smile.
“Just let it all out.”
Inhaling deeply, I stared into her brown eyes and said, “I’m feeling a lot better now, Doctor. Thank you for fixing me.”
Disappointment filled her eyes.
Nothing new there.
“All right, Lizzie.” She sighed heavily. “We’ll try again at your next appointment.”
