she was of sound mind and body.
It didn't make her resentment for the psychiatrist any less. She didn't want to be psychoanalyzed and she didn't want to give anyone any explanations.
“How are you feeling?” Dr. Mara Berkley began after she introduced herself.
Devi shrugged. How did she think she felt? Her wrists were sore, her head hurt, and her mother had not left her side for almost three days.
“Devi, I understand that as a child, you used to stop speaking during difficult times,” said the doctor and waited to see Devi's expression.
Devi felt betrayed by her family. They'd told this woman, a stranger, about her life; it seemed like a violation. She didn't know if any of her emotions flickered on her face but the doctor continued even more soothingly, “Devi, it's important you let me know what happened so that I can help you. If you're uncomfortable speaking, would you write me a note?”
She spoke slowly, in a soft voice, and Devi felt ridiculous lying down, unable to respond. Write a note? Why? Devi wondered. It wasn't like she'd lost the ability to use her vocal cords, she just didn't have anything to say. How would a note change that? Would writing a note somehow give her the words it would take to tell the truth?
Devi shook her head, frustration welling in her eyes.
“So, you don't want to write a note?” Dr. Berkley asked again and when Devi shook her head again, she nodded. “And that's all right. You don't have to if you don't want to.”
Her tone, her expression, took away some of the pressure Devi felt was being put on her.
“I understand if you don't want to say anything to me, but I strongly suggest that you keep a journal from now on. Maybe that will help you sort through your feelings,” the doctor recommended with a broad smile.
Devi nodded and then shook her head and then shrugged. Keeping a journal sounded too hokey and she didn't want to sort through her feelings, she just wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep.
“We have prescribed you an antidepressant, Celexa. It's new in the market, but very effective. It should take effect within the week and make you feel better.” Dr. Berkley spoke softly. “In rare cases there is nausea in the first couple weeks of use, are you having any?”
Devi shook her head again. She couldn't believe she was on some Prozac-type drug. An antidepressant! Good God, she shouldn't have to go through this, and she wouldn't if she had been able to stick to the plan and died. Anger bubbled within her again and she wanted to scream, she could feel the scream, the threads of it wind against her vocal cords demanding release. But she ground her teeth together, smothered the scream. For now, she didn't think she could stand to hear her own voice.
“Your parents want to take you home,” Dr. Berkley continued. “Do you want to go home with them?”
Now, that was a tough question. On one hand Devi didn't want to deal with her family; on the other, she had nowhere else to go. The town house seemed too bleak right now, and she was too ashamed to turn to any of her friends.
Because she couldn't truthfully answer Dr. Berkley's question, she shrugged, but it came out more as a nod.
“Are you still depressed?”
Devi bit her lower lip and then shook her head. There was anger within her, loads and loads of it, disappointment and resentment at being alive, but she when she looked within she didn't feel the same bone-numbing and soul-tearing sadness she'd felt just two days ago. It was unsettling for her to realize that a weight had been lifted.
She felt lighter than before and beneath the anger at being alive was also some relief that she wasn't dealing with death and whatever lay waiting beyond it.
“Do you still want to end your life?”
Devi stared at the doctor as the question sank in. She had no idea if she still wanted to die. She was coming to terms with living, how was she to deal with the idea of failing at death?
She shook her head.
“So, you
It didn't make her resentment for the psychiatrist any less. She didn't want to be psychoanalyzed and she didn't want to give anyone any explanations.
“How are you feeling?” Dr. Mara Berkley began after she introduced herself.
Devi shrugged. How did she think she felt? Her wrists were sore, her head hurt, and her mother had not left her side for almost three days.
“Devi, I understand that as a child, you used to stop speaking during difficult times,” said the doctor and waited to see Devi's expression.
Devi felt betrayed by her family. They'd told this woman, a stranger, about her life; it seemed like a violation. She didn't know if any of her emotions flickered on her face but the doctor continued even more soothingly, “Devi, it's important you let me know what happened so that I can help you. If you're uncomfortable speaking, would you write me a note?”
She spoke slowly, in a soft voice, and Devi felt ridiculous lying down, unable to respond. Write a note? Why? Devi wondered. It wasn't like she'd lost the ability to use her vocal cords, she just didn't have anything to say. How would a note change that? Would writing a note somehow give her the words it would take to tell the truth?
Devi shook her head, frustration welling in her eyes.
“So, you don't want to write a note?” Dr. Berkley asked again and when Devi shook her head again, she nodded. “And that's all right. You don't have to if you don't want to.”
Her tone, her expression, took away some of the pressure Devi felt was being put on her.
“I understand if you don't want to say anything to me, but I strongly suggest that you keep a journal from now on. Maybe that will help you sort through your feelings,” the doctor recommended with a broad smile.
Devi nodded and then shook her head and then shrugged. Keeping a journal sounded too hokey and she didn't want to sort through her feelings, she just wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep.
“We have prescribed you an antidepressant, Celexa. It's new in the market, but very effective. It should take effect within the week and make you feel better.” Dr. Berkley spoke softly. “In rare cases there is nausea in the first couple weeks of use, are you having any?”
Devi shook her head again. She couldn't believe she was on some Prozac-type drug. An antidepressant! Good God, she shouldn't have to go through this, and she wouldn't if she had been able to stick to the plan and died. Anger bubbled within her again and she wanted to scream, she could feel the scream, the threads of it wind against her vocal cords demanding release. But she ground her teeth together, smothered the scream. For now, she didn't think she could stand to hear her own voice.
“Your parents want to take you home,” Dr. Berkley continued. “Do you want to go home with them?”
Now, that was a tough question. On one hand Devi didn't want to deal with her family; on the other, she had nowhere else to go. The town house seemed too bleak right now, and she was too ashamed to turn to any of her friends.
Because she couldn't truthfully answer Dr. Berkley's question, she shrugged, but it came out more as a nod.
“Are you still depressed?”
Devi bit her lower lip and then shook her head. There was anger within her, loads and loads of it, disappointment and resentment at being alive, but she when she looked within she didn't feel the same bone-numbing and soul-tearing sadness she'd felt just two days ago. It was unsettling for her to realize that a weight had been lifted.
She felt lighter than before and beneath the anger at being alive was also some relief that she wasn't dealing with death and whatever lay waiting beyond it.
“Do you still want to end your life?”
Devi stared at the doctor as the question sank in. She had no idea if she still wanted to die. She was coming to terms with living, how was she to deal with the idea of failing at death?
She shook her head.
“So, you
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