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"Although I know he hates me, I feel drawn to him... as if I can't escape his grasp. He holds me back from opportunities, drives me away from my friends and distances my chance of being normal, being happy."

That's not something I thought I'd ever hear myself say. I'd broken my promise to myself.

And she just sat there, looking and listening, then jotting down notes. I often wondered what she was writing. I studied her carefully. Always the same lopsided pony tail, her piercing blue eyes darting up from her pad, to me and back down again. Her face and body upright, stiff and emotionless.

Her room was big. A large sofa under the window and a few beanbags in the corner. It always felt so empty. Always filled with silence, except for the continuous tick of the clock and the occasional comment or question from her.

I hated going there. Until today, I never spoke, just watched the clock and counted every splotch on the white wall behind her.

I had to go there, once a week, for one hour. My school ordered me to. They fed me some bull about being concerned that my unwillingness to partake in class discussion and inability to speak positively of myself could possibly hinder my exam grades and college application process. That wasn't the real reason, but no one wanted to say, "It's because you're a freak."

Now I'm here in this place day and night. The others are nice; they're all crazy, too. We call it the loony bin, but the people who work here call it Greenfield Psychiatric Unit. It's a big place with bars on the windows and a lone tree on the lawn outside. There's a small garden out back. I suppose it's quite pretty, but then again, I don't get out there much. I spend my time not talking to the therapists on duty. At least, until this very moment. It was the moment I'd broken my 13-month-long silence.

My voice had changed; it sounded dry, weak. I picked up a glass of water from the floor beside me and took a sip. My hands were clammy. I almost dropped the glass on account of shaking so much.

She looked up, peering at me, waiting for more.

"Who is the 'he' you speak of?" she asked softly, in a gentle way I'd never heard before.

"Just," I cleared my throat, "he's just..." I paused to gather the confidence and strength to speak, finally blurting out, "It's silly really, he's just some guy I liked at school."

I felt my eyes fill with tears, everything started to blur. Colors bled together, shapes no longer defined. A lump came to my throat and speaking was even harder than it was five minutes ago.

I felt so ashamed. Feelings I'd hidden came flooding back. I wished that the floor would open and swallow up the sorry mess I had become.

Her soft voice reverted back to cold and uninviting: "I think that's enough this week, well done!" I watched her as she rose from her chair, with an outstretched arm guiding me towards the door.

"We've made good progress Nathallia."

I hurried out, almost tripping over my embarrassment. As I got to my door, I felt a tear roll down my face. The mask I'd worn for over a year had loosened, and the panic began to take over.

I wanted so desperately to find something sharp. I threw open the wardrobe and pulled out all the clothes. I moved over to the bed and pulled off the pillows followed by the duvet and finally the mattress. As I tugged it off the bed, the edge hit the lamp, knocking it to the floor and shattering the light bulb into a million pieces.

The noise, it startled me. It took me out of myself for a minute, enough to see what I was about to do. And what I now had the power to not do-- maybe for the first time ever since this all began. No, I realized. I am stronger than this.

I walked back to her office door and knocked lightly. "Come in," she said. I walked back in and closed the door on that old chapter of my life, and into the sunlight again.
by :anood