Contextual Mediocrity

“I don't think you're listening.”

Nicholas Allen tightened his lips and tried to focus on the large, sweaty, bearded figure seated in front of him. “Hello?” he asked again. “Are you hearing me?” His voice entered a higher register.

The fat man clicked his ball-point pen and scribbled on a clipboard clenched in his left hand. His words were cold, clinical, calculated. “Are you suicidal?”

Nick had never known how to answer this question. “If I had a dime for every time I've heard this in the last two weeks...frankly I'm tired of answering it. What does that even mean?”

Silence. Scribbling. “And when's the last time you tried to hurt yourself?” he murmured, detached.

Nicholas didn't care to define the difference between attempting something and actually accomplishing it. It no longer mattered. This was the third therapist he'd been plopped down in front of in a fortnight. They were all the same. All clinician, no heart. They couldn't hear what he said. They couldn't see him, see a human being trying to communicate something so simple and primal and debilitating. They could not help him. His throat began to tighten, the syllables that tumbled forth choked and half-wrought with the same sense of helplessness and desperation that now permeated his life, looming over him like an ominous thunderhead, black as pitch: “I need help.”

He cleared his throat, eyes never leaving the clipboard. Same robotic monotone. “That's what we're here for, son. Now, what's your date of birth again?”

The first time Nicholas cut himself, it was rather by accident.

Unsure of how sharp a lone razor blade really was, and how effective it would be in ending his life, he conducted a quick experiment on the back of his arm, well underneath his wrist. It looked like such a simple thing, surprisingly pliable, unassuming. It did not appear sinister. It did not suggest, through any aspect of appearance or by method of handling, that it was capable of inflicting destruction and pain.

He closed his eyes and sliced in a wide arc, swinging his hand down and across in a rapid motion. The skin cleaved immediately, a gaping maw suddenly appearing where flesh once was. It was very deep and red. Blood flowed readily and covered his arm, quickly drying into a sticky sleeve, and the excess dripped with unexpected speed, increasing, now regularly falling in a straight line like a faucet that's been opened only part way. Nicholas cried out in surprise and dropped the blade onto the linoleum of the bathroom floor. His eyes widened. He was struck by the pain, instantaneous and sharp. He held his arm against his stomach, rocking back and forth, groaning until the pain subsided. He considered picking the blade back up and continuing the job.

“Nicholas?”

He shook the memory away and refocused on the present. He reminded himself of the steps. Focus on the present. Live in the moment and open yourself, let yourself experience it as it is, accepting and nonjudgmental, until it passes, then move on to the next. “I don't understand the question.”

“Have you ever attempted suicide?” the fat man repeated, sounding either bored or annoyed. Perhaps both.

Nick drew a deep breath into his lungs. “I know what you're thinking, so I'm not going to answer your question. I don't even know what it means. I am not scared or confused because I want to die; I am confused as to how you do not. How everyone does not. I don't want to feel this way anymore.” His confidence began to falter. “If you want to give me medication, fine. I'll take the medication. But I've been through this before, and it didn't help. What I need,” he leaned forward, hoping to make an impression, “is for someone to listen. Please. I just want to talk. I need to talk.” The man clicked his pen, and rolled it over in his fingers, his expression unchanged. “Okay?”

There was a precarious moment of silence, and Nicholas Allen could almost feel his life hanging in the balance, a feeling he was becoming all too accustomed to, and he shivered in its wake as it passed.

The therapist frowned and looked back down at his desk, then leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “I think we should refer you to another facility. You see, son, this isn't exactly what we do here...”

But Nick didn't hear the rest. He put on a calm face and began considering all the ways he could get out of this facility as quickly as possible. He did not panic, at least not outwardly. Nor did he scream, or yell, or cry, or threaten the man. He had learned how to hide his anxiety, the terrible monster that sneaked in and grabbed him at will. If you didn't, if you let them see it, it was a sure way to get locked up again. And Nick didn't want to be locked up again. He knew exactly what he wanted, he had made up his mind as soon as he realized this one was deaf too.

He wanted to die. Tonight.