She pauses.
“—before some poor dog walker eventually finds me. Screams when she sees me floating facedown. Hair matted with blood. She’d call emergency services. A stretcher arriving to carry me away.”
She clears her throat.
“Then there’s the boat,” she continues. “I imagine myself stranded. Unable to swim. In time I’d die of dehydration, the circling gulls pecking at my eyes. A slow and painful death. Or maybe old and alone in the lighthouse, just like Virginia Woolf’s. Nothing but my thoughts to drive me to despair. My hair eventually turning white with madness.”
“There’s that word again,” I say, “‘madness.’”
She looks down.
Slides one foot inward.
“There’s a bridge,” she says, “by Archway. Near where I live.”
I nod, knowing of Jumpers Bridge. Of the many suicides committed late at night.
“I go there sometimes,” she says, “when I feel sad. I stare down at the traffic.”
“You think about jumping?”
“Sometimes . . .”
Her sentence trails off.
I wait.
“I try to imagine what my mother was thinking before she jumped in front of the train.”
I nod.
She reaches inside her leather purse, recovers her Zippo, a pack of Lucky Strikes. Looks at them, bemused.
“No smoking, I’m afraid.”
She throws me a black look, hurls the flimsy cigarette pack back in her purse.
“What do you imagine?” I ask.
“How desperately lonely she must have felt. How I’d like to stab my father in the throat.”
I uncross my legs, fixing both feet firmly on the ground.
“Your rage,” I say. “Your notes indicated there was violence at home. That your father was incredibly controlling and unpredictable. Tyrannical.”
She nods.
“He was. Toward both of us,” she says, “me and my mother, then later—Anna.”
With damp eyes, she looks away.
“Can you say a little more about your mother?” I ask.
“I’m angry she killed herself and left me with him. With his violence. Then there’s part of me that thinks it was my fault.”
“You were a child,” I say gently. “You had no such power.”
“Power? Pfft.” She rolls her eyes. “Neither of us had any power. He. He had all the power.”
“Sometimes we direct hurt toward ourselves when we feel powerless,” I say. “Believing it was your fault might suggest your not wanting to face the truth of your mother’s misery. How desperate she was.”
She takes a tissue. Her hand wiping gently beneath her eyes.
A pause.
“Sometimes I hurt myself,” she says.
I lean forward.
She leans back.
“I cut. It helps.”
“How often?” I ask.
She shrugs, reaches for a glass of water. Takes a sip.
I watch her set the glass down, making a mental note that trust is emerging. During our first session she was unable to take a drink of water. Was too self-conscious. But maybe someone else is here today?
She clears her throat.
“How often?” I repeat.
“When things—you know—get too much.”
“Where?”
“The backs of my legs. And my thighs.”
She makes an effort to touch behind her left knee. Soft and arched. A moment when mind and body synchronize. The Body holding the score and remembering previous harm.
“We need to look at alternative ways to self-soothe,” I say, “direct the anger out. Not in.”
Both feet shaking just a little, she looks down, faltering.
“Sure,” she says, defeated, “whatever you say. Just tell me what to do.”
My ears linger over her words. The power she gives me. My countertransference indicating she grants power and control too easily. Is this exclusive to men, I wonder, or does she do it to women too? Do her different personalities take on diverse views of power? I shiver, the stark realization that Alexa can morph and switch and shape-shift to be someone completely different from who I think she is, and I wonder which persona is now in control.
She straightens up, brushes the palms of her hands along the thighs of her jeans.
“I should have stopped Ella from stealing the jacket,” she says.
I note the diversion. The switch of events. Alexa now revisiting an earlier part of the session.
“The tyranny of ‘shoulds’ and ‘musts,’” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Tyrannous scoldings are not helpful. It’s more effective to reflect on the decision you made at the time. Then we have more hope of learning from it.”
“Right, well next time I’ll intervene. It was wrong. I was negligent.”
“You want to punish yourself?” I say.
“Probably.”
Silence.
“It’s possible part of you believes you deserve to be punished,” I say. “Is there a voice that tells you to harm yourself? Slice the backs of your legs?”
She looks up again at the oil painting and nods. A glaze of wet building in the corners of her eyes.
“But I imagine there is another voice telling you not to,” I say, “its polar opposite.”
Still staring at the painting, her eyes narrow. “I have another voice that wants me to kill myself. Should I listen to that one too?” she snaps, her gaze now turned cold.
“It’s important to listen to all of the Voices,” I say. “It doesn’t mean you have to act on what they say. But pushing them aside only makes them stronger.”
I watch her throat swallow.
“When you’re ready,” I say cautiously, “you could try introducing me to everyone inside.”
She reaches into her purse again.
“I’m scared,” she says, smoothing on lip balm.
I lean forward a little farther.
“Listening to everyone means acceptance of your whole self, Alexa. Not just cherry-picking the good parts accepted by others.”
“I’ve always self-harmed,” she says. “If I stop, I don’t know where the anger will go. Who I might hurt. I might lose control.”
“Control is action. And one you can change over time. Fear prevents you from accepting your feelings. But no feeling is final. They don’t have to destroy you.”
“But they’re risky.”
“True. But there’s little progress without risk,” I say.
She lowers her gaze.
“Can I trust you?” she says.
Sinking into my chair, I realize she’s conflicted and unsure whether to commit. But I want to see how eager she is to seek and be frank—take a risk—and not overfeed her with interpretations and answers.
Her gaze returns to me slowly.
I sit up straighter and smile. “Tell me about the Voices.”
She pauses, a striking expression of unknown freedom on her face. Fear and relief all at once. I watch the rise and fall of her breath. A zing of anticipation in my own chest.
“Yesterday,” she begins slowly, her voice shaking at the edge, “we were all cleaning my bedroom. Only Dolly, the youngest, showed any kind of enthusiasm. The rest just mooned about, kicking their heels and complaining about wanting to be someplace else. Oneiroi fancied yoga and Runner had ideas about some kickboxing class. And the Fouls, well, they just stayed inside. They want no part in anything we do these days. None of them seem to realize how exhausted I am.”