Chapter 59: Chapter 59

Chapter 59 So, yes, therapy did help me

Group therapy is what they called it.

Males and females of all ages, sizes, and colors gathered around in a circle and talked about their fears, their problems, their life, and more.

So you could imagine my terror when it was my turn to speak. I sat there, wide eyed, mouth agape, staring at the therapist like she was insane.

I mean, me telling random strangers what I went through, what is wrong with me, and everything in between?

Yeah, I will pass.

Only, there is no "pass" button, as I just figured out. My thumbs tumble over one another in my lap as I stare at the beady eyes looking back at me. They all want to listen. They all want to judge. They all want to feel better about themselves if they hear about a girl who is worse than them.

"Lily," The sickly sweet voice of the group therapist calls out, "Nobody is here to judge, nobody will look at you differently. Besides, talking through your issues helps, you know this by now."

And indeed I do know.

I know that talking about my problems did help. The day I told my other therapist in private about the little boy I see, it felt like a huge weight was lifted off my chest. It felt like I no longer had to deal with my problems alone and fight a battle that I was surely outnumbered in.

So, yes, therapy did help me.

But that's because it was private and personal. I only had to tell one woman whom I genuinely trusted. I wasn't sitting in a room full of insane strangers with beady, slightly empty eyes.

I told the therapist about the little boy and my nightmares about four months ago now. They think they have come up with a cure.

The diagnosis?

PTSD with psychosis.

I experience PTSD with the nightmares and the panic I feel when something triggers the crash scene and the destruction. I experience psychosis when I hallucinate and have disorganized behaviors such as speaking in unintelligible ways and making up words.

So, in other words, I'm messed up.

And now the therapist wants me to share that with the world.

They have started their treatment on me. Lots of one on one therapy sessions and medications that I've been taking to help reduce nightmares and hallucinations. They have helped my nightmares, but as for my hallucinations....I still see the child.

The doctors told me that I would need to be on the medication longer in order for it to be effective on the hallucinations, but we shall see.

"Lily, group therapy is used to help treat a lot of patients with the condition you have. In fact, most people in this room suffer from what you have. They understand." The therapist says.

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. I sigh, and I know I'm losing the fight right now. Whatever....

"My name is Lily, and it first started with a mistake. A mistake that broke me."

And so I told the room everything. My mouth seemed to not shut up at times as I told them about the party, the crash, the lives that were taken, and the consequences I now suffer from what happened nearly four years ago.

And I hate to admit it, but the therapist was right.

They didn't laugh nor mock me. They didn't judge me nor did they turn a blind eye to me.

They listened. They listened to every single word as I spoke my testimony loud and clear. It was uncomfortable. So uncomfortable, in fact, that I wanted to lock myself in a dark room and never see the light of day again.

But I managed to push through.

And soon, I had nothing left to say. People discussed the situation I am in and made comments about what they would do if they were me.

I guess it was interesting to hear what others had to say about the predicament I was in. But I don't think I'd want to do group therapy again. It's just not my thing.

My mental health has improved, though. I no longer have a desire to kill myself and my mood has been lifted. I don't feel as depressed as I used to. The medications have indeed helped me. Not cured me, but helped me.

Maybe it's the fact that I can finally sleep. Before I was on medication, I couldn't sleep. Every time I'd close my eyes I would have nightmares. I would end up tossing and turning nearly the entire night and my morning, I was completely exhausted.

The doctors said sleep deprivity can drive any person crazy, and they told me my extreme lack of sleep could have been causing my mood to crash and depression to set in, which caused unwanted thoughts such as suicide.

And now that vivid nightmares are a rare occurrence, I can finally and peacefully sleep.

And there's some good news.

I could be getting out of this mental institution in just four more months because of the progress I had made. I could finally be free after nearly four years in confinement. I could get out early on a mental plea, the doctors had told me.

At first, I was worried. Where would I go? Who would I run to when I get out of here? My family rejected me and my friends, well.....they're gone.

But then I remembered that I have my own bank account that's been set up. My parents had placed a few thousand dollars in my bank account every year since the moment I was born.

I know that I have several hundred thousand dollars in my bank account, and with that money, I could pick myself up off of my feet. I could do my best to restart my life. Maybe I do have another shot at normalcy again.

Maybe things could be brighter in my life.

Perhaps I could use the money to buy a new home in a new state where the slate is clean. Where nobody knows who I am and what I've done. Maybe I could buy a little country home near a small town and live a simple life.

I've had a lot of time to think these past few years, and now that I think about it....the lavish life that I lived....while it was nice, it wasn't ideal. There was always too much pressure to dress nicer than everybody else, look prettier than everyone else, and buy better and fancier things than everybody else.

It was a world full of hollow, materialistic, backstabbing people. Not everyone was like that of course. I've met some genuinely great people but it seemed the majority was like that.

And it was disheartening to see a community of people do nothing but flaunt their useless items in front of others in an attempt to build themselves up and tear others down.

Maybe, I don't want to live that lifestyle anymore. Maybe, I want things to change.

Prison and this....mental institution has really opened my eyes. It made me rethink exactly what I want and how I want to live my life.

Being a singer is still a dream of mine but the dream seems so distant and impossible now. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be, though, it seems cruel that I was so close to achieving my dream. It was in reach, I could touch it and feel it.

I had it in the palms of my hands when suddenly, it was ripped away from me. In a flash, it was gone, and I was knocked off of my feet.

The life that I had known for so long suddenly vanished.

So maybe, it just wasn't meant to be, and I've got to except that.

My final mental examination will take place in three months and if I'm deemed sane, I will be released the next month. The documents of my mental health will be submitted to court and I will be on trial once more.

The family that has been effected by my actions will probably be there, and I have to admit that I'm nervous. I don't want to see them again because when I look into their eyes, I feel guilt and pain again.

And what words will I say to them? What words would possibly suffice for the little boy and grandma they lost that night? Sorry won't bring them back, but...what if I truly am sorry? Should I just say nothing, then?

I guess I still have time to think about that but I do like to be prepared.

I am escorted back to my cell, which is no longer padded because they believe I am no longer suicidal, which is true. I am placed in a small, plain room with nothing but a bed and a toilet. The door is steel and has a window in which I can look out into the hallways and look into the room across from mine.

I do have neighbors, and sometimes, if I knock on the wall, my neighbor will knock back. It's almost as if we practice some kind of Morse code only with no meaning.

We do it simply out of boredom and for security. Security for the fact that none of us are alone.

* * *

The four months pass by relatively slowly. I spent the last four months trying to exercise my social ability with the other patients. It was hard making friends in a mental institution, though. A lot of the patients had the bipolar disorder, and they were still trying to manage it.

So they were like a ticking time bomb.

Others were nice, and had the same diagnosis as me. The only problem was, though, is that they were too insecure to trust me and make friends. Another symptom of psychosis was delusions. Delusions are odd ideas that are unlikely.

For example, a person suffering from psychosis with the symptom of delusions may be paranoid and believe aliens are controlling their thoughts or that they are being spied on by undercover villains.

I don't have that symptom. I experience the symptoms hallucinations and flashbacks.

The therapists and doctors believe that I may be ready to be released. The morning starts early for me, where I take a shower and eat a breakfast consisting of an orange and cold cereal. Then, the doctor comes in and escorts me out of my room and to the room of a new psychiatrist and psychologist who are supposedly the "best in the nation."

They will determine my mental health today. I don't know how they will do it. I'm thinking a test of some sort, but I shall find out soon.

It's eight in the morning when I walk through the doors of the same therapist office I have had sessions in for months now. Two women stand up from the couch and shake my hand to greet me.

They are both wearing grey, fancy looking pant suit and one of the women's brown hair is in a bun while the other has her black hair in a ponytail. They look professional and they seem friendly as they greet me with their smiles and kind voices.

"You must be Lily." One of them says as I shake her hand. I nod my head. "Well, my name is doctor Priscilla, I am the psycologist who will be asking you some questions today."

"And I am doctor Linda, and I am the psychiatrist who will be examining you today." The other woman says, shaking my hand.

Once the greetings are through with, we take out seats and the psychologist holds a clipboard in her hands as well as a pen. The therapist named Priscilla sits next to her, looking intently at me.

"So how will this work?" I ask them.

"Well," doctor Priscilla says, "I will be asking you a series of questions. We will test you on orientation, attention span, memory, and language. If you can pass this basic test, then this might work in your favor."

I nod.

"With that, lets get started. I believe doctor Linda is ready."

And so they begin their questions. At first, I was confused because they asked simple questions like my age, name, and the date. They also asked where I am, and simple questions such as that. Apparently, they were testing me for any neurocognitive problems or some type of head trauma.

"Can you count backwards from ten for me, please?" They ask me.

I raise an eyebrow and shrug. I know they have their reasons so I just do what I'm told. Of course, they scribble all the results down on their clipboards.

Then they tested my memory. "Lily, I want you to remember the three words 'the old bread' and then I will ask you what the three words were in a few minutes, okay?"

I nod and then she asks me to go in depth about my childhood. I tell her about the things that jump out to me and the things that have special meaning to me. They continue to ask me random questions and test me on my language, judgement, and attention span abilities.

It was a bit tedious and I felt like I was some lab rat as they studied me with their beady eyes, but I know that by answering their questions the best I can, I have a higher chance of leaving this place and starting a new life for myself.

"Well Lily, thank you so much for your time today. You will be informed of the results later today. But until then, it was nice meeting you. My intern will see you out." The psychiatrist informs me.

I nod and I am escorted out of the room and back to my room. All I can do is sit and wait, hoping that I passed the test.