I wish my therapist, Ana, would have listened.
She was pretty and nice. I really liked her a lot. She was so consistent and even when she scolded me she was never mean about it.
I looked forward to her visits after school. She’d put me to work. Mostly practicing important life skills, but sometimes we’d sit at the table and work on academics.
I hated working, but I liked her. She praised me a lot. Best of all, she’d listen.
She couldn’t always understand me. What I said sounded so clear to me, but it must have sounded different to her. She’d make me repeat myself. I felt bad for getting frustrated.
Sometimes I’d lash out and hit her. I didn’t mean to hurt her. It’s just hard not being understood.
My parents ordered me a communication book. It had lots of pictures, but none were relevant. I couldn’t use it to tell Ana what I needed to say.
I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t tell her that my parents were maniacal murderers. They had flown under the radar for years murdering random people.
They always talked about it near me. They must have thought that because they couldn’t understand me it meant that I couldn’t understand them either. Wrong. I could understand them so clearly.
I knew everything.
They knew it was foolish to try to kill someone who worked in our home, but the thrill of getting away with something like that was so intense.
They finally decided that they would take the risk and murder Ana, but it’d have to wait until the spring thaw.
I started to ramp up my behaviors. I’d start by having accidents so that she would be excused for the day. I began biting her. I always tried to draw blood.
Not enough to hurt her, just enough to get her sent home for the afternoon. I had meltdowns. I would spend large chunks of time thrashing in my chair and being noncompliant.
If Ana couldn’t get any work out of me, then she’d call it a day.
She was persistent. She never quit. She didn’t want to give up on me. I wish I could have told her that I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I wanted her to know that I was trying to help.
Pretty soon I learned to make myself sick so that I could stay home for days at a time without having services. I needed to protect her.
I tried to communicate with her in the best way I knew how. I told her to go, I told her to get out, to not come back. She always came back though.
I watched helplessly as it happened. Ana was leaving for the night. Dad walked her out to her car. He knocked her out with a rock from the garden and dragged her by her hair into the shed.
I screamed but the neighbors had learned to ignore my tantrums.