Self-Destruct

By Ambria Richardson 

The only thought that came to my mind, while reading this statement, was wonder. “What is it that can be learned about the world that would make something self-destruct upon realization?” 

In hindsight, asking my mother to attend one of my therapy sessions was a mistake. I was looking around the car anxiously, with my breath speeding up with each of her prying questions and declarations of pride when it happened.  In order to keep from yelling at her to be quiet, I repeatedly touched my fingertips, one at a time, with my thumb. I could still hear her, so I began counting in my mind: one, two, three, four. My counting was synchronized with the touching pattern of my fingers and thumb. Still, it didn’t drown out her loud, rougher voice. Finally, in a last-ditch effort to get her to stop talking, I invited her to my next therapy session. I knew that she wouldn’t turn it down, but it might make her stop talking. It worked.  

The following Friday, my mother was sitting in my psychologist’s small office. The bright hospital-white LEDs in the ceiling were turned on instead of just the usual comforting, dim floor lamp that was normally turned on, providing the main light source of our sessions. The entire walk from the waiting room to her office, I didn’t speak outside of a quiet “hello” to my psychologist, Sarah’s cheerful greeting; my mother spoke enough for the both of us. In all honesty, I was glad that my mother talked a lot, because that meant the burden of conversation wasn’t on me. On the downside, it left my brain to wander. The longer the walk to the office, the more anxious I became. I wished that I had kept my mouth shut the week before. I felt betrayed by myself as I moved aside for my mother to get to the chair just inside the door to the small office, as I had allowed my safe space to be breached by the person that made me feel unsteady. It was only in that office, with Sarah, that I first felt a mother’s love directed towards me. I grew increasingly worried that my mother would somehow hear my past sobs from earlier sessions, or even worse, see my rants plastered in the air for her to read and pick apart in big red typeface, like a newspaper from hell. 

Sarah shut the office door as I lowered myself onto the fake white leather sofa across from her desk. As she passes me to sit at that desk, she gives me a small smile of encouragement, her eyes filled with pity. I knew that I was not as good at hiding fear as I was other emotions, and I felt that I might just die when I looked over at my mother, finding her dissecting my body language and facial expressions. I felt like I was a dead, rare insect that my mother had collected as a specimen, slowly pushing pins into my long dead limbs every time she blinked. Sarah finally made it to her desk and sat down, asking my mother how she felt I was behaving at home. My mother, never one to miss an opportunity to tarnish me, said that I was still “not making an effort in pre-calc”. Regardless of the uncomfortable ball growing in my throat, I felt brave in that office with Sarah there. I interjected that I was trying, but as I had told her before, Mr. K didn’t teach. Immediately, my mother insisted that I was lying. She said that she had spoken with Mr. K, and he said that I wasn’t doing homework. But Sarah, instead of entertaining what my mother said blindly, asked for my point of view. I explained that Mr. K didn’t teach, he didn’t assign any work. The only thing we did in class was watch YouTube videos, all of which were not math related. Furthermore, “what teacher would openly admit to the parent of one of his many failing students, that he was inept at his job?” When I said this, Sarah chuckled and looked at my mother, her eyes saying that I had made a convincing argument.  

As I spoke, I kept looking away from my mother’s eyes to look at Sarah. A part of me thinks the reason I kept looking at Sarah for some kind of reassurance, that someone believed what I said. She would be looking back at me, nodding periodically to show that she was actively listening. When I was done, my mother interrupted Sarah’s next question to inform her of my short-comings, that I had said that she “owed me” for giving birth to me. My last remaining bit of courage drained out of me when my mother began speaking over me.  

For the rest of the session, my mother spoke of how my sister and I had not only caused her to develop type-2 diabetes but had now caused us to be evicted from our apartment: we had failed inspection due to uncleanliness. And my mother had pictures of it all. The worst part was the kitchen. She pulled up pictures of the sink, filled to the brim with moldy dishes and thick, slimy water. There was brown, decaying food splattered everywhere, in every crevice of the sink and yellow Formica counter. The inside of the microwave was orange instead of white. Dead roach carcasses of varying age and size were on every surface. There was literal garbage on the floor, several inches thick and dense. Her pictures then moved into the main portion of the one-bedroom apartment, showcasing piles of clothes, toys, and trash so high that they almost reached the ceiling. In front of the couch, there was a pile on the floor so high it was almost level with the edge of the couch. The coffee table was completely covered. Although you can’t smell pictures, you could imagine how awful it would have to be.  

Every time my mother swiped a new photo, I would shift my gaze to Sarah’s face, looking for any sign that she might start to dislike me. I didn’t see anything, not even disgust for the filth shown in the photos, but I had already convinced myself that she hated me. 

I didn’t defend myself; my mouth tasted foul, and I was afraid that if I said something, I would make it worse. Finally, the session ended. My mother had taken up all the time, and Sarah’s next appointment was there, so there was no way for me to rebut what my mother had claimed, even if I was capable.  

The rest of the week leading up to my next appointment with Sarah, I thought about what my mother had told her. I was afraid that Sarah would look at me differently now, that she would believe my mother simply because my mother had instilled in me, early in life, that people would not believe me if she first told them that I was a liar. Finally, at my appointment, the first thing Sarah said to me was that I was a good person. I immediately started to cry, because I had spent my whole life listening to my mother’s stories, and I had believed them because no one had refuted them. I realized that it wasn’t the world that disliked me, it was my mother who was a narcissist who thrived on belittling her daughters. It felt like the light bulb had finally been turned just right so that it flickered on. I began to self-destruct.