She dropped the coin into the small painted metal bucket, once a child’s plaything, the formerly bright,
cheerful colors had faded to pastel, cracked and peeling, the carousel and
cartoon animals within, looking pale and tired. Sitting alone on the dusty windowsill, the
bucket was a curious contrast to the bright sun that shone through the window. It had been a strangely long break since the
layers of coins were joined by a new companion. But as she dropped the latest coin into the
tired bucket, she was transported back to earlier days. Earlier betrayals filled it. One after another, the coins fell. One after another, a tiny bit of her died. It was almost striking how the dead parts
left anything left of her being. Perhaps
with each disappointment, a smaller piece was taken. Smaller and smaller, until she learned to guard herself
carefully.
Inevitably though,
she’d be coaxed out of her guardedness by someone promising with his eyes to be
different. She’d
open her heart and a new piece would be stolen. And a new coin would fall into the
bucket. She should be rich by now, she
thought. And perhaps she would be when
the bucket would find itself unable to hold another occupant. When instead of a clang, she’d gingerly balance
a coin on the nearly overflowing mound of copper. Perhaps it would be another year before the
bucket would find itself unable to hold one more- Not. One. More. Perhaps it would be sooner. The thing about the coins was they came when
they were least expected. Obviously, had
she seen them coming, she’d have prevented them from even being needed. Sometimes she’d slam the door shut, narrowly
missing heartbreak, she surmised.
Sometimes she’d run. She’d feel
the wind blowing through her long, fine hair, and feel the freedom as it swept it up, dropping it haphazardly
atop her head. And yet, they came. Men
were the most common benefactors of the ugly unwanted gift of yet another
coin. But women… When a woman added to the
pile, its burden was exponentially weightier. Women were cruel. Men were selfish and oppressive, taking what
didn’t belong to them, but women- They knew how to inflict a particular brand
of suffering on their unwitting recipient.
Fearing men and hating women was no way to live. And life marched on- slowly- almost painfully
so. And sure enough, as soon as she
began, once again, to listen to the lovebirds as they sang a dainty spring
tune, and the wind as it majestically roared through the tall pine trees, exuding their power and might upon whatever
was in its path, another coin would find itself into the ugly little
bucket.
Today’s coin was courtesy of the new shrink. She really, really, hated shrinks. They were either harmless and incompetent or
brusque and harsh. This one was the
latter. As she trembled, speaking her
truth, telling her story, she stopped periodically to blot her eyes. The tears always seemed to betray her. She loved her tough exterior. It was sexy and rugged and invincible. But the minute she was faced with telling
the stories, she dissolved into a puddle of tears. Disgusting! She hated herself for the puddle
of tears. “DRY UP!” she’d repeat, in her
own head, a relic of earlier years as a sobbing little girl, being screamed at,
to “DRY UP!” by the man she peered up
at, through her squinty brown eyes, who
stood over twice as tall as she, round
like a buddha, and nearly naked as one.
As she looked up his mean eyes threatened her and she stifled the sobs,
as carefully as she could, breaking out with an occasional burst of air from
her lungs which refused to contain it any longer into her waiting hands,
covering her face.
Today, as she sat in the small, cold, office her familiar
harangue filled her own head. “DRY UP,
stupid woman!” she’d repeat silently until the tears stopped. The story
she told, the same every time, for the gawker-du-jour, the voyeur into her special hell,
who was the one who was supposedly going to make her better. Of
course it never happened. The years passed. She grew older, replacing her supple tan skin
for lighter finely crinkled, slightly less elastic skin. Her blonde streak emanating from the corner
of her hairline, just above her left eyebrow, expanded each year, looking ever
so slightly more GRAY than blonde. The
plump blonde haired woman with the teal blouse with a thick ruffle around the
plunging neckline had a voice that was hoarser than the woman expected. She had many more surprises to come. As the woman recounted, yet again, the
sordid past she’d somehow emerged from the shrink would add a running
commentary.
She didn’t think to be
offended- not at first anyway, but as she ruminated on the words that spilled
out of the shrink’s overactive mouth, the woman realized the heftiness of the
implications therein. “It’s common,”
the shrink emotionlessly commented, “for a child molested before the age of 5
to split into multiple personalities. It
then becomes necessary to merge the personalities to help that person become a
whole person” The woman balked. “Um, NO.
I don’t have multiple personalities. “
The shrink continued the line of questioning and settled on her next
point. “Did your mother do drugs when
she was pregnant with you?” “How the
hell would I know that? The woman silently mocked. “I don’t even remember my 10th
birthday party. “ She politely
replied. “I don’t know. Probably.
I might be able to ask my dad.” “Because,”
went on the shrink, “drug use, even,
they are discovering, simply marijuana, can cause significant behavioral issues
and cognitive problems to the developing fetus. “So she’s talked to me for 5 minutes and
already she’s discovered a catastrophic mental break resulting in multiple persons
living inside my head, as well as the suggestion that I am either brain damaged
or STUPID. Nice, “ Thought the woman. But the final blow was yet to come. The woman could barely believe she’d heard
the shrink correctly when she asked, “Were you raped? Penetrated with a penis
or an object? Or did he just touch you?”
Did he JUST touch me? Did she
seriously just say that? Did he JUST
touch me? Instead of smacking the smug
shrink upside the head, she replied politely, “I’m not sure. I, um… d-don’t have a lot of memory. I remember a few details, but I can’t say for
certain.” The detailed questioning went on,
The awkward, stuttered answers following.
The familiar feeling washed over the woman as she walked
down the sidewalk to her waiting vehicle, grateful to be breathing the fresh
air instead of the stale office air, glad to be free of the pointed, invasive,
diagnostic questions, realizing that yet again, she’d shared a part of her with
someone wholly unworthy of her trust and her story. It
didn’t really matter anyway, she told herself as she started the truck’s loud
engine. But she knew she was lying to
herself. She knew the coin would fall,
devoured by the ocean of similar, faceless coins that resided in the
bucket. And another- YET another -part
of the woman died that day.
