Free Something Like Hope by Shawn Goodman Page A

can’t really handle it. Giving Jasmine to me would be like giving an alcoholic a drink and saying, ‘Hold it, but don’t taste.’ ”
    “Okay. You won’t let yourself think about your daughter because you’re too afraid of the feelings that come with it. You’re afraid they’ll destroy you.” I just look at him and say nothing. He continues.
    “To get out of here and get back your daughter, Shavonne, you have to
feel
. You have to experience all the emotions that people have, not just anger and fear.”
    “You think all I feel is anger and fear?” I feel both of those emotions right now. Sweat trickles down my armpits and soaks my bra. I listen for the voice in my head to tell me to leave. But I also keep that voice at bay, because this might be my last chance.
Is it my last chance?
The voice hears this and screams at me.
    “Look at him, Vonne! Is
he
strong? Can he protect you? He’s getting paid, for Christ’s sake! He gets a fucking check to say this shit to you.” The voice is mean, driving home the points like sharp blows. “It’s his
job!
You get it? It’s his fucking job. He don’t care about you. I’m the only one who cares about you, right Vonne?”
    This is why Mr. D asked permission to talk so straight. He must have known I’d react this way. It’s like I found this door where the voice lives and I want to shut that door for good, and I think Mr. D is trying to help me.
    He says softly, “Shavonne, are you still here with me right now? I need you to stay here with me and talk this through.”
    He looks at me with concern. I’m quiet, but I’ve still got his question in my mind. I wait to hear the voice. It is gone. Slowly, carefully, I calm down, and it’s like I’m floating back into my body that is talking to Mr. D.
    “Okay, so I’m angry and scared. Lots of people are angry and scared. You mean to tell me that you’re never angry and scared?”
    “Yeah, I get angry and scared. But I have other feelings too. And I don’t try to avoid them. Listen, Shavonne, it’s not okay to be angry and scared all the time. You’ve got to see that.”
    “Or else?” I know Mr. D doesn’t want to hear this from me, but I think of that voice locked in a room, the doorknob starting to turn. I picture it as an old brass knob, dented in a couple of places, cold and slippery in my hand. It turns with a slow and steady force that will soon overpower me.
    “There’s no ‘or else.’ You either choose one way or the other. And the choice sets you in a certain direction.”
    I close my eyes and try to focus on breathing. My balled fists tingle. Mr. D waves a hand in front of my face and says gently, “Shavonne, talk to me. I’m sitting right across from you. It’s just you and me in this room.”
    For better or worse, I tell Mr. D about the voice and the door. I am fearful of the standard talk about medication, atypical antipsychotics, and whatever diagnosis he thinks is right for me. I could take a script for Zyprexa, which makes you gain weight, or Risperdal, which makes you lactate. It even does that to boys.
    “You know, you did a good thing just now. Talking to the voice and telling it that you have things under control is a big step—that’s exactly what you should do.”
    “You don’t think I’m crazy?”
    “No.”
    “Do you hear voices?”
    “No, but I talk to myself sometimes. Listen, what does that voice usually tell you to do?”
    “Run away, hit somebody, curse someone out.”
    “How are all those things similar?”
    “Look, I don’t know. Why don’t you just tell me? I don’t mean to be rude, but I just can’t think anymore.” I feel exhausted. Wrung out.
    “They’re all ways that kids protect themselves. When you feel threatened or in danger, does the voice protect you?”
    “Yeah, I guess. So what? You talk about it almost like it’s a good thing. It doesn’t feel like a good thing. It feels crazy.”
    “It’s good up to a point, if it works. But that’s