For a while I was sort of obsessed with that stuff. Since everyone believed there was something wrong with me, even my own family—or maybe my own family most of all—I tried to get to the bottom of the problem. Everything I read said that it would feel better when you put a label on it, when you could put a name to the problem, when you knew that there were lots of other people dealing with the same thing.
At first I thought I had ADD or ADHD, then Borderline Personality Disorder, Schizoid Personality Disorder, Bipolar Disorder.
I came to the conclusion that it was all bullshit.
I am who I am. Diagnosis: Stella.
There are an infinite number of things wrong with me, I won’t deny that. I’m anything but normal. My brain fucks with me twenty-four hours a day. But I don’t need any other name for that than my own. I am Stella Sandell. If someone has a problem with me, maybe they’re the one who needs therapy.
And it’s no secret that psychologists often have their own mental issues. If they don’t start out with any, they show up later. Too much Freud would make anyone nuts.
It was while I was reading up on all this that I got hooked on psychopaths. I guess you could say I became obsessed with them. They say it’s good to have a hobby, so I replaced handball with psychopathology.
The psychologists I met before I came to the jail were similar in some ways. Most of them were women, many of them were redheads, often with a particular “concerned” look, not infrequently dressed like a high school music teacher. A surprising number of them spoke with a Sm?land accent.
So as Jimmy the Guard hustles me in to see the jail psychologist, it’s not all that easy for me to conceal my surprise.
“Hi, Stella. I’m Shirine.” She’s dark and pretty and has her hair in two tight braids—a Middle Eastern version of Princess Leia.
“I don’t need a psychologist,” I say.
I’ve actually prepared a hailstorm of flashy words like “violation of integrity” and “overreach of power,” the kind of stuff that always has some effect on public servants who have underestimated you. But Shirine just sits there like she’s fucking Lady on a meatball date and I can’t even bring myself to raise my voice.
“That’s okay,” she says. “I understand you feel reluctant, but I meet with all the teenage inmates here. It’s not up to me.”
She smiles warmly. She really looks kind, the way you mostly only see in little old ladies and puppies.
“I mean, it’s nothing personal,” I emphasize. “I’m sure you’re great. But I’ve been to a lot of psychologists.”
“I understand,” says Shirine. “I won’t take it personally.”
Then there’s silence, the kind I can’t handle. Shirine sits across from me, smiling, letting her sympathetic gaze fall upon me.
“So you’re going to make me? We’re going to sit here for an hour every week and stare at each other?”
“It’s up to you, Stella. If you want to talk, I’ll be happy to.”
I roll my eyes. No chance I’m about to talk, no matter how gentle her brown eyes are and no matter how much she smiles like Lady. What am I supposed to say? I’m never going to tell anyone what I’ve experienced. No one would understand. I barely understand it myself.
The quiet game starts now.
We sit there looking at each other. Now and then Shirine poses questions I don’t answer: “How are you doing in here? Have you gotten to talk to your family? Are you sleeping okay?” The hour passes so ridiculously fast, I almost suspect she’s fudging with the time somehow.
“Maybe we’ll see each other next week then,” she says, rising to summon the guard.
“I’m sure we will,” I say, and Jimmy picks me up by the door and herds me like goddamn livestock back through the corridor. He stares at me with eyes of ice as he lets me back in my room.
I hate the solitude. It scares me. Everything creeps so uncomfortably close to you in here. I can’t escape my thoughts and feelings when Jimmy turns the lock and leaves me alone with the walls and the smell. Inside, my mind is screaming. I’m about to explode.
I don’t know if it’s worth it, if I can handle it. I know there are a lot of people who never get out of here alive.
43
They were dressed in civilian clothes, sure, but you didn’t need to have watched that many episodes of Criminal Minds to figure out that they were cops. Two broad-shouldered clichés wearing guarded expressions, jeans, and running shoes. All that was missing were the walkie-talkies on their belts.