On the edge

 

She was on the edge, she felt it clearly. And anything could happen now. The smallest gesture, situation, word could decide which side of the edge she would fall. She was afraid, she felt herself tipping dangerously towards the worse. She had once been strong, energetic, and resourceful. She had fought everyone, but she had made the mistake of trying to fight herself too.

She knew she was now fragile, weak, powerless, and easily hurt. She was now afraid of both people and herself; she didn't even know who she was more afraid of. She closed herself off, letting no one in, because why would she? People would only exploit her, deceive her, create false hopes, and then leave, leaving behind a huge wound and emptiness. So she preferred not to trust, not to let anyone get close, not to become attached or emotionally accustomed. It was safer this way, but was it better? She didn't know, but she preferred to remain hidden from her world, afraid. All she wanted from people was to leave her alone and not ask for anything. She prefers to stay locked

up and keep her heart locked up, even though it so longs for warmth, tenderness, understanding, and care. But her mind tells her there are no people who would embrace her fearful heart, who wouldn't understand her, who wouldn't laugh at her. She doesn't want to show her sensitivity, delicacy, and how deeply she feels about everything. She brought herself to the abyss she now finds herself on, but if she were loved, it wouldn't have happened. She wouldn't have sought love from the wrong people and wouldn't have been so disappointed. Because that very disappointment was one of the final blows that pushed her even further, almost into that abyss. She thought she had found someone who understood her, appreciated her, had no selfish intentions toward her, and could trust this person. She didn't even know when she had become so attached.

She committed herself, found some refuge, some solace, and when she realized it, she was disappointed and left alone. This was the second such situation, and it was precisely this that exhausted her. The first was even more painful because it lasted longer. Afterward, she no longer trusted anyone, until she met 30-year-old Dr. Modrzewska, a psychiatrist, a calm, kind person. She thought she would truly provide the care she promised. But the thing is, this doctor never even suggested she would provide such support or become so involved. Maybe she simply convinced herself, imagined it, wanted it so much, needed it so much, that she finally believed that she would actually care for her, understand her, become attached to her, and play an important role in her life. And again, disappointment, emptiness, hurt, and pain. Or maybe it wasn't as bad as she saw it after all. After all, her doctor hadn't turned her back on her or abandoned her. She simply didn't approach her, but it could still come. Maybe it would get better? Or maybe not? Will it get worse? She would be deeply hurt and abandoned again, no, she couldn't bear another pain, she couldn't bear such a blow. Better to end this now—not wait for it to get worse. Because it would definitely get worse, it always only gets worse...

The elevator climbed higher and higher, the floor numbers displayed before her eyes, tears welled up, but she was certain she had to do it. They would be terrified, sad, maybe distraught. Her doctor would be upset, would she worry, would she cry? She had been terribly upset when she swallowed those pills and called the doctor. She closed her eyes and remembered that day again: the doctor had come to her, called 911, stroked her hair, held her hand, and spoke to her in such a calm, patient tone. Poor, dear doctor. She had to somehow convey to her that none of this was

her fault. She finally reached the top floor, exited the elevator, and sat on the steps leading to the roof. She didn't need to hurry; she should still be at school; no one was looking for her yet. She wouldn't write much, because then she'd have to write down everything that was important, and there would be so much that there wouldn't be enough paper. She simply had to tell

the doctor not to worry and that it wasn't her fault. She took out a notebook and a pen and began to write:

"Dear Doctor!

I'm sorry I'm doing this! If I apologize, it doesn't mean I regret it at all, I don't regret it, but I am sorry. I have to do this to relieve myself of the burden my life has become for my parents, for me, and for you. Please don't blame yourself for thinking you could have helped me somehow and this wouldn't have happened—no, you couldn't have done anything, really. But you were the only person who understood me and looked at me objectively. Thank you so much for that, and I am grateful for that. I don't know whose fault it is, probably no one's, not my parents', not yours, and not mine. Maybe I simply had too high expectations of myself, of you, of my family, and of life. Or maybe I simply liked you too much and you weren't able to cope. Please don't think about it anymore, forget it; it was simply a coincidence, a situation no one had any control over. I must also add that I really, really liked you! I really did! I looked forward to these meetings with you; a week felt like an eternity. These meetings became, in a sense, a safe haven and a source of peace for me. I'd add that I'll miss you, but I don't know what will happen to me where I go. I'm scared and anxious, but I hope it won't get any worse. But I'll add that I miss you, because right now I miss you, a lot. So, I miss you.

I miss you

very much,

and I send you kisses

-EMILIA

She folded the paper, put it in an envelope, and wrote the doctor's full name. She placed the envelope on the windowsill, at eye level, so the letter wouldn't get lost. They'd search this place, so they'd surely find it. It was important to her that the doctor receive the letter, even though she wouldn't care anymore—she wouldn't be here anymore. She stood up, walked up the steps to the door leading to the roof, and opened it. She felt a cold gust of wind. She inhaled the refreshing air and stepped onto the roof. It was raining. She felt cold and shivered. Looking around, she saw railings, but there was also a place where they weren't. She walked over to them, grabbed the railing, leaned over slightly, and peered out. Her legs buckled as she saw everything in the distance, tiny houses and streets. But she couldn't get scared now, couldn't back down. Nothing would get better here, and if she did, it could only get better. She'd written that in a letter to the doctor, but now she wasn't so sure. She decided she had to get herself together—she began recalling all the wrongs and humiliations done to her. It worked—rage boiled within her. She closed her eyes, lifted one foot, and took a step forward, into the abyss, leaping from the edge she now physically found herself on. She imagined falling, feeling nothing but the unresisting wind, and only the relief, the calm anticipation of what would come next... And then she felt firm arms embrace her, turn her, and push her a safe distance from the edge. For only a moment, she saw the doctor's face before her, wet with rain and tears, because the doctor immediately hugged her tightly. She didn't say anything, and neither did Emilia; neither of them had the strength. Emilia burst into tears and heard the doctor's sobbing and heartbeat. She felt the rain seep deeper into her clothes. After a moment, the doctor whispered to her,

"Emilka, honey, I read your letter. I'm sorry, I'll take care of you now. I really don't know you needed me so much. I thought you only liked me a little and didn't want me to get close to you. You were so agitated when you told me about the psychologist's gestures. I thought you approached me that way too." She cried as she spoke and hugged Emilia tightly. When she had calmed down a bit, she said,

"Let's get off the roof, Emilia, it's cold here, you're all shaken. Come on, honey. We'll go to my house and talk there." She put her arm around Emilia and led her up the steps to the elevator and then to her car.

The doctor's house was beautiful, just the kind Emilia had always dreamed of. Brand new, freshly painted, cozy, with a lush garden. The doctor stopped the car in front of the garage and they got out. She kept one arm around Emilia the entire time, as if afraid she might lose sight of her again and hurt herself. She led her through a small hallway into the cozy living room. She took off her coat and said,

"Emilia, take off your jacket and sit on the couch. I'll make something to eat and I'll be right back, okay?" Emilia nodded, took off her rain-soaked jacket, and sat on the plush couch. She knew it was rude, but she tucked her legs under her, curled onto her side, and pressed her face against the soft upholstery. She closed her eyes, and only now did she realize how exhausted she was; so much had happened. She was in a wonderful dream now; she was warm, feeling safe and at peace, the house and the person who lived in it. She also smelled a pleasant smell of food. She was very hungry, but she was dieting, after all. But it was over now; she knew she was only doing it to draw attention to her suffering. Now she knew it was pointless.

The doctor entered the room, holding a tray of food and smiling warmly. She placed the tray on the table, sat down next to Emilka, embraced her, and said,

"Let's eat first, okay? You must be hungry, and so am I. I reheated the spaghetti my family had for dinner today."

When they finished eating, the doctor hugged Emilka, patted her on the head, and began to say, "

Emilka, honey, don't worry about anything; everything will be alright now. Leave your problems to other people, let others worry for you. Don't worry about what will happen next, rest, and I'll take care of the rest. Do you trust me?" Tell me if something's still bothering you; we can't allow any misunderstandings. Don't apologize for wanting to do this; it's not your fault. You're not a burden to me; you're your own greatest burden, and that's precisely why I need help, so you don't have to struggle with yourself any longer. I'm glad you like me, and I assure you, you can't like someone too much, even if you like someone who doesn't deserve your affection or can't live up to it...

"But I don't think you don't deserve my affection..." Emilia interrupted.

"I know, I know, Emilka. Listen to what I'm getting at. My point is that the more sympathy you have, the better! Although your sympathy for some people hurts you because they reject you and don't appreciate you, maybe they simply don't know the feeling of being liked, respected, and trusted. We won't discuss that now, but in any case, I'm glad you trusted me and that at least those meetings with me were a certain comfort to you. I liked you too, a lot. And I don't understand why you wrote that I should forget about you; I would never forget you, especially if you died!

You're probably wondering how I ended up on that roof? I saw you on the street, you were wandering around sadly, aimlessly, and then something struck me, I had a premonition, I followed you, I wanted to catch up with you and talk to you." I saw you entering that tall office building, I followed you in, but I lost you there. I had no idea why you were there. I wanted to leave, I thought you might have come to visit someone, but at some point, it occurred to me, exactly what you wanted to do. I rushed to the roof like a madman, there I found the letter, and you.

Do you believe now that everything will be alright?

"I'm sure of it. And I'm glad you found me," Emilia whispered, feeling herself falling peacefully asleep next to her doctor—the person she had trusted again and entrusted her feelings to. She hoped she wouldn't be disappointed again, because then she definitely wouldn't be able to bear it and would fall over the edge, into the abyss.

Conclusion

After a failed suicide attempt, Emilia stayed at her doctor's house for several days, refusing to return home. She was then transferred to a mental health facility and diagnosed with adjustment and anxiety disorders. Her favorite doctor, Dr. Modrzewska, worked at the sanatorium, so the girl didn't feel lonely. After four months in the sanatorium, Emilia was discharged home and remained under constant outpatient care. After two years, she had returned to almost perfect mental balance and no longer needed individual and family therapy with psychologists. However, she remained in contact with her doctor, visiting her several times a month, perhaps simply because she had a good relationship with her and needed to vent and feel like she had someone always there for her, to comfort her, hug her, and tell her everything would be alright.