Tonight, I couldn't sleep.
I keep remembering what that being told me when it came close to me. I was scared. Terrified.
I remember shouting to my mother that it was time to call the police. She wouldn't listen. She should have listened.
Time in the hospital is long. So long. I'm bored to death. I recreate the world in my mind, I replay all the possible and unimaginable possibilities. What if I were happy? What if I had taken that path? What if? What if?
They'll say that "with what-ifs you could remake the world," but at least with what-ifs, you can imagine something. You catch a glimpse of possibilities that wouldn't exist if that "if" weren't there. And yet, I know it's not always my best ally. I recall a hadith that said "what-if" was a door to Shaytan. Maybe I should be careful with that "if," that it doesn't affect me too much, that it doesn't fill me with doubt, but simply remains the fertile ground of an imagination that allows me to live beyond these four walls that tighten around me more and more each day.
The doctor had promised he'd come back. But it's been three days, and I haven't seen him again. I have nothing to do, and I'm bored in this gilded prison. I couldn't even say it's gilded. The walls are grey with age. Nothing here makes me want to stay. I long to leave.
The electricity is unreliable. The meals are bland, one after the other. Mom isn't allowed to visit me, I don't know why. They haven't told me anything yet—they say I need to take time, to rest, and that they'll talk to me when the time is right. I feel like a child. I am nothing, not much really.
The only thought that helps me stay in this world I despise is that death exists. From the deepest part of me. If only someone could take me away. If only…
But I made a promise—I promised I'd try to keep going.
But have I ever really kept promises in my life? I've only ever disappointed people and left when they least expected it.
I've only ever hidden my deepest feelings, my most existential fears.
I'm not who they think I am.
I don't know how to speak.
I don't know how to show who I am.
I exist, but I don't even know if I truly do.
I have no idea.
All I know is that I hurt. I hurt so much. But this pain tells me something: it tells me I exist, and that I can feel. I'm addicted to it, I want it to stay. It's my best companion, and I cherish it as much as I love it.
It will never leave me. It will always be there for me. I won't have to wake up in a wave of anxiety, wondering where it went and whether it left me. No, I won't have to do that—because it's always there for me. It walks with me through this life. It is my most faithful companion. It is the source of everything. My pain is infinite.
It's 2:18 PM when the doctor knocks once again on my door.
"Yes!" I shout from the bottom of my gut, still shaken by the dark thoughts that had overwhelmed me.
The doctor enters the room.
"Hello," he says softly as he approaches.
He sits in the chair next to me.
The last time we saw each other was exactly three days ago. I haven't stopped counting the days, given the lack of social interaction I've had lately. The only conversations that kept me alive were the "hello" and "thank you" exchanged with nurses. That's where I am—a 25-year-old woman, desperate, waiting for a single smile, a hello, or a thank you. That's who I am. That's where I've come to.
The doctor turns toward me.
"As you know, ma'am, you've been particularly exhausted these past few days, even during your rest periods."
He pauses.
He annoys me. How dare he speak on my behalf? Or put words to my feelings without my consent? Calm down, Aysel. It's okay. You're just tired. The illness is betraying you.
"Well, today I've come to see you. You look better. Your cheeks have regained color. How are you, Mrs. Sekhri?" he says kindly.
It's the first time he's shown any sympathy. The first time he's said my name. He seems less cold than last time. But still, he keeps the same expressionless face. Even when he tries to show some interest or sympathy, it stays neutral. His demeanor reminds me of the hospital itself. Nothing about him signals life. He doesn't look dead inside, but he's just… neutral. Plain. He evokes nothing. He has emotions, but they're invisible. He looks like a plastic figure. This hospital suffocates me.
"Mrs. Sekhri?" he insists. "You still don't seem willing to talk. But it's necessary. That's the only way we'll manage to reach a clear diagnosis."
Can't he see I'm not well? Can't he see I don't want to speak to him?
I remain silent.
"I simply want to help you. I'm here to help you. That's my job."
A silence falls. Only the buzzing of the hospital room's artificial lights accompanies us.
"Mrs. Sekhri?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. At least you can hear me and respond. That's something."
Oh how I hate him. Him and his laconic remarks.
"How are you feeling?"
Well, I hate being here. I'm sitting in front of a neurologist, not a psychiatrist—why is he burdening me with questions about my well-being? What about all the tests and bloodwork? Do I count for nothing? Am I just a tool for science?
The silence stretches. And stretches. And stretches. I wish I could die…
It's been three minutes now. I know—because I counted.
On the 18th second of the fourth minute, I finally decide to speak.
"You didn't come last time."
He turns toward me, visibly surprised.
"Yes, that's true. And I'm sorry for that, but it was already planned. We noticed with the team that you were having trouble expressing yourself after the nervous breakdowns you experienced. I felt it best to give you more time to rest. The nurses have kept me informed of your condition. You've slept a lot over the past few days. That's exactly what was needed."
Another silence follows.
After two minutes and fourteen seconds, I answer:
"Alright," I say.
"Good," he replies.
"You know, the state you're in is normal. It's normal to feel irritated by my presence."
Still no response from me.
"We'll explore together what's wrong."
Still nothing. I'm tired.
"Alright," he responds to the silence. "We'll try a different approach. We'll have the chance to talk about it another time."
I raise an eyebrow and glance at him.
Idiot.
"What's your name?"
"Aysel."
"And your last name?"
"Sekhri."
"Good. How old are you?"
"Twenty-five."
"Good. And what do you do for a living?"
He's sitting there, waiting for each of my answers. Always with some kind of notepad in hand—but he never writes anything.
"I used to be a sales assistant."
"Interesting. Did you enjoy your job?"
Why the hell is this idiot asking if I liked my job? With his 11 years of study and €8,000 per month, he wants to know if I liked my job? What do you think, dumbass? I did it to survive. You think I spend my days making Excel spreadsheets out of love for science?
Still, after days without any meaningful conversation or social interaction, I felt a void. A lack of attention, a lack of care. That simple question—whether I liked my job or not—made me want to talk, despite everything. I'd tell him nonsense, but at least I'd speak, and maybe find a thread of conversation.
"I'd say yes… I like preparing quotes, invoices, purchase orders, following up with clients," I replied, with a touch of irony.
"That's interesting. You seem like someone who's deeply organized. That's a good thing."
Haha. Idiot, once again.
"And you?"
The doctor turns to me, surprised that I asked him something.
He responds, slightly frowning.
"We're not here to talk about me, ma'am, but about you."
Ah. Great.
"Alright, let's talk about me then. My name is Aysel, I'm a sales assistant by default. I don't love anything about life. I'm here because I was forced to be. When the paramedics came, I was about to run away from the house, but I saw my mother. She looked like she'd aged ten years—from fear, from the stress I caused her. I didn't dare do it. I couldn't. Her desperate gaze stopped me. It tore me in two. I still think about it. I dream about it at night, you know. I'm scared. Terribly scared, Doctor. I'm afraid of being punished."
"You're afraid of being punished?" the doctor said, raising his eyebrows, clearly surprised.
"Yes, Doctor. I'm scared and I feel guilty. I'm afraid I'll be punished for it, and I'll deserve it. I'm really scared, sir."
The doctor looked at me for a moment, then simply asked:
"Are you religious, ma'am?"
I nodded.
"I believe, ma'am, that God gives His toughest battles to His strongest, most beloved soldiers. I believe God never leaves a soul alone and untrained, left ignorant in this world and to all the knowledge it holds. Because the purpose of life is to go through trials, through pain, but to come out whole—to keep living, to do everything to not lose yourself. You see, ma'am, I believe that if God were truly punishing you, He would never have given you illness."