Control

The parallel lines on her forearm were still fresh enough to have scabs on them.

“Want to tell me about those?”  I asked her quietly.

Tears welled up as she looked away and told me she didn’t want to talk about it.

So I dropped it.

For five minutes or so.  I went on focusing on the reason she was in my office to begin with.  Something unrelated.  And certainly less complicated.

Then I asked again.  “How long have you been cutting yourself?”

The story spilled out of her in fits and starts.  Years of fighting depression.  Begging her parents for help and being told she should just learn to wake up and choose to be happy.  Still living at home at 22 and working for her dad.  Wanting to get away, be independent and unable to make the break. Having crying fits and anxiety attacks over things such as having too many apples in the pantry.  Things that she can’t explain and she can’t control.

“It’s the one thing I can control.  I can control how much this hurts me.  I can’t do that with anything else.”

At times like those I feel sadly inadequate for the task at hand.  Where do you begin to unravel a problem like that in a short office visit?

Ten years in family practice is teaching me that I can’t fix everything for everyone.

I do what I can.

Today that meant listening and making sure she felt heard.  Giving her some resources and hoping she’ll choose to use them.  And extracting a promise of a return visit in a month.  Which she may or may not keep.

I hope she does.