Jarda

The first time I met him, he wore a fancy suit. Not like a tuxedo, but one of those top-of-the-line suits that you know are tailored to fit. He was clean and confident.

He came in to speak to me after they did an intake evaluation at the PHP in Middletown. They want to know all about whether or not you drink or do drugs or have appetite problems, constipation, diarrhea, headaches and of course a family history of mental illness. They check you basic vitals: blood pressure, temperature, heart rate, respirations.

I pretty much lied the whole way through. Didn't want to be there. Was scared to death. I hate hospitals. I hate groups.

And I hate psychiatrists.

I tested him - as I test everyone - immediately. He came in with his suit and clipboard and sat down, said my name.

"How are you feeling today?"

"I'm in a fucking PHP. How do you think I feel?"

He laughed. But not a vicious laugh. More like a "touche'" kind of laugh.

He crossed his legs as he sat across from me. Asked me questions. I answered them all.

He asked what work I did. I told him I was a journalist.

"You must be very intelligent then," he said.

"Yes I am," I responded without hesitation. "And I don't like you."

He gave me that same soft laugh.

"I am a nice guy. You will see. I would love to see some of your clippings," he said.

Hah. Test number one.

In the days that followed, it never came up again. He failed. He said he wanted to see but never asked again.

But one day, as I remained closed, distant and removed from this stupid group program, he came and pulled me from the group, as he does with various "patients," throughout the week.

He took me to his office.

From wrist to elbow, my arms were slashed. Healing, but still slashed. I made no attempt to hide them. Everyone had seen them by now.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine."

"Tell me, Cristina," he said with his beautiful Jamaican accent, "Why did you cut your arms?"

"To show Gary and Tony how hurt I was."

He dug and wouldn't stop. He kept pushing.And for every question he had, I had a quick response.

Until the end when he said:

"So who, really, were you trying to show your pain to?"

I felt myself curl up inside. I can think of those old "firecrackers" they used to make called "the snake." You light them up and they curl and twist into a charred piece of nothing. Ash.

I curled up like that inside. I whispered, "Mom and Daddy."

He told me about the mountain I must climb. He asked me, "What is the easiest part of climbing a mountain?"

"The beginning," I answered.

"True," he said. "What else?"

"The end," I shot back, regaining my composure.

"You have a huge mountain to climb. You are at the bottom. You want to run up it, get it over with."

I sat halfheartedly listening but by this time, had gained some sense of respect for the man who had - through all my belligerence aimed right at him - remained calm, steady and assured.

"What is the hardest part of climbing a mountain?" he asked.

"The middle."

"Ahh," he said with that lulling accent. "You are very intelligent.

He moved from his seat at his desk and sat down at the round table in the room, close to me. His expression changed. His demeanor changed. He softened.

"You are going to get to the middle of your mountain, Cristina, and you are going to want to go back down. You are going to want to give up. What do you do?"

"Stop. Rest."

"Yes. Exactly," he said.

Then he stood and I stood and he said: "You have a very large mountain to climb, filled with pain."

I was rattled inside.

He gestured to my arms and he said, "And that is a lot of pain."

He's the only one ever, ever in my life, who seemed to see into me. He seemed to understand. I had been wrong about him. (I did confess to him, my "test" that I'd put him through. I don't recall his response but it was very viable).

I called him the other day. Begging to speak with him. But I hung up before he came to the phone. I didn't know what to say.

I am afraid.

I am lonely.

I feel so abandoned and confused.

Dr. Carl Jarda.

I wish I could see you.