I let a brief silence hang in the air after the man's words.
It's true—perhaps he's right.
In any case, it's too late to know now. I'm deep in the abyss. And by staying so close to it, I've become it. I am an abyss. I am broken. My whole body is—my bones, my heart, my head—every part of my being is affected. There was nothing I could do about it.
After a few more exchanged words with the doctor, he left.
I am alone now.
I am alone. And I know that nothing in this world could save me. Because there is no one around me. I am nothing but pain.
I no longer know what to do in this hospital. I'm left to my thoughts. I have nothing in particular to do, nothing in particular to give, nothing that might warrant even a sliver of attention from society.
What a horror it is to live. Get me out of here.
It's December 6th. Outside, it's snowing. I could see it from afar, from very far, because I'm not allowed near the windows. They say they're afraid I might hurt myself intentionally. I'd rather laugh.
How can anyone even think that, to allow someone to live peacefully, we must limit their freedom?
How can anyone believe that restricting someone from living would help them heal? How? And in what world?
What a bunch of idiots. All of them, each more than the last.
Yesterday, the nurses told me the doctor would come today. Apparently, he passed along the message.
In what world does a doctor have so much time to waste? What I don't understand is that he's constantly here, coming to talk to me. How is that even possible?
Just as I was getting lost in my thoughts, the door opened slightly.
The doctor stepped forward and opened his mouth to speak. Before a single sound could escape, I cut him off.
— "You might consider knocking before you come in!"
The doctor, clearly taken aback by my reprimand, replied, confused:
— "My apologies, Madam."
As usual, he walked over to the chair beside my white hospital bed—lifeless and crumpled.
He placed a brown package on my table and said:
— "I brought you some white chocolate doughnuts. I thought they might cheer you up."
White chocolate doughnuts? Really?
— "Thank you," I replied.
— "Still, I would have thought that, as a doctor, you'd refuse to bring me refined sugar. Isn't it bad for your health?"
— "Oh… well, a little indulgence now and then doesn't hurt. You're already on a strict diet at the hospital," he answered.
— "So, how's your morale today?"
— "I'm okay. Well, I don't know. I think I'm okay. Let's say my thoughts remain the same—they don't change from day to day. I feel like I'm reliving the same script and I can't escape what's happening in my brain. It's like I'm trapped inside my own house and can't get out."
— "Why do you think you can't change them?"
— "I don't know. Ever since I was little, I've felt imprisoned. I can't seem to get past it. I tell myself that nothing will ever change and all my hopes are in vain. I feel like we, as human beings, relentlessly struggle to live—but for what, in the end? We're powerless in the face of the current state of things. Powerless against society, against the order that governs us, against fate, against wars. We are powerless—powerless and profoundly useless."
— "So what do you dream of, then? Tell me. A different world where everyone gets along? Platonic? All kindness and goodwill?" said the doctor, with a touch of nonchalance and subtle provocation.
— "That's not what I'm saying. I would just like things to make more sense, for the world to be more ordered, for souls to be more orderly too."
— "Yes, but that's not possible, Madam Sekhri."
— "But I know it's not possible!" I replied with energy. "That's exactly why I'm telling you that living, in the end, is meaningless."
— "Maybe living also means thinking about your own happiness and evolving personally."
— "Thinking only of your own happiness—that's a profoundly selfish thought. I have bigger ambitions than that for the future, Mr. Djabri."
— "Well then, tell me. I'm listening," he replied with a cheerful tone.
— "You're mocking me, sir."
— "No, Madam Sekhri. I'm listening. That's different."
— "No, sir, you are mocking me—and that is very different."
The doctor sighed.
— "Very well, Madam Sekhri, let's move on to another topic. You are—or were—a sales assistant, correct?"
— "Yes, sir. That's correct."
— "Have you ever had another job?"
— "Well, sir, I come from a lower social class. I've always had to struggle to get by. And it wasn't easy. At one time, you know, I was a building concierge, and that was incredibly difficult as a woman, sir. I had to, just to survive, be responsible for the safety of an entire building's residents, while I myself didn't feel safe. I've never felt safe outside, sir. I grew up in a rough neighborhood where insecurity was a problem for everyone. Insecurity was everyone's problem, sir—but especially for women. It's always been that way, sir. I was a victim, and I'm only realizing it now. A victim of a world that gives free rein to men and oppresses women, putting a knot in their stomachs every time they go outside once the sun sets. That's who I am, sir—and we are millions in this country. And we are billions in this world."
— "I understand how you feel, Madam Sekhri. That must not have been easy. Would you say that job you did to survive traumatized you?"
— "Yes, sir. I still bear the physical consequences, I believe. I was there, bent over, exhausted, having to stay awake all night when I was desperate for even just an hour or two of sleep. And that wasn't enough—because even during the day, I had to work a few more hours just to make ends meet."
— "And what was your other job, Madam?"
— "I was a babysitter. I took care of small children in a German family."
— "I see, I see. That must not have been easy for you. How old were you exactly at the time?"
— "I was 19, sir."
At those final words, tears rolled down my cheeks. I was only 19.