STEP ONE: SIT DOWN FOR A TALK

She shoved back the cuff of her sleeves to reveal scars of knife gashes imprinted on her skin.

“I haven’t taken medication this year. But I’m well, goddammit!” She was trembling violently. The tears were rolling down her cheeks. “I haven’t tried to kill myself since two years ago.”

“No, you’re not well,” I said, calmly. I’ve asked this student to stay behind in class after she shouted, “Fuck!” and shoved aside her desk nearly harming her classmate.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“You very well know what’s the problem,” she shot back. She jabbed the air between us with her index finger. “You’re the problem. You’re the reason I’m like this. It’s all your fault.”

I could’ve slapped her. I should’ve slapped her. The little bitch.

“Is that any way to talk to your teacher?”

Keep calm. “Was it because I asked you to sit in front?” I said.

She said nothing but shot me a look of venom and defiance.

“You weren’t listening in class. I had to do something or else your classmates would think they can get away with everything.”

“I was thinking! I wanted to be left alone!” she hissed. “I –I haven’t been having a good day. I didn’t take my meds!”

And that’s when she showed me the scars.

“Look, forget this ever happened,” she said, rolling back her sleeves.

“Why, don’t we sit down and talk about it?”

She looked me in the eye. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I do, I might not control myself.”

A shudder ran through my body. I was definitely in the presence of a mentally unstable person. Oh God….

“My parents know about this. If you want, you can contact them.”

“I think you need a counselor.”

“What does a counselor have to do with this? I’M FINE!” she screeched. “I’m well. I’ve been well for the past year. This is only one slip-up. I didn’t take my meds. The doctor said I have this illness. Everyone has this illness. Mine’s just a little bit more serious, that’s all.”

I felt like I had been shoved into the pages of Prozac Nation and I was now breathing the black words on paper. It felt too real. It was real. “What’s this illness called?”

“I don’t know the English name.”

“Give me the Chinese name.”

“I only know the Cantonese.”

“What is it?”

She muttered something under her breath.

It could have very well been Blow Me.

“Just forget about it, alright? Can I go?” she said.

STEP TWO: HOLD YOUR GROUND

I crossed my arms over my chest. “You need help. You need a therapist.”

“Been there, done that. No good. I just need my meds.”

“Alright. You can go but on one condition.” I held up my index finger. I made sure my voice was firm. I wasn’t afraid of what she might do but I had to reach her somehow. “We’ll talk again next Monday after class when you’ve calmed down.”

“I am CALM! I AM OK!” She raised her voice.

I struggled to keep mine. “Obviously, you’re not.”

“I have ways to get myself in control.”

Yes, like running a razor to your skin and letting the blood seep out in crimson globulets and watch it dribble down to the floor and feel this exulted calm rush through you.

I was getting frustrated. I was getting nowhere. I kept steering her towards the direction I want to go but she kept going the other way. It was like hitting a wall over and over again. I was getting all twisted and I had to struggle to rein my emotions in because being around her intense aura of rage, depression, emptiness, blame and madness was too much. I was going to crack down any minute.

“What do you care?”

“I’m your teacher. You’re my student. You’re partly my responsibility.”

“So what?”

It was like a slap in my face. Sure, I might not like my profession very much but I’ve always upheld one of its clichéd ideals of shaping the youth of the future, of caring for them, of making a difference. Goddammit, that was the purpose of my life.

Kate, she’s right. You’re not supposed to care. Don’t care. Don’t get involved. Just let her go and fuck up her life.

Shut up.

“It’s my life. It’s none of your goddamned business. I decide what to do with it. It’s got nothing to do with you. It’s got nothing to do with my parents. If I’d want to kill myself, fine. It’s my decision. My life.”

I looked at her, this shaking wall of anger and pain and I could see it was nothing but a façade, nothing but a defense mechanism to shut people out. I saw a pitiful soul trapped inside —crying out, helpless, pained, abandoned, full of blame. I don’t know why she’s that way. I don’t know how many people have hurt her whispering false promises only to stab her at the back.

I only know there was no way I was just going to stand back.

“What kind of a teacher would I be if I just let you kill yourself? Because if that’s what you want then I’ll just say, ‘Fine. Go ahead. I don’t care.’ But I do. Because I’m not just some office worker. You’re not just a customer. You’re my student goddammit!”

She paced around. “ I- AM- SO- ANGRY!” She punctuated every word.

“At what?”

“AT EVERYTHING!!!” she screamed. “At you, at my parents, my classmates, my life, the world, everything! I am so angry!” She drew another deep breath and grabbed another piece of tissue from her packet.

I waited for her to calm down.

“We’ll talk again next Monday,” I said.

She stamped her foot. “No!”

“Then I’ll call a counselor for you.”

She sighed in frustration and paced around. “What does a counselor have to do with this?” she said again.

“That’s my condition. Either we talk again next Monday or I call a counselor for you. Your call.” I shrugged.

“NO!”

I held my ground and met her eyes. I wasn’t backing down. “Those are my conditions.”

“Fine,” she finally said. “But you are to forget all this happened. Forget today. And do not mention my illness to any of my classmates. Do not tell them!”

“Of course not,” I said. “I would never tell them, I promise.”

STEP 3: SHOW THAT YOU CARE

She grabbed another piece of tissue and blew her nose. I was so relieved she had yielded that all the emotions I’ve held back for so long broke out and flooded through my body. It was the aftermath of all that fighting, of struggling forever and then finally knowing it’s over. You can relax. You can loosen that grip you’ve been holding on tightly for so long. It’s finished. You’ve won. And realizing that, I broke down.

The tears pooled around my eyes. I needed release and it was coming.

“I need one.” I held out my hand to her, motioning for the packet of tissue she had.

For one brief instant, she looked like a surprised deer caught in the headlights. For one brief second, she unconsciously dropped the wall. A crack had appeared. It was nothing but a flicker and then the mask was back on again. As she handed me the tissue, I knew I had slipped past that anger for a moment. That was alright. I had been given a glimpse of the vulnerability. I was going to hold on to that. There was still hope.

I dabbed the tissue at the corner of my eyes. I breathed in deeply. I didn’t want to be reduced to a mess in front of her. Then that would make two of us.

I looked at her. This confused scarred soul. I reached out and took her in my arms.

Job be damned. She just might be playing me. She might be a manipulative cunt stringing her teacher. Those scars were probably the result of an accident but I didn’t care. I’d rather rush through the door of crackling flames and be deceived with sharp jabs of lies and treason a million times over than to stand calmly back and survey it with an ice cool sheen of apathy. If there was a chance that she was real, that she was indeed hurting, I wasn’t just going to stand back behind and let her jump.

She just stood there, not moving. But she didn’t push me back either. I released her and said, “See you Monday.”

“See you Monday,” she muttered and walked away out to the door and into the fading light of the sun.

I sat down, numb. Then I buried my face into my hands and finally let the tears flow. A migraine was creeping in. I massaged the temples on my head. I haven’t had a headache like this since talking with a schizophrenic back in college.

Stupid emotional baggage that comes with teaching. As if preparing for lessons, paperwork and dealing with a dumb administrative system wasn’t enough, I had to deal with a suicide case too. Last year I had a student going through her parents’ divorce, then a daughter who wasn’t loved by her family. Why couldn’t I have a cushy 9-5 office job?

I looked at her retreating figure outside till it became a blue blurry shadow.

I had my answer.