Part II

By fourth grade I was so angry and so sad that I was sent to my first psychiatrist. At least, that's what I'm told. I remember puzzles, a high filing closet, a cats cradle. It felt useless but I walked away with string in my hands and an art box, learned to busy my hands when my brain started to bubble. Later I'd busy my hands with razors, thumbtacks, bad poetry, sticking my fingers down my throat, overloading myself with schoolwork until I collapsed or someone noticed. And with art.

My mother brought my spool of silver wire to the hospital, my skewers for weaving it. They let me take it out when it's quiet, which is most of the time, and sit in the common spaces twirling hair-thin wires into a hollow woven tube. It needs to be four feet long to tie the way I want it to. I'd planned it out months ago, plated gold, stuffed with pearls, my crocheted noose. An art piece for my collection. I weave it here, tell the orderlies it's just a necklace, which it is, also. Impress them with my calm, with my ability, she seems so together. And I quietly work away, laughing a little at the irony, but only on the inside.