Psychological fragments

A week later, she arrived as promised, still wearing the same gray hoodie, jeans, and canvas bag. As she sat down, she took a notebook out of her bag and handed it to me.

"Sleep diary." Her voice was calm, but carried a hint of barely perceptible tension.

I took the notebook and began to peruse it. The records were incredibly detailed, documenting my daily sleep duration, wake-up times, the number of times I woke up, and the content of my dreams. But as I read on, I noticed a disturbing detail.

"You only sleep three or four hours a day on average?" I looked up and met her gaze.

"Hmm." Her voice remained calm, but a hint of weariness flashed in her eyes.

"How long did this last?" I pressed, a sense of unease creeping into my heart.

"It's been a long time." Her answer was concise, yet elusive.

I handed the notebook back to her and asked from a different angle, "Don't you feel tired?"

"I'm used to it." Her answer was brief, but her tone revealed a sense of helplessness.

I gazed at her; her dark circles were as deep as ink, yet her spirits were surprisingly high, lacking the dejection often seen in those suffering from chronic insomnia. This defied common sense.

"Lin Nian," I changed my question, trying to unlock her heart, "did you sleep well when you were a child?"

She paused for a moment; this was the first time I had ever seen her with such an expression—not the kind of blank calm, but an unexpected reaction.

"When I was little?" she repeated, a hint of confusion in her voice.

"Yes. Who did you live with when you were little?" I continued to guide her, trying to dispel the fog in her mind.

She fell silent. The sunlight streaming through the window fell on her face, and I noticed her eyelashes fluttering gently, like butterfly wings.

"With my maternal grandmother." She finally spoke, her voice tinged with nostalgia, "I lived with my maternal grandmother when I was little."

"What about her parents?" I continued to probe, trying to learn more about her past.

"We're divorced. I'm with my mother, but she has to work, so she sent me to my maternal grandmother's house." Her voice was calm, but it couldn't hide a trace of disappointment.

"How old were you then?" I asked softly, trying not to touch on her pain.

"I can't remember. I think I was five or six years old." Her answer was tinged with confusion, as if that memory had become hazy.

"How long did you live at your maternal grandmother's house?" I continued to ask, trying to piece together her childhood.

"A long time." She paused, a complex emotion flashing in her eyes, "Until I graduated from elementary school."

I didn't press further. There's a principle in psychological counseling: don't interrogate. Let the client decide for themselves when to say what and how much to say.

"Is your grandmother good to you?" I asked an open-ended question, trying to get her to open up.

Her gaze pierced through the air, meeting mine. Her eyes were deep and complex, as if searching for something, yet also seemingly avoiding something. In her pupils, I read an indescribable entanglement, like a lighthouse in the fog, both guiding the way and concealing secrets.

"Okay." Her voice was low and firm, like a ray of warm sunshine in winter. "Grandma is very good to me."

In the latter part of that consultation, her words flowed like a thawing river. She described to me her grandmother's gentleness, how those calloused hands cooked warm and delicious meals, how they helped her with her homework as night fell, and how they wove bedtime stories under the starlight. However, when the topic turned to the years after she graduated from elementary school, her words seemed to freeze, becoming concise and restrained.

"And then?" I asked softly.

"Later, my grandmother passed away. I went back to my mother's side." Her voice trembled slightly.

"Is your mother good to you?" I continued to probe.

The silence was like a deep-sea current, long and heavy. I waited patiently until she finally spoke.

"She," her voice was almost swallowed by the surrounding air, "was doing it for my own good."

This was the second time she had spoken in this tone; the first time was when she mentioned "seeing" several psychologists. It was a contradictory tone, as if she were emphasizing something crucial, yet also avoiding a secret she didn't want to touch.

I didn't press her further. The consultation time slipped away quietly, like grains of sand in an hourglass. I summarized today's exchange and suggested she continue keeping a sleep journal and come back at the same time next week.

She stood up and walked towards the door, but then stopped at the threshold.

"Dr. Shen," she turned around, her voice tinged with confusion, "some people come to see a psychologist not because they really want to get treatment, but just because they want someone to talk to."

I was stunned for a moment, and before I could react, she had already pushed open the door and disappeared at the end of the corridor.

During the third consultation, she returned to her initial state.

Her words were few and concise, like withered branches in winter, each sentence a direct response to the question. I tried to steer the conversation towards deeper topics, such as work, relationships, or childhood. But she always answered with the briefest of responses, followed by silence.

As the consultation was about to end, I decided to take a different approach.

"Lin Nian," I said, "you just said you came to see me because you couldn't sleep. But I have a feeling you have something else you want to tell me."

She looked at me, a hint of confusion flashing in her eyes.

"It's okay," I said, trying to keep my tone gentle. "You can choose to speak or not. You can speak whenever you want."

She lowered her head, her gaze falling on her hands. Her fingers were long and slender, her nails trimmed short, some with hangnails along the edges. Those were the marks of anxiety—many people unconsciously bite their nails or tear at their hangnails when anxious.

"Dr. Shen," she finally spoke, her voice almost swallowed by the surrounding silence, "do you believe that one person can be two people at the same time?"

This is a strange question. But from a psychological perspective, I know what she's implying.

"You mean dissociative identity disorder? Dissociative identity disorder?" I answered cautiously.

She shook her head: "I don't know what it's called. I just want to ask, do you believe it?"

"I believe some people have this experience," I replied cautiously, "but it requires a professional diagnosis."

"If there's someone next to you," she continued, her voice growing softer, "you think you know them, but you don't. You know someone else. Do you believe that?"

I didn't answer directly. The question was too vague; I didn't know what she meant.

"Lin Nian," I said, "who are you talking about?"

She looked up at me. And there it was again, that complicated look in her eyes.

"I was just asking." She stood up. "Is it time? I'm leaving now."

That was the first time she stood up and left without waiting for me to announce the end. I watched her back and noticed a momentary hesitation in her steps, as if she was wondering whether to turn back.

But she didn't turn back, and simply disappeared into the shadows outside the door.