What Sarah Said

“Session One.”


Do I have any regrets? Sure, I’ve got tons. Who doesn’t? Who can honestly say they don’t find themselves thinking, from time to time, what their lives would be like if only they had done this instead of that? Maybe you think it wistfully or just with simple curiosity but, regardless, you still think it. I call that a regret.

If you want something a little more specific, I can tell you that, too. I regret that I didn’t die young. It would have been nice if the people who knew me could remember me at my best. I would have liked to have died abruptly in the prime of life, rather than now, which to me is just as sudden but far less of a surprise. I think that death is always a surprise when it happens to you even though we all know it’s bound to happen one day. I have to say, though, that looking Death in the face isn’t as great as it’s cracked up to be. I’d rather it come up behind me than to have to see it coming. Who wants an expiration date on life?

I regret being here now and the events that led me here. Sure, not all of them were that bad but most could accurately be described as poor choices. Obviously—look at where they got me! Who could say this is the result of good planning and a working conscience? A lot of this has as much to do with chance as rational choice but at this point I feel like I should take some responsibility for my actions. I’m not the type of person to go on declaring my complete innocence up until the day I die which, as I mentioned, is a lot closer than I’d like it to be. But I guess most people feel that way, right? Yeah…who’s happy about getting older? That’s almost the same thing.


“Session two.”


Do I think that I would do things differently if given the chance? I don’t know. That’s a rather difficult question to answer. Not all things, certainly. But some…some I would think about. It’s hard, though, because even the smallest of changes could have a huge impact. I don’t know if my new life would be any better. That’s a tough thing for me to swallow. What if I do something different and suddenly the good parts of my life no longer exist? I’ve never had a family or something. Maybe this new life would be good in its own way but…I don’t know. It’s definitely something to think about.

Say, for example, I changed something small. I took this class in college once as an elective. I thought I’d try something new, that it’d be interesting or something. The professor and I, though, didn’t really hit it off, if you know what I mean. He offered what he called “constructive criticism” which I thought was more along the lines of a personal attack. I was young, though, and didn’t say anything. I just sat there silently, not sticking up for myself or my point of view. What if I had fought back instead of calmly taking it? What would be different? Well, maybe I would have shown myself to be more formidable. Maybe that was all he was looking for—me to show that I actually cared enough to argue a point. Maybe I’d have more self-respect. Maybe he would have taken it back. Maybe we would have been able to move past our differences and work together instead of in opposition. Maybe I’d have learned something in that class.

If we got along better, I might have found an interest in the area. I might have continued with it. I might have even found that I liked it. It might have become my major and then, eventually, my career. A different job means a different crowd of people. I might never have met my husband. I might have met someone else. I might not be here now. Would this life be better or worse than the one I’ve lived? Who can know? Maybe I wouldn’t have met anyone. Maybe I’d have been one of those super busy, successful professional types who decide to just adopt a kid rather than take the time to meet someone and make one. See all the differences that could happen? And this was just from speaking up one day in class! Never mind the big stuff, the things most people would consider regrets. I don’t even want to think about how my life would be if I did something different where it counts.

You might think that I am over-thinking this, that this wasn’t what you meant by your question, but you have to understand: I’ve got a lot of time to think and regrets are something that I keep coming back to. Makes sense, right? Fit with your study? Nearing the end of my life, stuck in a situation where I can’t exactly travel much, what can I do, if not think? I suppose I could read or sleep…but I’ve read most of what I have and have never been a good sleeper. Sort of an odd thing, really, to not be good at sleeping but it’s the truth. Even when I was a baby, my mother had to put me in the farthest part of the house because if anything was going on, I would stay awake wanting to know what it was. What makes it even better is that I can get almost anyone or anything to fall asleep. Just another one of life’s ironies, I guess. Anyway, the point is I have nothing but time to think so if you think it’s odd that I responded the way I did, just know it’s because I’ve considered it, extensively.


“Session three.”


As for what brought me here…that could go a couple of ways. I could say that I am a victim of my circumstances, like a lot of people in my situation do, or I could say that it’s a result of rational choices. In all honestly, it’s probably a combination of the two. As I said before, I’m not the type of person who shuns responsibility. I know that my actions have a lot to do with my being here but, at the same time, you have to have situations in which to perform actions. And those, those I can say were not all my fault.

If I wanted to go the circumstantial route, though, I would talk about my childhood. I would say that I lived an average life, that I grew up in the suburbs of Upstate New York and went to school, spent time with friends, and did all the stuff kids do. I would mention that my parents got divorced when I was young—just past two, in fact—and my dad sort of dropped out of the picture some years after that. As a side note, I don’t want you making that into more than it is in your study. Maybe once upon a time divorce predicted problems for children later in life but now it’s pretty much a part of life. And my dad, well, let’s just say it was probably for the best that he stayed out of my life as much as he did. Anyway, it was just my mom, my older brother, and I.

I would say that I led a pretty normal life for all intents and purposes, that there weren’t any real “turning points” in my childhood. What was important about it, I would say, is that it taught me a pattern of behavior, just like you psychologists often write in your papers. I would say that I learned this behavior from the years that my father was still in my life. Living with a time bomb during your formative years teaches you to do one of two things: (1) defuse the bomb before it can go off and/or (2) avoid lighting the fuse in the first place. The former I used when I had to but it is the latter that I truly mastered. My father certainly gave me enough practice. I would say I learned how to handle bombs every other weekend (and some holidays) for roughly seven years. I would say that this ended the summer after I was in third grade when it was finally decided in court that children shouldn’t play with bombs unattended. I would mention that, strangely enough, bombs don’t like audiences and that was how my relationship with my father ended. I might even mention that the last words he said to me were “it isn’t worth it” and that these words were uttered in a psychiatrist’s office.

I would talk about how those seven years taught me the art of pretending to be whatever someone wants you to be with a minimal number of mistakes. I would say they taught me the art of pleasing everyone, of making people feel like they really knew me without ever revealing anything about myself. That it was more than them feeling like they knew me; that they would really like me, enough that they wouldn’t feel the need to look too close. What would be the point? They’ve already got me figured out! I would talk about how I never wanted anyone to look too closely at me, that I was worried that if people really tried, they’d realize I was just putting on a show and abandon me. I might smile and laugh awkwardly saying, ‘I don’t know. It sounds stupid but it’s true.’ The funny part would be that I was still doing it and that in all likelihood it was working on you just like it worked on everyone else.

I would say I learned to put on a show, to laugh and act like nothing matters to me, especially when it came to whatever was most important. I would talk about how if I cared about something, I ignored it in front of others so no one would know it mattered to me and wouldn’t have any reason to take it away. Why take away something that means nothing to you? I might then move into a speech about how there are a lot of flaws in this plan; how I could see them clearly now. ‘Why would anyone stay if they thought they didn’t mean anything to you?’ I would remark. ‘How would they know any different unless you showed them?’ I might pause reflectively and add, ‘Moreover, who would care about someone if they didn’t think that person cared about anything in return?’ Are you starting to see where I’m going with this?

I would end saying ‘that’s what I learned to do from an early age: alienate people without them knowing they are being alienated.’ I would go on saying that, as I grew older, these skills stayed with me but were modified slightly in my adolescent rebelling. I would talk about how I used the same set of skills involved in fooling people into thinking they know you to master the art of telling the truth in ways that people wouldn’t believe. In other words, I found a way to express how I honestly felt about things without people thinking, well, that that was how I honestly felt. I might say I discovered it by accident, actually.

I would tell a story about how I was maybe fourteen and some of my friends were talking about another friend’s families’ divorce. Divorce, being something I knew a little about, I joined in with a serious and honest reply. This being somewhat out of character, my friends simply looked at me as though considering whether or not to listen to what I said. After a few moments, they all laughed and shook their heads as though I made a great joke before going back to talking as though I hadn’t said anything. In my telling this to you, I’d get wistful and talk about how I tried a few more times but that they all went roughly the same. ‘This was how I learned that they didn’t take me seriously’ I’d say. It didn’t take long to figure out how I could use that to my advantage. Unfortunately, having everyone who matters to you think you’re something just shy of a joke can take its toll on your stress level and cigarettes help with that. Also, if you have a cigarette in your hand, it can easily move to your mouth, giving you a few extra seconds before you are expected to respond, which helps with not saying the very first thing that comes to mind.

And this is how I got to where I am, if I wanted to blame it on my circumstances; my childhood made me grow up a con artist. I can tell you it in as vague a description as I want but, at the end of the day, what I was doing was conning my “friends,” tricking them into thinking certain things about me without them knowing. Sure, it was pretty innocent compared to scamming someone out of their entire life savings, but it was still a con. Is it any wonder, then, that one of my favorite movies growing up was The Sting? I thought it would be awesome to be a con artist when I grew up. It wasn’t.

I never turned into a criminal con artist, but remained a social one. At first, nothing went wrong. I had a lot of friends, a couple relationships, normal things everybody has. I smoked a lot, which is to be expected considering my life involved a whole lot of thinking before speaking but that’s not that big of a deal. Besides, I quit when I was in my thirties. My husband, well, boyfriend at the time, didn’t like it. Anyway, for a while I was acutely aware of anything even remotely similar to what I considered suspicion from my friends. I started trying to please everyone, continued out of fear that they would find me out, and slowly forgot what it was like to do anything else. I had been pretending for so long that I, well, forgot I was pretending. I didn’t stop acting even when I was alone. I was constantly in character, alternating pleasing others and ignoring those things I held dear. More than one relationship ended with the other person saying, ‘I just feel like I’m more invested in the relationship and, at this point in my life, I don’t want to be with someone who isn’t in it for real.’ …Ok so really only one person said those exact words, but the sentiment was repeated.

I continued like that for a while, drifting from here to there, college to the real world, relationship to relationship, eventually settling on a job in advertising. Advertising, I thought, was perfect for someone with my talents; it allowed me to apply my conning to the world at large. Of course, my specific job was more focused. I went out and tried to woo new clients, to get them to sign with our firm, which is something my ability to know what people wanted to hear definitely helped with. Naturally, I quickly excelled. It was on one of these pitches that I met the man who would become my husband and then, eventually, the biggest regret of my life.


“Session four.”


You want to come back to my husband, then. Well alright. We met at a pitch. I had gone outside to smoke after presenting our ideas to his employer. He came outside—“for air,” he always maintained, “not to follow me”—and turned to me, telling me that I shouldn’t smoke, that it is bad for you. I laughed and said I’d worry about that when the time came. Yes, I’m worrying about it now.

We talked for a little more before heading back in. His company eventually signed a contract with our firm and, between one thing and another, we ended up seeing quite a lot of each other. Eventually, after repeated exposure, we made plans to meet outside of our respective offices. He was the first person I felt like I didn’t have to put on a show for. He made me feel like he would accept me, all of me, regardless of whether I would accept it myself. About six months into our relationship, we were sitting at dinner, just making conversation, and he mentioned something he read in the paper about a man who was arrested for child abuse, how he didn’t understand how a woman could stay with someone who beat her and their children. Without thinking, I said what I honestly felt about it, that there is always more to the story than what is in the paper and that it’s hard to fully understand a situation you haven’t lived through yourself. He replied that I was probably right and he didn’t mean anything by it. A few minutes went by, neither of us saying anything, both of us thinking about what had just happened before he turned to me, looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘You know, Sarah. I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said something that you really believed.’ I immediately panicked, thinking this was it, it’s over, he’s going to get up and leave, telling me that he can’t be with someone who doesn’t say what they feel and all the stuff that I’ve been told any time someone figured out what it was I do. He saw the stricken look on my face and smiled before continuing, ‘I’m glad you finally feel comfortable around me to let the real you out. I was starting to wonder when you’d realize you could stop the sales pitch.’ It was over for me right then. I knew I would never be able to con him again. He figured me out and, rather than be disgusted like I was afraid he would be, was ok with it. I was in completely new territory.

Somehow, I was able to accept that he saw through me and eventually relaxed some, not just around him, but around everyone. He brought out the real me, someone I didn’t even know. He knew me completely, my good qualities and my faults, my strengths and insecurities, of which there were many, and still cared for me. There is much to be said for having someone who knows you that well and still accepts you, still loves you. It was something I was not used to but quickly grew to like. We got married and were happy together for quite a while. Until those insecurities I casually mentioned caught up with me. Here is where I stop blaming my circumstances and take on responsibility.

You might have noticed by now that there is no ring on my finger. That’s because I am no longer married. My husband left me several years ago, before I got sick, before I was even a name on the list of potential subjects you had for this study. Causing him to leave me is the single greatest regret of my life. That is one thing I left out before, one thing I would have changed, if I could change something, over my smoking, over all of the other poor choices I have made throughout my life. I would go back in time and stop myself from beginning the chain of events that led directly to my dying alone. Did you know he doesn’t even know I’m dying? I didn’t have the heart to tell him. We talk still, a little here and there, but never face to face. It is easy enough to fake being well when the other person can’t see you. He cares for me still, just like I care about him. If I told him I was sick, that I would be dead soon, it would hurt him. He would worry. He’d come here. I don’t want him to see me like this. Better that he thinks I’m fine and lives his life without knowing. Besides, it’s nice to have someone treat me like something other than a reminder of their mortality or as something that is in danger of blowing away in the slightest wind. When will I even feel the wind? I haven’t left this house in months…

I know, I know. I’m getting off the subject. Forgive me; my mind’s been wandering a lot lately. My husband and I lived well. We were happy. We even thought about having kids. That’s where my insecurities started coming back. There’s a common thread in any discussion of children from abusive homes: they grow up to become abusers themselves. I’m sure you’ve heard that before. I know I had heard this many times throughout my life, and I don’t study anything that would focus on that. As such, my greatest fear in life was that I would grow up and become my father. I was afraid that if I had children, I would be a bad mother, that I would have a short temper and abuse them as my father had abused my brother and me. I was unable to tell my husband this, though. I liked that he wanted to have kids with me. I was afraid that if I told him, he would react badly and maybe leave me. I reverted back to my old ways; I pretended I couldn’t care either way. I acted like nothing was wrong, everything was fine, and told him exactly what he wanted to hear. Since he knew me so well, I modified my tactics and let a little bit of my true feelings show through, just enough that he would believe me and not get suspicious. It worked. I still don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

However, my sub-conscious was not willing to go back to the way things were without a fight. It liked that I was finally honest about things. I started trying to sabotage my relationship, doing little things to cause a fight so I could lash out. I didn’t mean to. I knew what I was doing but couldn’t stop myself anymore than I could admit the truth, what was causing all this to begin with. So, in a way, my fear of becoming my father actually caused me to turn into him, at least a little. He didn’t understand why I was doing this, what changed, and I wouldn’t—couldn’t—explain it to him. He stayed longer than I thought he would, trying to figure out what was wrong and if there was a way to fix it, but as I wouldn’t admit to the source, there was only so much he could do. He moved out one day after one last fight, telling me, ‘I care about you too much to continue like this. I don’t want to end up hating you…and that’s what I think will happen. I love you, but I can’t do this. I can’t fix what I don’t know is broken.’ Even then, even when my heart was breaking and I knew all I had to do was tell him the truth and he wouldn’t leave, I couldn’t do it. Our divorce was quick and painless. I got the house.

You must be wondering why I’m being so honest. Well, why not? I’m dying, aren’t I? When we started these little “talks,” I had three months to live. Three months; no more. In fact, if anything, I probably had less. Now I’ve got maybe three weeks. In all of the times you’ve been here, have you ever once seen any sign that anyone else has been in this room? Was your chair ever warm? Ever see another cup on my bedside table, more than one set of dishes in the sink? Ever notice anything out of place? Anything? I already told you my husband is gone and that I hadn’t told him I was sick. After he left, I slowly slid downhill until I had driven everyone else who mattered to me far enough away that I could wallow in my misery alone. By the time I found out I was dying, there was no one left to tell. You’re the first person I’ve talked to about any of this seriously and you know why? Because I don’t care anymore. Why shouldn’t I tell a psychiatrist my final thoughts? I wouldn’t be surprised if you are the one who is present to hear my last words. Want to know who I’m leaving everything to in my will? Me too. The last version leaves it all to my husband. People keep telling me I have to change it, but I don’t think I will. I haven’t decided yet, though. I feel like he deserves something, since I wasn’t able to give him the truth. Not that I think any of my stuff will make up for what I did to him, but at least he’ll know I still think about him. I don’t know if he’d like to know that, though.

I guess I agreed to do this because I needed to. I needed to talk about it just like I needed to know that someone will remember me when I die. That, somewhere, a dusty copy of your study would have me in its pages, and that there’s a chance someone could find it. Oh, I know you will do your best to keep people from knowing which participant is actually me, but someone will know. At the very least you will. And if people learn a little something about death’s effect on life from this, well, that’s something.




Dear Mr. Peters,

I hope you do not think this is too forward of me, but my name is Jacob Chang. I am a psychiatrist and am in the process of publishing a study on the effects of a person facing their mortality. Your late ex-wife was a participant in my study and later, my friend. Against most regulations, rules of doctor-patient confidentiality, and the federal guidelines on working with human subjects, I have an enclosed a copy of the interviews I had with Sarah. Should anyone find out I gave this to you, I would most likely lose my license and go to prison. In light of its contents and subsequent talks I’ve had with her once her participation in my study was complete, however, I thought that you should have it. May it give you peace in this time of mourning.

And she was right: I was there to hear her last words.


Sincerely,

Dr. Chang, Ph.D