Chapter 23
I assume the police caught up with Red’s father before he made it to the ward, because I don’t see him again.
A celebratory energy fills the unit now, as if things are looking up. Even Pig’s happy, which is weird considering how she hasn’t hidden the fact she’s afraid of leaving the unit tomorrow—the denizens of her Dark Wood are all too real.
Pig keeps asking when my stepmother’s coming. She is coming. She wants to be at my next patient meeting with Balder.
It happens before dinner. Adriana gets here way early and spends most the time talking to the nurses rather than to me. This suits me fine, because I haven’t done my workbook homework.
The green tab’s a worksheet titled Panic Attack.
So you’ve had a panic attack. You know, the one in which you COMPLETELY wigged out and thought you were going to kick the bucket? But you didn’t; really, you won’t. If you’re like most cats with anxiety, you probably think a panic attack is terrible, disastrous, and that EVERYONE will laugh, and you’ll NEVER pass the school year, NO ONE will like you, and you’ll ALWAYS be sick. Are you catching my drift?
Write down each time you used one of those ALL CAPS words in the last few days. You might have said it. You might have thought it. Write down everything you can remember.
This is unfortunately easier than it should be.
EVERYONE will laugh at me at the dance. I’ll NEVER get better. NO ONE will like me on the psych ward. I ALWAYS suck at gym.
Now in front of each sentence add, Is it likely that . . . and add a question mark at the end.
I write: Is it likely that I ALWAYS suck at gym?
Take your wiggin’ out hat off for a sec and answer the question.
I write: Sometimes I’m not great at what the teacher wants us to do. Usually I’m okay, but I’m never the worst in class.
So I don’t suck. Or, at least there are other kids who suck worse.
See, the problem is that you focus on the uncool rather than the gnarly other stuff you can do.
Do you remember thinking “I am going to die!?” That was a panic attack, right? It’s a setback. You probably thought, “I’ll NEVER get better.” How much of that is your gut reaction rather than noodling about it with your brain? You may FEEL that way, but that doesn’t make it so. I feel gross some mornings, but I know I’m not always gross, right?
I nod to the book.
I can’t walk through a door without counting or I’ll unleash the wolves.
Is it likely that I’ll unleash wolves? Is it likely that I can walk through a door without counting?
My fear ratchets to an eight as my wolf watches me fight through this. I scratch a No into the page, going over and over the lines until it etches through. Not yet.
I finish before my meeting with Balder. When I enter the interview room, Balder and my stepmother are chatting. I hop in and sit across from the doctor. I swear there’s a twinkle in his eye. Adriana wrings her hands. Why she has to come to these things is beyond me. I’m sixteen. If she’s brought me a birthday present, I don’t see it.
“I want you to get angry,” Balder says.
I lift an eyebrow. Over time, some people—those that can be my real friends—begin to read my body language rather than expect a verbal response. It’s made me sensitive to the body language of others as well. I also tend to accentuate my own actions to help foster this. Balder’s really in tune with me. I don’t have to say a word.
“Why get angry?” he asks. “Because anxiety and anger are not compatible. Neither are anxiety and pleasure, but that’s a harder emotion to force unless you take great pleasure in something like singing. You can’t count and sing. They’d compete.”
I shake my head emphatically. They do not want me singing.
“Could I give her a massage, Doctor, instead?” Adriana asks. “That might be easier for her.”
I roll my eyes. Even Adriana can interpret that one.
“It’s a good thought, but these coping skills are individual. In fact, many people with anxiety disorders have safe people they cling to. It’s an unhealthy coping mechanism and one that I’d rather not create now by having Milly require you to massage her in order to step through a doorway.”
Adriana flushes.
I nod again. I have no safe person. Well, maybe Bill. I’ll do more stuff with Bill. Like dance.
“Don’t get me wrong, Mrs. Malone, your instinct to protect makes sense, but it can be a negative. If someone you care about is in deep pain and all you have to do is wait with them for the pain to go away, you would, right?”
We both nod.
“Of course you would. Who cares, if waiting doesn’t make sense? It solves the problem. But what if every time you did this, that person adds something new. So first it’s to go through doors and you can handle that, but then it’s to take a bite, and then to speak . . .”
I see where this is headed.
“Eventually,” Doctor Balder continues, “there’s a breaking point where there isn’t enough time in the day to fit in all of these compulsions. It affects marriages, friendships, jobs. At some point you have to stop waiting with your friend, even if that means feeling like a bad friend.”
“Or a bad stepmother,” Adriana says, looking down. “I see. I’ve been feeding it.”
Feeding the toad—the wolf.
“Good, here’s what I want you to do, Milly. The next time you’re about to go through a doorway, try to do so without counting.” He raises a hand to forestall my response. “Yes, you will become anxious. Get mad. Shout at it. Imagine OCD as a person telling you to do the counting and tell the OCD off. Bring a pillow you can pound with your fist. Find something—not someone—you can abuse. Then when you feel as enraged as possible, step right through. If the anxiety surges, attack that pillow again.”
I’m nervous and, for the first time, not only about the anxiety I expect, but also the excitement of actually doing it.
“Give it a try. How about now?” he asks.
Adriana’s practically trembling, and I can see that nervousness in her she mentioned. It’s mounting, rapidly.
I push back from the interview room table.
“Good, now, what would you say to your anxiety if it were a person?”
. . . “Go away?” I say.
“Yes! But with anger. GO AWAY!” His shout echoes, and I cringe. “Why do you want it to go away?”
. . . “Because it stops me from doing things.” I know he’ll want specifics, so I continue. “Like gym class and going shopping and having a normal conversation. It costs me friends, and good grades, and sucks up all my time . . .” I choke on the pause. It’s already a lot more than I’d thought.
“Great. Go away! I want to exercise and shop, and have friends and talks! Are you ready?” Balder bounces with an energy that’s contagious.
My heart starts to hammer, but it’s a different feel. It’s like when I was at a track meet years ago before my mom died and my teacher put me in a sprint race. At the start line my heart started to pound, and energy filled me. Positive energy that allowed me to shoot out of the blocks.
I stand in front of the doorway.
. . . “Go away,” I say.
“GO AWAY!” the doctor shouts again.
. . . “You’re like an anchor,” I say. “You’re holding me back like . . . like Velcro strips . . .” I start to laugh and then force my serious face back on. “I want to live,” I whisper.
But I swear the doorway has turned from a metal frame into a guillotine.
Balder touches me on the shoulder. I jump.
“That’s a really good start, really good. For your homework, I want you to find something that you can use to express your anger physically.”
I take a hard look at Adriana. Too bad it has to be a something, instead of somebody.
Doctor Balder leaves, and to my surprise, Adriana checks her watch.
“I have to go, too,” she says.
.
. . “Okay,” I say and I’m left alone while counting . . . and on my birthday. She actually forgot.
At dinner, Pig sits right next to me. That in itself isn’t unusual, but she keeps shuffling in super close. It’s not until it’s too late that I realize what’s happening. Tink flits into the room and hums a C-note.
I should have known the nurses wouldn’t forget my birthday. A small part of me didn’t want them to, but most of me hates the embarrassment of being sung to by a bunch of people I don’t know well. Come to think of it, though, I wonder whether I know these people better than anyone.
The rendition of Happy Birthday has to be one of the worst ever. Rottengoth sounds like he’s drawing knives across his arms. I’m pretty sure Vanet believes he’s an operatic star, which he certainly isn’t. Tink sings in this crystalline voice, way more shrill than any fingernails on a chalkboard. Only Peter has a nice deep baritone. Pig just rubs her hands together and watches the doorway.
Adriana steps through, carrying a huge slab of cake ablaze with sixteen candles. She smiles at me, but they’ve turned down the lights and so her face has a campfire cast to it. The smile’s wolfish. Her teeth seem sharper, and the shadows beneath her cheekbones push out her jaw. I know it’s not real, but I can see it anyway.
“Happy birthday, Milly,” she says after the singing settles and she slides the cake before me. Stenson hands me a plastic knife.
“Watch your hair,” Pig says, her eyes lit, reflecting the flames. This is the little piggy who sees how she can be safe from the wolf. “Fire.”
“Make a wish,” Vanet says and then points at himself.
I don’t know what to wish for. I can’t have my fantasy. I don’t want my dreams.
“She has to count to make wishes?” Pig rolls her eyes, but everyone else laughs. Then I blow out all the candles in one go. I’m not sure I could have done that four days ago.
“Was I your wish?” someone asks from the hallway and I whirl, because he was.
Chapter 24
“Happy birthday, honey,” my dad says and steps through the doorframe.
I leap to my feet, and Pig jumps up at the same time and knocks into Adriana, who stumbles so that she braces herself using the cake, her hands sinking deep into the icing.
Pig apologizes, but I’m racing to my dad, who picks me up and hugs me.
“You didn’t think I’d miss your birthday?” he says, and I laugh. “When Adriana called and told me what she’d planned, I managed an earlier flight.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I bury my face into his shoulder to hide my tears. It’s been a tough week, a tough month.
“Shh,” he says quietly.
Tink asks if anyone wants cake and is answered with a chorus of affirmations.
“I’ll lick your fingers, Adriana,” Pig says and, to Adriana’s credit, she doesn’t get angry.
“Nothing I can’t take care of myself,” she replies and sucks the icing off. Vanet can’t tear his eyes away as she draws a finger from her lips.
“Down, son,” my dad says to Vanet. I keep a tight hold on my dad’s sleeve.
. . . “He’s okay, Dad,” I say.
I laugh again and it feels so good. It’s as if the unit has lit a huge bonfire that keeps all the wolves at bay. For the next hour I grill my father on what he’s done over the last two weeks and everything that’s happened in the outside world since I arrived on the ward.
Doctor Balder joins us for a family meeting and introduces himself. My father’s sort of roly-poly. Stick and ball, some kids used to call us on account of my being so thin and him having these big, round cheeks and a round belly. But it’s his laughter that makes him attractive. I should have known he’d find a new wife so soon after my mother died. A guy like him needs to laugh and that means someone to share it with. I’m not known for my laughter. Even now he jokes with Balder. And I also know that his being on the chubby side is a result of all the travel he needs to do for work, bouncing from tradeshow to conference to tradeshow.
“I sure can’t diagnose Milly as being boring,” Doctor Balder says.
“Imagine that,” my dad replies. “What would you prescribe for a compulsively boring patient? Weekly skydiving lessons and a career as a stunt actor?”
Balder laughs. “I’m afraid the skydiving instructors don’t take me out to lunch like the drug reps do. So Prozac it is. I’m only kidding, of course.”
“When is Milly coming home, Doctor?” my father asks. Everything feels different. Adriana was fighting to have me committed. My father wants me home. And I want to go home.
Doctor Balder sighs. “All joking aside, Milly has had some challenges. Nightmares, a setback with some of the other patients. Our job here is to stabilize her and get her home so that psychotherapy can continue on an outpatient basis, but I’d really like to have a good day with her so she can leave feeling strong.”
My father’s nodding. “Is that how you feel, Milly? One more day?”
“I still don’t think the dance is such a great idea,” Adriana says and I ignore her.
I am growing stronger, but the panic attack . . . that was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. And I did speak without counting today at group. I’d really like for that to happen again. As for the dance, I don’t want to jinx this.
. . . “One more day,” I say what everyone wants to hear. “I’ll see Pig off.”
“Pig?” my dad asks.
. . . “Yeah, the bald kid who ate three servings of cake.”
Adriana chuckles. “I actually thought she was feeling me up. She’s the one who suggested we have your party here.”
We say our goodbyes and my dad promises to collect me tomorrow. On the way out a pamphlet falls out of Adriana’s purse and I pick it up for her and read the title before handing it back. A Resource for Mothers of Children with Anxiety Disorders.
A resource for mothers . . . .
I meet her eyes, and she lowers them almost immediately. As the door clicks open, I hold up the pamphlet to show Adriana and ask, “Doctor Balder, what’s the diagnosis for someone who believes they are someone they’re not?”
He scratches his head for a second. “A delusion? They might be considered to have psychosis, but that’s a broad term and symptomatic of many disorders.”
“Deluded, thanks,” I say, holding my stare on Adriana’s back as she walks stiff spined away.
I’m buoyed by my dad having visited. The day has flown by and I hurry to the phone to call Bill.
I have to dial twice before he finally picks up. Then I rap the receiver three times so he knows it’s me.
“Hey, Milly,” he says. “How’s the loony bin?”
My cheeks heat. I hear laughter on the other end of the line. He’s being deliberately mean for their benefit.
. . . “Friends over?” I ask. “I can call back when you don’t need to cater to their shallow, clichéd, ignorant and frankly boring understanding of mental illness.”
There’s a muffling of the receiver. It sounds as though he put his hand over it.
“Hey, sorry, I’m dealing with it,” he says. “It is a little crazy, though, you know?”
. . . “You know, I don’t know, because everyone here’s cool. Exceptional even. Groovy.”
As I’m talking Peter dances past and I have to stifle my giggles. If people on the outside danced half as much as Peter, life would be better.
“Now you’re laughing at me?” Bill asks, misinterpreting. “Listen, I’ve had your back. Everyone here’s been poking fun at you and me, too.”
. . . “Sorry, Billy, that must be really hard.” I say it like I mean it, but I don’t. I really don’t.
“Are you going to the dance, or what?” he asks.
I look up to the ceiling and draw a deep breath. He apologized, and if he has had my back, that’s cute.
. . . “Do you want to go to the dance with me?” I ask.
He stammers as he says, “Well, you sure it’s a good idea, with the panic attacks a
nd everything?”
I never told him about the attack.
I give up.
“No,” I say. “I’m going to hang here.” I’m already regretting saying to my dad that I should stay. I should have left and gone to the dance. Alone. That’s therapy.
“Oh, good,” he replies. “Your stepmom will be pretty happy about that.”
Even if I wasn’t a counter, I’d still need to take a moment to control myself before answering.
. . . “What?” I ask. “My stepmom’s been talking to you?”
“Yeah, about the dance, you know, and trying to make sure I understand what’s going on.” To my silence he adds, “She only wants what’s best for you. She’s really worried.”
. . . “Yeah, worried I’ll get out of here and ruin her life.”
I hang up.
Chapter 25
I seethe. I can’t seem to stop clenching my hands into fists. I retreat to my room, where I pick up the ping-pong ball and imagine it to be Adriana’s head before squeezing it. It’s a something, right? It can be my punching bag. I can’t focus on homework and end up talking to Beauty.
. . . “Bill doesn’t want me to go to the dance with him,” I say. That much was pretty clear to me; what’s not as clear is why. “It’s not only Adriana. He’s totally embarrassed to be dating a crazy chick. Well, he doesn’t need to worry about that anymore, does he?” We hadn’t been going out for very long; it was a lot to expect him to handle.
Beauty says nothing.
. . . “I don’t think I’m overreacting,” I say, poking at her shoulder. “If I were smart, I’d go anyway and show Bill and Adriana what I think of their concern. Maybe I can talk to Bill there. Make up with him, if he sees me. I hate the telephone.”
Sleeping Beauty stays silent and imperious.
. . . “It’s not a bad idea. What’s the worst that can happen? They put me back in here, right? It’s not against the law for me to leave the hospital, or anything. They’d be pissed, but—”
Sleeping Beauty sighs.
. . . “I don’t really care what you think.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done, Milly?” It would be nice to have a real answer to that question like: Escaped the psych ward.
Counting Wolves Page 15