You know those bumper stickers “What would Jesus do?” As I’m sitting there crying, I start to think about that. Since I’m Jewish, Jesus isn’t a person I feel comfortable asking for help, as great a guy as he might have been. Let’s see … I know, what would Moses do? Well, Moses had a direct line to God. He’d probably just tap the cucumbers with his staff and they’d turn into chocolate éclairs or French fries or something more palatable. Scratch that.
What would Dad do? He’d round up a group of investors and launch a hostile takeover of Golden Slopes, buy the place, and change their ridiculous cucumber policy.
Mom? She’d start crying, but I’m already doing that and it doesn’t seem to be having much impact on any of the hard-hearted Food Nazis in this joint. Or she’d go into intensive OCD cleaning mode, organizing the out-of-date magazines in the dayroom by title and publication date. Failing that, she’d go shopping.
Since I can’t leave the table, the OCD option isn’t open to me. And there ain’t a whole lot to buy in the lockup ward at Golden Slopes other than cans of Ensure.
Jenny? I bet you anything Jenny would never be stuck in this position. She’d be sitting here asking for extra cucumbers.
Which leaves my little brother — what would Harry do? And then it strikes me: If Harry doesn’t like something, he just smothers it in ketchup, which drowns out the taste of whatever he’s put it on.
“Joe,” I sniff, “could I have some ketchup … please?”
“Coming right up,” he says, handing me a bunch of ketchup packets from the condiment tray.
I pour ketchup all over the offending vegetables, so that not one iota of green is visible. Then I fork one and put it in my mouth. The texture is still gross and cucumbery, but at least the taste is predominantly ketchup, so I can get the thing down. It takes five minutes, and I find myself gagging once or twice, but thanks to the Harry method, I manage to clean my tray.
Joe inspects the tray, my napkin, my lap, and the floor around me, to make sure I haven’t surreptitiously managed to dispose of a slice or two.
“Okay, Janie, you’re free to leave. Go do your half hour in with the rest of them, then I’ll pick you up in about forty-five minutes to go to the gym. You can ask if anyone else wants to head over there with us.”
I feel like dancing, even though I’m still crying, because I’m free to leave. I wish I were free to walk out the door and go home, but right now it feels good just to get up from the table and spend a half hour reading old People magazines.
Callie, Missy, and Tom are waiting for me. They surround me and give me a group hug, even though it’s against the rules.
“That so completely SUCKED!” Missy says.
“How’d you manage?” Callie asks.
I laugh through my tears and pose the question that “saved” me: “What would Harry do?”
“O … kay,” Missy says. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I would guess … maybe it’s like What would Jesus do?” Tom says. “Is that right, Janie?”
“Got it first guess.” I smile at him. “And the answer is … ketchup!”
We spend the next half hour asking each other “What would X do” questions, like “What would George Washington do?” or “What would Harry Potter do?”
I might have known these people only a short time, but it’s like we know more about each other than we do about most of our friends on the “outside.” There’s something about spilling your guts in group, taking off your mask and admitting to the real depth of your pain, that accelerates the pace of friendship. I wonder if it stays that way when you leave this place. I sure as hell hope so.
August 2nd
Crying over cukes must have done something (Cucumber Catharsis?) because I’m seriously thinking about talking to Dr. Pardy about everything. Tom says I should give her a chance to help me, but I don’t know. I’m scared — well, petrified, more like it. I’m afraid she’ll just tell everything to my parents and then it’ll be even worse with them than it is already. But I’m going to think about it some more. Maybe I’ll score brownie points for letting her fish in my troubled psyche and that’ll help me get out of here sooner. And I REALLY WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE!
August 3rd
Tom came out to his parents yesterday in a meeting with Dr. Pardy. He looked like he’d been twenty rounds with the world heavyweight champ when he came out of it, let me tell you. I was dying to know how it went but he said, “I’ll talk to you later, Janie, okay?” Then he went to his room and slept for two hours.
The suspense was practically killing me. When he finally came into the dayroom, I grabbed him, dragged him over to the comfy chairs in the corner, and ordered him to spill.
When he did, I almost wished I hadn’t. Can you believe this? His dad, the lying, cheating, insensitive jerk, said, “If I’d known you were going to turn out gay, I would have made your mother have an abortion.”
I swear to G-d, some people just shouldn’t be allowed to procreate. Seriously! What kind of father would say something like that to his kid? It makes my dad saying my acting isn’t important look like nothing at all, and you know how upset I was about that.
Apparently Tom’s mom went ballistic when his Dad said that, and I don’t blame her. I’d want to beat the crap out of whoever said something like that about my kid.
Tom’s mom might not have done that, but she came back last night about half an hour before visiting hours ended and told Tom that she’d asked his dad for a divorce. It’s funny because with all the fighting my parents were doing about Jenny’s wedding, I’ve spent a lot of time freaking out that they were going to get divorced. To me, the idea of my parents splitting up is like the end of the world.
But Tom seemed almost happy about it — at least in the beginning. Well, maybe happy is stretching it, but definitely relieved. But then he started feeling guilty, like that it was his announcing that he was gay that destroyed his parents’ marriage. I don’t know what Dr. Pardy told him (he’s been spending a lot of time closeted — hahaha — in her office), but I know what I said. And that’s that I think he did his mom a favor. It seems to me like she was trapped in this crappy, unhappy marriage but didn’t have the … I don’t know … courage? Maybe that’s not the right word, but basically she didn’t know how to get out of it. I told Tom that maybe it took his dad saying something that godawful about his kid to give her the excuse she needed to make a change.
I mean, I know how I would feel. At least I think I do. It’s one thing for someone to be a jerk to me. That’s bad enough. But if someone ever did to Kelsey what Matt Lewis did to me, I swear, I’d want to tear him limb from limb.
Back when Harry was in second grade, some fourth grader was being mean to him when they were walking home from the bus stop. He didn’t want to tell Mom or Dad because he knew Mom would totally freak out and Dad would do something over the top like suing the kid’s parents. Harry only told me because I happened to be the one who was home when he walked in, practically in tears, and I just nagged him until he told me what was up. When he did, I felt this whole Mama Bear thing welling up, even though he’s my younger brother and not my kid. I felt like beating the crap out of the little punk who was bullying him. The jerk was violating the Law of the Older Sibling, namely that I’m the only one who’s allowed to be mean to my little brother.
So the next day, I went to meet Harry at the bus stop, and when he pointed out the kid who’d been hassling him, I went up to the twerp and told him what I would do to him if he ever dared to even look at my brother the wrong way. Harry didn’t have trouble with the idiot again.
All I’m saying is that a lot of times it’s easier to fight for someone else than it is for yourself. At least that’s the way it is for me. I don’t know why. I mean, I know that other people shouldn’t be treated badly. So why do I put up with it myself?
I don’t just have butterflies as I knock on the door of Dr. Pardy’s office the next day — I’ve got the entir
e Butterfly Garden at the Bronx Zoo fluttering in my stomach.
“Come on in,” she calls. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Comfortable is about the last thing I can make myself right now, but I sit in one of the comfy chairs, kick off my shoes, and sit cross-legged, trying to give myself some advantage.
“What’s on your mind, Janie?”
Talk about a loaded question.
“I … well … I …”
And then, without my having any control over it, I burst into tears. The stupid thing is, I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t even know why I’m sitting in Dr. Pardy’s office, what I expect her to be able to do for me, how she can possibly help. All I do know is that I’m sick of feeling this way. I hate being the way I am. I’m sick of being sad, I’m sick of feeling angry. I want things to be different, better, but I just don’t know how to make it happen.
After blowing through half of one of the ever-present boxes of tissues, I end up telling Dr. Pardy about the mandala.
“It’s been bumming me out ever since we did that stupid mandala thing in art therapy. Because …”
Dammit, I’ve started crying again.
“Because I don’t know what to put in the middle. Because I don’t know who I am. Trying to do that mandala made me realize I’ve got this … huge … black hole inside me.”
Dr. Pardy waits patiently while I blow my nose, loudly, a couple of times.
“Janie, from where I sit, you are a lovely, bright, caring, sensitive young woman. Your parents tell me that you’re an honor student and an extremely talented actress.”
“Yeah, right. You heard my dad. He said that play practice isn’t important. I don’t even think he sees me most of the time. He just sees his idea of me.”
“Well, I think we were at the same meeting and what I understood your father to say was that he doesn’t think play practice is as important as you getting well, not that he doesn’t think it’s important, period,” Dr. Pardy says.
“But … it’s important to me,” I sniff. “Weird as it sounds, it’s only when I’m playing someone else that I feel like I’m really me.”
“That takes me back to your feeling about the ‘black hole’ inside,” Dr. Pardy says. “The thing is, Janie, you can’t count on other people to fill up that black hole. It’s mostly up to you. Sure, family and friends contribute something — maybe they might fill ten percent or so, fifteen if you’re really lucky and have a very supportive family or are fortunate enough to have a network of terrific friends.”
“Yeah, you know what they say: ‘You can’t pick your family, but you can pick your friends.’”
“It’s true — sometimes when a family situation is destructive to one’s mental health, it’s possible to create a supportive family of friends,” says Dr. Pardy. “But the point I’m making here is that the major work in filling what you call the ‘black hole’ is up to you.”
“But how? All I know is that it’s there. I don’t have a clue how to fill it up.”
“I can’t tell you how to do it, Janie, other than it’s about answering this question: Who is Janie Ryman? Not who Janie’s dad thinks she is, or who Janie’s mom thinks she is, or even who Janie’s friends think she is. No, the question is what makes you, Janie, tick. That’s one of the reasons we do the mandala exercise at Golden Slopes. To get you started on the process of being able to answer that question.”
She gets up from behind her desk and comes to sit on the sofa across from me.
“But I can tell you one thing for certain, Janie. Bingeing isn’t going to fill that hole for you. It might feel that way temporarily. But it won’t do the job.”
“And it makes me feel like crap afterward,” I admit.
“And causes you to damage your teeth, your esophagus, and your bones, not to mention putting you at risk of dying,” Dr. Pardy adds.
Wow. Thanks for reminding me of those cheerful facts when I’m already well and truly miserable.
“Janie, I’ve got some homework for you,” she says.
Doesn’t Dr. Pardy realize this is supposed to be my summer vacation? Jeez. Although seriously, I can think of about a zillion places I’d rather be spending my summer vacation than Golden Slopes.
“What’s that?”
Although my lack of enthusiasm couldn’t be more obvious, Dr. P is either oblivious or chooses to ignore it.
“Since you seem to enjoy journaling, I’d like you to write about the crisis that precipitated your hospitalization,” she says. “And then I’d really like you to share it in group tomorrow … assuming you feel comfortable doing so.”
She has got to be kidding. I don’t even think I can write about that, much less stand up in front of a bunch of people in group and read the whole sorry story aloud.
“I don’t know, I …”
“Try, Janie. I think it’s really important that you try.”
I take a tissue, do a last nose blow, and reluctantly tell her I will.
When I open the door to my room, I surprise Callie and catch her carving something on her leg with the end of a paper clip. It looks incredibly painful, and I know she shouldn’t be doing it. I don’t even know how she got hold of a paper clip — it’s all about keeping us from trying to kill ourselves in here: no belts, no shoelaces, no real mirrors except in the vitals room where they weigh us in, take our temperature and blood pressure, and check our bodies for attempts at self-harm — like trying to carve stuff on your leg with a paper clip.
“Callie — what the hell are you doing? You’re going to get in trouble for doing that!”
She draws the end of the paper clip across her thigh, leaving a thin trail of blood in its wake, and mimics me:
“You’re going to get in trouble for doing that! Like I’m supposed to give a shit about that.”
“But why? Why are you doing that to yourself?”
“What do you care?”
“Because I’m your friend. Because I don’t want you to hurt yourself like that.”
Callie laughs unpleasantly. “My friend? You don’t even know me. You don’t even know a fraction of what my life is about. So why don’t you go find your little fairy friend and worry about him instead?”
Why the hell does she have to bring that into the discussion?
“Do me a favor — leave Tom out of this. I thought you of all people would be more sensitive and respectful.”
“What do you mean by that?” she says, drawing more blood from her leg. I can’t stand to even look at what she’s doing — how can she do it to herself? “Me of all people? Why me of all people? Because I’m such a freak myself?”
“No — I don’t think you’re a freak. Not at all. I guess because you’re different, too. I would think you know how he feels.”
“Different. That’s just a polite way of saying freak. So listen, Miss Goody Two-Shoes — why don’t you get your perfect little self out of here and leave me alone, okay?”
Me? Perfect? In what universe might that be?
I don’t want to leave Callie alone, because I don’t want her to keep hurting herself. But short of wrestling the paper clip away from her — and Callie’s a lot bigger and stronger than I am — I don’t know what else to do.
I grab my journal and a pen and head for the door.
“I was just trying to help. To be a friend. I’m sorry if that offends you so much.”
I slam the door behind me.
Once I’m in the hallway, I don’t know what to do. I don’t want Callie to end up like Helen — not that she’d be able to kill herself with a paper clip. But even in the two and a half weeks I’ve known her she’s changed — and not for the better. She’s angrier, bitchier, yet at the same time … almost, I don’t know … detached. Like the way she was just sitting there and hurting herself, watching the blood well up from her skin like she didn’t feel the pain. Or she didn’t even care if she did.
Part of me wants to take her at her word and just leave her alone to do
whatever she wants to herself. I mean, it’s her body, isn’t it? If she wants to do weird shit to it, then that’s her problem.
But there’s another part of me, the part I wish I could ignore, that tells me if I care about Callie, that if I want to really be a good friend to her — to help her — I need to tell a nurse about what I just saw, even though I’m worried that Callie will beat the crap out of me for doing so.
Unfortunately, that part wins out. Instead of heading for the dayroom to write, I make my way to the nurses’ station.
“Um, Nurse Kay?”
“Yes, Janie, how can I help?”
“Can I tell you something … in private?”
The last thing I want is for anyone to witness me being a stool pigeon.
“Sure,” she says, coming out from behind the desk. “Rose, cover for me, will you?”
She leads me into the vitals room.
“So what’s up?”
“Well … I wasn’t sure what to do … I mean, if I should tell you because I don’t want to get anyone in trouble but … well, when I went into my room just now, Callie was hurting herself.”
It’s like someone flips a switch inside Nurse Kay — all of a sudden she’s in emergency mode, all brisk, businesslike, and to the point.
“How exactly?”
“She’s carving stuff on her leg with a paper clip. I mean, I don’t think she’s trying to kill herself or anything, but … well, it looked pretty painful. Except it didn’t seem like she was actually feeling the pain.”
“Okay, Janie, thanks for letting me know.”
She opens the door to the vitals room and herds me out.
“And, Janie …”
“Yes?”
“You did the right thing by telling me — I know it couldn’t have been easy.”
She practically runs down the hallway toward our room, and I make my escape to the dayroom.
August 4th
I’ve already written about how I first met Matt Lewis back in middle school, and how I had a crush on him ever since. How I watched him go out with a seemingly never-ending procession of girls at school, and always dreamed that I would be one of them. No, scratch that. Not one of them. The One. I thought one day he would wake up and realize that although there were girls that were prettier than me, that were thinner than me, that had better breasts and better thighs and better hair and better, well, pretty much everything, that I was the one that he really loved and wanted.
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