My mom wrote a note to her telling her I was coming home “deeply disturbed,” and asking that I be excused from watching certain documentaries.
“Helaina gets upset by these things because of what she’s been through,” my mother told the teacher one day.
“No, she has to learn to deal with the real world,” the teacher said. “She needs to learn that this is how the world is.”
CHAPTER NINE
War is a mind-set, and all action that comes out of such a mind-set will either strengthen the enemy, the perceived evil, or, if the war is won, will create a new enemy, a new evil equal to or often worse than the one that was defeated.
You find peace not by rearranging the circumstances of your life, but by realizing who you are at the deepest level.
To recognize one’s own insanity is, of course, the arising of sanity, the beginning of healing.
—Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth
In January 2006, Dr. C’s chart read:
Seen in emergency room in St. Vincent’s. Began taking Risperdal.
It was the first time that whatever had upset me, whatever dark thing had happened as a result of fighting with Vin, had made me actually draw blood in two lines over my wrist.
I presented them to my father right after and told him, “I need to go to the hospital. I want to kill myself.”
In a painfully slow, awkward, dragged out, and desperate cry for help, we drove to the St. Vincent’s Emergency room—the one at New York Downtown Hospital across the street was to be avoided at all costs, no matter how convenient—and I was led into a small, private emergency room, where a curtain was drawn around us.
They kept me in that room for two hours doing nothing but sitting there.
Eventually, a black woman in a charcoal suit entered carrying a clipboard, wearing her glasses on a colorful chain around her neck.
“We can admit you to the children’s psych ward for two weeks if you don’t think you can keep yourself safe,” she said.
“I don’t know. Maybe that would be best,” I said.
I knew I didn’t belong there. I didn’t want to actually kill myself, I had no real plan; what I wanted was to not feel how I was feeling, for someone to help me out of it, not to die.
You’re not crazy. A crazy person wouldn’t be thinking about getting her homework done right now.
But it looked like I was out of options, and so maybe, having an excuse to be away from everything, from Vin, from school, from my parents, from the subway, was the solution. Literally removing myself from the world.
If they think it’s serious enough, maybe they’ll give me something I haven’t tried yet.
Just then, my mother showed up, throwing back the curtain in time to refuse to let them admit me anywhere.
“You want to go with all those crazy people, those degenerates? You’ll be all alone surrounded by crazy people and drug addicts. That’s not you. You don’t belong there. You’re not going.”
She turned to the woman.
“She’s fine. She’s just being dramatic.”
My mother gathered up my things.
“Now, let’s go see your grandfather, someone who is actually sick.”
I hadn’t even realized that Grandpa was on another floor in the same hospital, going in and out of consciousness after having a stroke.
Where the hell is my head at?
My aunt was there, my grandma was there, and I told my mom, “Please don’t tell them I was down there.” I watched, suddenly becoming everyone’s rock, as they all cried while he made moaning noises.
After that, I took Dr. C’s recommendation of some sort of Behavioral Therapy. Dr. K had an office near Columbus Circle, a place just like all of the other tall landmarks that I still was not comfortable being in, but faked that I was, ignoring my elevated heartbeat, trying to look like all of the other people going about their business in like they were playing volleyball on the beach, nothing to worry about here.
I told Dr. K everything I had told the other doctors, still not at the point where I had an attitude of “why should I tell you, you can’t help me,” because I refused to go in that way. If you asked for help, you needed people to want to help you.
It was a good thing, too, because Dr. K didn’t just sit there and ask me questions and show me the door when our time was up. She had me do things, like “chart” my feelings and fears as they pertained to Hailey, my new, loud, very ill-liked school best friend, and Vin, the only two people I had real, close relationships with. I liked having something to do, like an activity. This was where we started: just chart how you’re feeling, and in response to what.
Watching the news made me afraid, so that was high on the chart, like an eight.
Vin not picking up his phone made me panic, so that was a ten.
The way Dr. K spoke to me, the way she started to uncover causes and effect, made me feel like something was clicking. She checked in with my parents, and I got the sense that maybe she could help me break free of all of these nasty cycles I found myself in, and possibly, begin to build myself back up.
“You know,” she said. “You always have choices. You don’t have to participate in any relationship or any activity that doesn’t feel good to you.”
Theoretically, yes, I could choose to stay home while Vin went out, or I could choose to stand my ground when I felt hurt, but I could also poke my own eyeballs out with a hot steel blade or create a giant pit of fire for myself to jump into too. Those “choices” felt in line with that. Still, week after week, Dr. K patiently peeled back these layers, almost like the way you’d tiptoe around a giant mess the morning after a party, slowly cleaning it up while everyone was still passed out.
“Everything may feel like the end of the world, but it’s not, really,” she said. “It’s not immediately a crisis, unless you make it one.”
One morning after I had a huge fight with Vin, she suggested I try an experiment where I put away my phone for a weekend, and spend it with my parents making pizza and going to the movies. During those 48 hours, I felt the twinge of familiarity, of warmth, of life before things got crazy. I started to feel something shift.
Calling him was strange, after that day. I was walking Gucci, and I decided I was ready to talk, and we said, “Hello” formally, like two strangers, asking how the other one was.
In that moment, I felt I was going backward, a backward fall I had to take because I had made that call, and was already moving down toward the ground, with nothing to grab on to.
Report Card Comments January 27, 2006
Modern Politics: In spite of a somewhat prolonged absence toward the end of the past quarter, Helaina did not fall behind one step in this course. Helaina is one of my most contentious, hard-working students, as she is always the first to make up any missed assignments, do extra credit, and bring up new and interesting topics.
April 10, 2006
Advanced English: Helaina has struggled mightily this year, especially during this past quarter. I am touched by her effort and commitment to the course. No matter how hard things get, Helaina always seems to meet expectations and even surpass them. I feel that I am seeing a deeper, more introspective Helaina; her writing increases to be more thoughtful and searching. I look forward to working with her this spring.
April 10, 2006
Web Design: A+: Helaina approaches this class with a positive and enthusiastic attitude and consistently completes her work in a timely and meticulous manner. She prepares well for quizzes as demonstrated by her grades. Additionally, she has turned in 100 percent of her homework and class assignments. I am extremely impressed with her performance and look forward to her continued success in the fourth quarter.
Advanced US History: Helaina is always lovely to have in class. She completes her homework in a thorough and detailed manner, and it is always on time. Lately, she seems a bit distracted; her usual A and B grades have slipped a little lower than I’m sure she would like. All in all she is always
polite, asks important questions, and is an overall pleasure to teach. Her diligent and studious manner will ensure her future success.
2005–2006: Full-year absences: History: 13, Politics: 10, English: 10, Ecology: 9, Algebra: 9
In the two months that rounded out the end of the school year, a lot happened. I cheated on Vin, again, breaking up with him at junior prom, on a boat, no less. My drinking started to become heavier. Friends and boyfriends would learn to lie when they brought me home, saying, “She’s not feeling well.” My mother continued to make me feel guilty for how I was acting. Accepting that I was indeed not in control of what was going on would have been too scary—it would have meant it was out of both of our realms of control. “Eat by yourself” she would say angrily. I didn’t want to sit with them or talk to them anyway, so this was even better. Deep under her anger was hurt, helplessness, but I didn’t know it at the time, and I know she wouldn’t have let me see it even if I asked.
Right at the end of the year, after just a few months of working together, with tears in her eyes, Dr. K. told me she had to tell me something.
“I’m leaving. I have to go to another program that’s full time, and I won’t be seeing any of my clients anymore,” she said, her voice catching in her throat.
“I don’t want you to leave me. We were doing so well. You’re the only one who has ever helped me. Please don’t go.”
She handed me a tissue.
“I know you’re going to keep doing well. You’ve come so far. I believe so much in you.”
I blotted my eyes, and, unwilling to continue with the session, wiped my hands on my jeans, and stood up.
“Thank you for everything. Good luck,” I said, and I closed the door behind me.
Dr. K had left a referral for someone else in her office. Dr. E, who made me feel like I was right back at square one. Talking and nodding, talking and nodding.
“Well, what we used to do, she had me do these activities….” I tried to explain the difference between how Dr. K spoke to me and how Dr. E was speaking to me, tried to tell her what we were doing with the charts, but it didn’t seem to really register. After five weeks, I decided my parents shouldn’t be wasting their money, and I shouldn’t be wasting my time, and a man was arrested for attempting to bomb the New York City and New Jersey PATH train subway tunnels and flood the Financial District, and I stopped therapy.
* * *
Over at Millennium High School, Michael had his first panic attack over a bad grade on a test. He was sent to the guidance counselor’s office, and they muttered things to each other, looking at a folder, making a connection to his being “down there on 9/11.”
He was sent to a hypnotherapist for six months, and saw two additional doctors, a psychotherapist and a psychiatrist, who diagnosed him with depression and prescribed him Zoloft.
He told them what he was feeling: he blew things out of proportion, his reactions were strong, the smallest things sending him into a depression. The future was hopeless. Nothing he did would ever matter. Nothing would turn out right. The world around him was horrible.
“I’m not going to amount to anything, and neither will the world.”
He wanted to be home alone all the time, to run away, drop out of school, start a new life, no friends, no family. He was sad, without a good reason to be.
“I’m disappointing my parents. They just want me to be happy. They’re good parents. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
He found a better medication, though: vodka, which he brought to school in a water bottle one day. He announced at the end of class—his favorite class, with his favorite teacher—“I’m so plastered right now.”
His favorite teacher told him to go splash his face in the bathroom, then go to the nurse’s office, and followed him into the bathroom.
Michael got in his face and yelled, “Teachers are supposed to stay out of the kids’ bathrooms!”
It was a fight that he almost made physical. Instead, he ran into the bathroom stall to throw up. He woke up after three hours in the nurse’s office. His father was standing over him.
“This is the worst thing you’ve ever done. I’m really disappointed in you.”
After that, he started drinking alone.
* * *
Dr. C had begun putting me on other mediations she thought could help me out, Busbar, Affexor, Propanolol, and I still had the Klonopin with me at all times. With each new prescription, my mother balked, went on a tirade about how all of these pills were making everything worse, that it wasn’t helping, that “me and my father just blindly trust doctors,” and that we didn’t want to listen to her.
The three of them collectively concluded, according to her notes, that I was being “triggered in extreme ways, primarily experiencing depression, feeling isolated, crying, couldn’t eat,” that I was “aggressive and out of control.” Sudden and uncontrolled and raging eruptions “targeted myself and others,” which seemed to “indicate that the Prozac didn’t work.”
That summer before my senior year of high school we took a trip, as a family, to Los Angeles and Las Vegas, which my mom thought would be a ton of fun for me. She was still trying, in the way she knew how to try.
After wandering around Universal Studios and forcing myself, through more my mother’s “egging on” to go on the Mummy Roller Coaster, which was terrifying instead of fun, I began suffering from a horrible headache, without knowing, at the time, that it was a migraine. I was nauseous and could barely eat as we sat at Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant. What the hell is this? The pain was so intense that it made it hard to even sit up.
“Please, can we go?” I asked when we were done, as Mom sat there sipping her cappuccino. She took her time walking through crowds toward the parking lot.
“Denise, why are you being so insensitive? She’s in a lot of pain,” my dad said.
“She’s just a killjoy,” my mom said. “Everyone gets headaches.”
In the car, we sat in over an hour of LA traffic while I held my searing head, which felt like it was being squeezed in a meat grinder. I was trying my best not to throw up in the rental car. To make matters worse, a bunch of drunk kids in the car next to us were partying in a stretch limo, periodically hanging out of the sunroof or the window to shout “Wooo!!!!” and blow on some sort of horn.
If I had a gun, then, I would have used it on myself.
As we pulled up to the hotel, I ran into the lobby, began gagging, and somehow made it to the bathroom of our room before I threw up.
Vegas, came and went in heat waves, slot machines, and Billboards of showgirls that made me feel nervous about my own body. When I think of my time there, I think about the hour I spent looking for the perfect shirt to get Vin, and my mom complaining that she was “losing her patience.” I remember crying by the fountain of the Bellagio, because Vin wasn’t picking up his phone. I remember walking around the casino with my dad on our last night, suddenly deciding that I wanted new gold hoop earrings, because all I wore were hoops.
We found a jewelry store easily, and the salesman’s hair was spikey, and he reminded me of Henry, from middle school.
He asked me my name, and told me it was beautiful.
“These are the white gold hoops we have, we don’t have any yellow,” he said.
“Well, I have my heart set on yellow.”
“Really? Most girls go for these,” he said as he put them back.
“I’m not most girls.”
“I could tell that right away.”
I said goodnight and walked away with my dad … then I stopped in my tracks.
“I think I’m gonna walk around for a little bit, find something to do,” I told him.
I went right back to the store, where the salesman was on the phone.
“So what’s there to do here after 11:00 p.m.?” I asked.
He muttered, “I have to call you back …” as he let the phone close.
“How old are you?” he asked skeptically
“Twenty, twenty-one?”
“Maybe … how old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” he said.
“I’m eighteen, but nobody believes me when I tell them,” I said.
“I have to close up here, but I’ll be done in ten minutes,” he said. “You want to just wait around and we’ll get some drinks or something?”
We smoked cigarettes and walked around the casino, and he brought me a Long Island iced tea. He led me into a garage, and we began to kiss passionately and sloppily, and as I pulled him out of his fly, a garage employee passed through, causing us to freeze in place and then burst out laughing.
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning?” he said.
“It’s my last day. We have to go to the airport at 2:00 p.m.,” I said.
The next morning, he called, and I told my parents I was going to have lunch with some kids I met the night before.
We got in his car, and he drove me over to a mall where he told me to get whatever I wanted at the California Pizza Kitchen. He looked at me across the table and rubbed my hand. After lunch, I told him to take me to a quiet spot. We drove for about half an hour and I got a little nervous, because I had to make it back on time for our flight.
“I really don’t look eighteen?” I asked.
“Not at all,” he said.
“Well, I shouldn’t. I’m seventeen.”
He looked at me and just laughed.
“I had a feeling you were anything but eighteen.”
We got to his house, went up to his room, and I pulled him onto the bed.
At the airport, screens displayed the news that the British police foiled a terror plot to carry liquid explosives onto nearly ten aircrafts traveling from the United Kingdom to the United States and Canada—and that was the end of bringing water bottles onto airplanes. The plan was similar to bin Laden’s 1995 plan to detonate bombs mid-air, after his “alleged” bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993 didn’t quite pan out the way he’d hoped. The plot was described as “sophisticated” and was said to potentially have “rivaled 9/11.” That was still everyone’s reference point: another 9/11, worse than 9/11, just like 9/11. When the men were arrested, President Bush plugged the war he created by reminding everyone that these were the “fascists” we were at war with.
After 9/11 Page 22