You Found Me

by Joel Cobbs

  For some reason I could never understand, I was going to miss him. I was going to miss the man who pushed me farther and harder than I wanted to go. I couldn't stand the man, and here I was missing him.

  I missed my friends. I'd shut them out over the last few months and it was killing me inside. I hated thinking that, but it was true. They were as good as gone, I told myself. They wouldn't want to see me after this. Why had I been like that? I knew I'd never know the answer, no matter how much I wanted to.

  Tomorrow was my first official day. Today was more of an inauguration into the program. I would spend the rest of today getting acquainted with my room. At some point I'd be taken to dinner. They would announce it, of course, but since I was labeled as a “highly dangerous person”, I was to be escorted to dinner. It didn't bother me all that much, but I wasn't really happy with the situation. If I could avoid it I would have.

  There were different things that would be going on. There would be group therapy. We'd talk to each other about what we were going through and why we were there. I was told that's how I'd learn who was who and why they were here. Family therapy would be after that, followed by free time. During free time, we'd do different things. There was TV, board games, finger painting, or whatever else you wanted to do. I wasn't thinking about that right now. Free time was the last thing on my mind.

  I stared at the walls once again. I felt the air conditioning kick on. My room was cold again. Tears formed in my eyes. I didn't know what the future held, but I knew what was happening right now. I starting crying.

  Mom was gone. Dad was gone. Friends were gone. God was gone. Everything I knew was gone. Now, all I had was myself. Fear, and myself.

  Chapter Six

  We were all sitting in a circle. There were nine of us: five guys, four girls; all of us came from all walks of life. There was me, a guy believed to have tried to commit suicide and forced to “find himself” before everything took a turn for the worst. A nurse was seated at the head of the circle, separating it into two parts. She waited for someone to go first.

  I noticed that was the hardest thing for people in general, not just the nine of us. No one ever wanted to go first. Never. I wanted to talk, but my throat had become dry and my heart was torn in two. I couldn't say anything. I had therapy with Dad later and I was trying to keep my composure until then.

  “I'll go,” a young man said, and so it began.

  “Thank you, Nicolas,” the nurse said. She was old, obviously way passed her prime in her nursing career and had a reason for being stuck here in what I thought was a dead end job. She was wearing a pink uniform, one that didn't really go with what she looked like, but I'm sure it could pass as acceptable.

  “I'm not...happy, I'm not happy with where I am.”

  “And why is that?” she asked. “Because I hate this place.”

  “Nicolas,” she said in a calm voice, “are you sure you mean 'this place' as in this building, or could you mean 'this place' as in where you are in life?”

  “No, he hates this place,” another man said.

  “Lanty, don't answer for Nicolas. He can answer for himself.”

  “Then why didn't he?”

  “You didn't give him enough time, Lanty. Now let's calm down and see what he has to say.” He gave a frustrated sigh and leaned back in his chair.

  Lanty was young, black, and rather arrogant. He really was a cutter. His arms were butchered far worse than mine. It was hard to look at him without seeing the way they were. He had more scars than I could've ever imagined a body being capable of having. I knew he'd been here a while and would stay for a long time, much longer than I would.

  “I think I mean both,” Nicolas started again. “I hate this place, literally. I feel confined every time I come here.” Rumor was he'd been here six times already. As I would learn much later, this place was as bad as women's luncheon when it came to rumors.

  “What do you mean you 'feel confined'?”

  “I think I know what he's saying,” Klara said. “You don't feel like you can be yourself in here. It's as if we're all being programmed to do what the world thinks we should do.”

  Klara was going through a mental breakdown after her family abandoned her when she turned up pregnant. She killed the baby in the process of trying to kill herself. She was in observation, a place where they kept an eye on her every second of everyday. I wasn't sure if she'd ever have privacy again.

  “Why do you think you feel like you're being programmed, Lara?”

  “How can you not?” she asked. “Everything we do here is done on a strict schedule, with nothing ever being allowed or changed if it's not in the schedule. If we wanna play cards and it's time for this stupid session, tough. If we wanna eat when it's free time, tough.”

  “Are you saying order isn't necessary?”

  “Sometimes, yeah I think so.”

  “I d-d-don't th-th-think so,” Tony stuttered. “Order c-c-can be a v-v-very important th-th-thing.”

  Tony was highly unstable, more so than any of the others. His wife flat out told him he was garbage and he wasn't worth her time. She was gone hours later. This wasn't his first admittance, I later learned. He had been here numerous times and this was just another trip. I felt sorry for him.

  “Why can order be so important, Tony?”

  “O-o-order can k-keep things s-s-s-safe,” he tried hard to say. It was all I could do to listen to him. It was annoying and didn't go well with his somewhat high pitched voice.

  “You think so?”

  “Y-yes.”

  There were others, but these were the ones I remember the most; the ones that really stuck out and grabbed me the most. Each had a unique story that caused me to ache inside. I felt as if I wasn't alone in this world. This world full of horrible feelings and faults. Someone else was going through what I was going through. Pain. Loss. Pain and loss.

  We were all hurting, that much I know. Some would go on to hurt long after that. Some would recover in a matter of days after arriving. It was always different. Different for everyone. I didn't know which I fell in or would eventually fall in, but I just wanted to feel better than I felt. I was so confused I didn't even know how I felt.

  Honestly, I wasn't even sure I felt at all.

  ------

  “Robert, why don't you start?” I hate statements like that. Always have. Always will. It's one of those lines that sounds like a question and really isn't. It's a demand. I wasn't in the mood for games anymore. I had nothing to prove to these people. Not now.

  “Why can't he?” I said, pointing at Dad.

  “Because I asked you to.”

  “And I said 'no.' Any questions?”

  “Rob, stop it,” Dad interrupted.

  “Why should I? Why're you now starting to talk?”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “You know good and well what it means.” My forcefullness caught me off-guard.

  “Robert,” the therapist said, “calm down.” She was a sharp contrast to what Dr. O'Nassis had been. While he'd been a rather large man with many years under his belt, she was skinny, blond, and probably hadn't been out of college for more than two or three days.

  “You heard the lady, Rob.”

  “Why would I listen to you? You turned your back on Mom. You tried to act like it never happened. You buried her in the ground and all you did was walk away.”

  “Rob, you know that's not true. I've done all I can to get through this.”

  “You have not. You carry your pain as if it's nothing.”

  “You have NO idea what I'm going through, Robert! You weren't married to the love of your life for thirty years. You didn't ride through poverty and hardships every time you turned your head and the only thing there for you was your best friend and life companion. You weren't there when your family bailed out on you because they were more worried about what was going on with them then they were about us.”

  “No. I was there when I lost one person
that matter and was abandoned by the other.”

  “I didn't abandon you! I didn't abandon you! You know I didn't abandon you! I couldn't have and I didn't,” he yelled, “I was here. I was right here. I was right down the hall every night, sleeping alone in a bed night after night after night wishing I could just burn the bed and get another one. Burn her books, burn her clothes, burn her side of the room, burn anything and everything that reminded me of her.” His voice trailed off. I inhaled in rage and just looked at him. We were both in tears but neither wanting to speak to the other. This was too much for me. Too much. We were just quiet for a few moments, slowly breathing in and out, trying to regain our composure.

  “You know I didn't abandon you, Rob. You know I didn't.” The tears were streaming down my face now. I was biting my lip. I didn't wanna go on. We'd been going at this long enough, hadn't we? Couldn't we just call it a day and be happy with the progress we made today.

  “I wanna stop.”

  “I'm sorry, Robert,” Dr. Keener said. “You know we can't do that.” Yes, I knew. I still didn't know why I'd asked, but for some reason I did. I knew this wasn't going to end for a while, but I wanted it to. I so desperately wanted it to. I just sat there.

  “Robert,” she started, “why didn't you come to your father after you learned of your mother's death?” I rubbed the tears from my eyes and tried to concentrate on the question.

  “I don't know.”

  “What do you mean?” “I mean I don't know.”

  “Do you really not know, or are you trying to avoid what you really wanna say?”

  “I really don't know. I may've been worried about it or just didn't wanna say anything. Maybe I just didn't wanna say anything, I don't know.”

  “Rob, you should've come to me. We could have worked through this and avoided the whole mess we're in.”

  “And we probably coulda done the same if you'd come to me.”

  “I tried, Rob. I really tried.”

  “No, you spent more time in self pity and moving on than in me.”

  “How can you say such a thing, Rob?” he asked. “Rob why are you lying about this? I was going through just as much trouble as you and you know it.”

  “Oh please,” I said. “If you're going through so much, why am I the only one in here?” He held up his arms. He was wearing a short sleeve button up shirt and khakis.

  “Because I'm not taking it out on me. I'm not taking it out on you. I'm trying to accept that my wife isn't going to be home when I leave here. That I don't need to call her and ask what it is I need to pick up on the way home. That I have no one to...” he stopped. We were both crying, the tears flowing faster and faster as the silence moved by.

  “Hold as you go to sleep,” I said, finishing his sentence. He looked at me.

  “I'm sorry, Robert.” I looked away and cleared my throat.

  “Me too,” was all I could muster.

  ------

  I kept asking myself how I'd gotten to this point. The point where I would be sitting in a place that wasn't my home, befriending people I once wouldn't have bothered to look at the first time, let alone a second. These people all had issues. I didn't have issues, I knew what was wrong with me. Nothing. But for some reason, here I was, as close to dying as I ever wanted to be.

  “Free time”, as it was labeled, was nothing more than sitting around deciding on what it was you were gonna do. You could paint, talk, play cards, watch TV, read, write, listen to music, or even play music. There were no guitars or other instruments that could potentially be dangerous. There was a piano and a boom box built into the wall. It was rather pathetic if one should ask me.

  Today, I just wanted to rest. I didn't want to be interrupted, bothered or whatever term you want to use. I just wanted to get my mind back to where it should be. I replayed everything over and over again in my head.

  I got the voicemail. I started crying. I went into the bathroom. Then what? What was I missing? I know there was something. I couldn't have cut too deep. I was always careful, even if it had been Mom...

  I could feel myself start to tear up again. I blinked it away and looked around to see if I could find something to do. I didn't want to play the piano. I didn't want to sing. I didn't want to watch TV. I really wanted to nap, but that wasn't one of my options. After a few seconds of debate, I settled with writing something. I collected the tools, set them before me, and started.

  I wanted to write something. I wasn't sure what, but I knew I wanted to write something. The pencil was sharpened. The three sheets of paper sat before me, neatly stacked and awaiting me spontaneous creation. Michelangelo said something to the effect that the sculptures he created were already there, he just had to take away the excess marble. That's the way it is with writing. The story is there. What you do with it is a world of its own. I picked up the pencil and started writing, life appearing before me.

  I don't really know what it is I'm writing. For the most part I'm writing to just take up time, mainly because I'm bored. What is it about this place that makes me so bored? I look around and I see all sorts of people from all walks of life. Each one of us going through something that no other individual could ever understand nor realize. Who we are and what we're going through is something in itself. I don't care. I'm just writing to take up time.

  Maybe there's something I'm missing. Some of the people here are really hurting. Who and why I don't know. I know they are hurting though. Is that bad? Is it bad that I'm practically waving off the fact they hurt? I know they hurt. I know more than anyone else in here. The nurses, doctors, visitors, therapists. I'm one of them. They aren't. You can't truly understand what's going on unless you're a part of what's going on.

  I am apart of what's going on. I know it's not all me; it's not that everything revolves around me and that I'm the only one who matters. But I'm apart of it. These people, the ones I'm locked here with, we're all in pain. Terrible, terrible pain.

  I stopped writing. I looked at the piece of paper. What I'd written didn't really make sense. I read it over and over again. It was junk, I told myself. It was exactly how I felt. I was lost. I felt like something inside of me had been torn apart and left for dead. Whatever it was, it was gone. I crumbled it up. There was a garbage can near me and I threw it away. I closed my eyes as the tears began to show.

  I was lost.

  Chapter Seven

  Night time was the hardest. I would lay in bed and try to dream, but my thoughts would consume me. I couldn't dream, they wouldn't come to me. I felt as if I was choking, as if I was being...constricted in some form or fashion. I didn't know what it was, but it felt like I was allowed to breathe. I wanted to breathe.

  When I did dream, they would be scattered and didn't make sense. I've always been told that dreams don't make sense in the first place, but my dreams often had. Maybe they were strange or something like that, but they made sense in some way. Ha, who am I kidding? They never make sense. Nothing in the world makes sense.

  I looked around my room. It was still bland, nothing there to show someone occupied the room before you. For all I know, there could've been ten or twenty other people who'd come before me. It was as if changes were made for no one. But that's what we needed. Sometimes we need to know things aren't gonna change. Sometimes we need some sort of stability. Sometimes we need something...

  ------

  “Rob, calm down,” Dr. Keener said.

  “I AM CALM!” I shouted, then immediately realized what I'd done. “I'm...I'm sorry. I'm just...” I paused. “I'm frustrated and angry.”

  “Angry at who?”

  “How much time ya got? I'm angry at everything, everyone. Mom, Dad, friends, family, God...even me for crying out loud.”

  “You think you're the only one who's angry?” Dad said.

  “You don't know what anger is.”

  “Why do you say that, David?” she asked.

  “Robert, we've been over this and over it and over it. She was my wife. I knew her
longer than you've been born, longer than we even thought of having you.”

  “Well that's comforting.”

  “I'm sure it is. I don't know how many times it'll take me to tell you that this hurts me more than you. There's no way you can even begin to understand how much this hurts me. And it makes me angry to know you even try to think it hurts you more. That, you're the one who suffers more than anyone else. That the whole world revolves around you.”

  “It doesn't revolve around me.”

  “Well it's nice to finally hear you say it.”

  I won't lie. I nearly flew at him. He was deliberately pushing my buttons it felt like, as if he wanted me to hit him so I could stay here longer. That's what this was all about, I thought. He just wants me gone. I started to breathe deeply to keep myself from getting over agitated at him and Dr. Keener.

  “Rob?” she asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?” I scoffed at her question.

  “Why do you always ask me that?” She didn't make a remark. My voice was calm and collected. “You always ask me if I'm 'okay'. What's your definition of 'okay'? Cause I don't know about you, but mine isn't finding myself trapped in a nuthouse with everyone waiting for you to do what you just did again?” We were all quiet. There was a moment of tension, more of an uneasy nature than of anger and hatred.

  “In that case then yeah, I'm okay. I'm doing just fine.” We were mad at each other because we we're going through the same problems and refusing to express anything to the other. I was in pain, more than most kids my age. He was in pain, more so than men his age. Here we were, stuck in the middle of something neither of us could explain yet, for better or worse, were experiencing together.

  We were mad at God for letting this happen. It took several tries before we stopped saying He caused it. We'd wanted to scream out that He had caused it. That everything was his fault and there was nothing we could do. That we were powerless against him. He sat up there on His thrown and condemned us, as if we were little pawns in some twisted game of His.