Sad Perfect

by Stephanie Elliot

  You cross your arms defiantly and instantly feel like a snotty teenager.

  “Anything else?”

  “None of this is because of Ben. It’s all because of the monster.”

  “Your English assignment monster?” Ms. Reynolds puts her pen down and gives you her full attention.

  You sigh. You’re so tired of everything. You’re upset and exhausted, so you say exactly what you shouldn’t.

  “Yes, and I don’t want to die. But the monster wants me dead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have a monster living inside me that constantly tells me what to do, what to think, how to behave, who to love, how to act, how to react, what and when I should eat. It’s this monster that makes me do this bad stuff to myself. He makes me depressed, he makes me anxious. He controls my moods and my emotions, my anger and my sadness. I’ve had it, or him, my whole life.”

  “Go on.”

  “If you ask me if I want to kill myself, the answer is no. If you ask me if I want to live with this monster for the rest of my life, the answer is no. So there’s that. If that’s the choice I have, to have this monster in me for the rest of my life, then I don’t want to live any longer.”

  As soon as you say the words, you realize you have sealed your fate.

  * * *

  Next, it’s your turn to wait in the lobby. The walls are lilac and while you’re sure it’s supposed to be a soothing color, all you can think about is Easter eggs. There are motivational phrases painted in fancy script that say, Just Breathe and Simplify and Keep Calm and Carry On. You want to throw up. Actually, you want your safety pin so you can scratch a new pathway onto the back of your hand, somewhere fresh, so you can pull out some of the anxiety you’re feeling. You want to scratch, scratch, scratch away everything that has happened this morning.

  Your parents and Ms. Reynolds come out after about twenty minutes and you know it’s not good. Your mom’s eyes are rimmed red and she’s got tissues balled up in her fist. Your dad looks like his favorite football team lost the Super Bowl. Your mom sits down next to you, your dad next to her, and Ms. Reynolds kneels in front of you.

  You’re ready but you’re not.

  “So sweetie,” Ms. Reynolds begins, and you want to spit in her face when she calls you sweetie. “I discussed options with your parents and we all agree for now that you should probably go to St. Joe’s for a short stay.”

  You begin to shake. The whole inside of your body goes hot and then numb. The monster roars ecstatically.

  You try to gain some composure. “What about my therapy? I’m trying so hard with it. Shayna’s helping me.”

  “When you get out, you’ll be able to continue with your other therapy. Inpatient is just more structure, a quicker fix, with faster results to get you the help you require.”

  “How long?” You look at your parents. “Mom, Dad? How long?”

  They look at each other, not wanting to answer, and Ms. Reynolds speaks. “Inpatient is usually only four to seven days in a case like yours. They’ll teach you some very useful coping skills, how to handle your anxiety and depression, and they’ll get you on the right medication. You’ll be able to talk with other kids who have some of the same issues as you do.” She pauses. “Remember, we’re here to help you.”

  You’re shaking your head back and forth, back and forth. You don’t know if you’ll be able to get through this.

  42

  Ms. Reynolds says goodbye and assures you that she’ll see you at St. Joe’s at the end of the week for an assessment meeting. Your parents take you to the hospital. You don’t even get to go home. That’s one of the rules with inpatient. You do not pass Go. You go straight to the psych ward. Because that’s really what it is. A place for crazies.

  You don’t talk to your parents on the way to the “hospital” as they call it, although you know it’s the Crazy House. You’re scared to death, because you’ve seen movies about crazy people and you know it’s all just about taking your meds in small paper cups and wearing hospital gowns and maybe even getting strapped to your bed at night. And freaky people shouting out the answers to Jeopardy! every evening, and crappy food they might shove down your throat to force you to eat.

  You’re pretty much terrified of what’s about to happen.

  For over an hour you sit in a room with your parents while a woman processes your admittance. She asks your parents a bunch of questions about your health and mental status while completely ignoring you. Then she hands a bunch of forms to your parents to fill out and leaves. You feel like you’re about to have a panic attack. It doesn’t help that the room is slightly larger than a public restroom.

  The woman comes back in to get the forms and offers you water. You don’t want to accept anything but you’re parched so you take the water and drink it.

  “We’re almost done here,” the woman says, and then she leaves again.

  Your parents try small talk while you wait, saying things like, “This is going to be just fine,” and, “You’ll be so much better after this,” and, “It’s going to go by so quick, you’ll see,” but you ignore them. After a while your mom starts to quietly cry.

  You’re glad. You want her to feel pain. You doubt she or your dad have ever felt the pain you’re feeling right now and you want to inflict some of it on them.

  You think about Ben.

  You think about how you were together at the lake on Sunday, how he held you in the warm water and kissed you, and pushed your wet hair away from your face and wiped the water from your eyes, how you wrapped your body around his and never wanted to let go, how you felt the safest and happiest you’ve ever felt.

  He has no idea what’s going on, or where you are, or where you’re going to be for the next four to seven days. And you have no way to let him know.

  The woman comes back and says someone will be there in a moment to get you. She says good luck and leaves. While you thought your adrenaline couldn’t spike any higher, it does. A staff member comes to get you and your parents. He takes you into the area that’s the living space for the crazy people.

  You can’t get over the fact that this is where you’ll be staying for however long they keep you here.

  The staffer has a name tag that says DAMIAN and you can’t help but think of some devil-worship guy because of his name. He’s wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt that says, Nobody Is Perfect, I Am Nobody. He’s got small gold studs in his ears and a sleeve of colorful tattoos with mostly skulls and some inspirational words on his forearm. When he speaks, he’s not scary-sounding like you expected, so it calms you down, which is good, considering he’s your first introduction to the Crazy House.

  “Hey, I’m Damian, and I’ll be here on shift for the rest of the day and part of the evening. I’ll help you with anything you need, okay?”

  You nod, then look at your feet. Because you’re pretty scared, and nervous too, but you don’t want to cry. You’ll cry later. Later, you’ll cry a ton.

  “I do need your shoelaces, all of your jewelry, and are you wearing a belt?”

  You consider this for a moment, and look at him.

  “For safety reasons,” Damian says.

  Oh for God’s sake.

  “So I don’t kill myself while I’m in here?”

  “Pea!” your dad reprimands.

  Damian grins. “You got it, girl.”

  This makes you like Damian a bit now, because he calls you girl, and because of his grin. He has really straight white teeth. You can tell he has good oral hygiene.

  You remove the shoelaces from your Chucks, then you take out your earrings, remembering how Ben kissed you behind your earlobes on Sunday. You take off your necklace. It’s a plain silver one you put on that morning.

  “Do you have a phone?” he asks.

  “They already took it away.”

  “Okay. Visiting hours are from six to seven every evening. Parents or guardians only.”

  “Great, that’ll make Todd happy,�
�� you say.

  “Who’s Todd?”

  “My brother. He hates me. But I can’t see my boyfriend?”

  “I’m sorry, no. But you can call him from seven to eight when the phone is free,” Damian says.

  You look to your mom and dad like you need approval. When they don’t say anything, you say, “Mom, Dad, Ben has nothing to do with this. He’s been helping me! He helped me eat turkey the other day! He was upset too. And he told me I need to go back on my meds. He’s just as upset about this as you guys are!”

  “You stopped taking your meds?” your mother asks, and then she looks down because her eyes fill with tears again.

  You’ve had enough. You’re sick of your parents, tired of the day’s events, and you want to go to sleep. You feel like you could sleep forever.

  “I’m exhausted.” You look at Damian.

  “Well, we have to take you to the nurse for a physical evaluation and then I’ll show you to your room. You can meet your roommate and maybe rest a bit.”

  Shit. A roommate.

  “It’s time to say goodbye to your parents. They can come back tonight at six,” Damian says.

  Because you are all sorts of tired and angry and mixed-up and confused, you look at your mom and dad and say, “Can you come back tomorrow night instead? And bring me my pillow and some clean clothes.” To Damian: “Am I allowed to have my pillow and my own clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then come back tomorrow night, please. I’m tired.”

  Your parents hug you and then you watch as they head toward the long hallway to freedom. Your mom is crying hysterically and your dad puts his arm around her shoulders and she falls in to him. You can’t believe your mom is acting this way.

  Why is she so upset? How is this making her so sad?

  She’s the one who’s leaving you.

  Your parents leave you at the Crazy House with Damian.

  43

  When you get to the nurse, whose name is Janet, the first thing she does is pull your wrists toward her so she can examine them.

  “It’s nothing, see? I just scratched on them a little. It calmed me down when I did that,” you explain.

  Janet glances up. “You can talk in therapy about why you did what you did, okay, hon?”

  “Okay,” you answer obediently. You’re planning on being as agreeable and pleasant as you’re able so you can get out of here as soon as possible.

  She then checks your blood pressure, heart, ears, nose, throat, and reflexes, and then the questions begin.

  “Are you on any medication?”

  You tell her you were on Zoloft and it was working but you’re no longer taking it.

  “How much were you on and when did you stop taking it?”

  “I think I was taking one hundred milligrams and I stopped taking it by accident. I met my boyfriend and started feeling happy. I forgot to take it and then still felt happy and figured I didn’t need it.”

  She nods. “I’ll check with your primary doctor to make sure you were at one hundred milligrams.” Then she jots some info down. “Stopping your medication might explain some of your erratic behavior.”

  You decide you don’t like this lady at all.

  “I’m going to need to draw blood,” she announces.

  “How come?”

  “To make sure you’re getting the nutrients you need, to check your iron and potassium, make sure you’re not under the influence of any drugs and that you aren’t pregnant. I’ll also have to scan your body for other self-inflicted injuries and check for lice.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not kidding,” Janet says. “Have you ever done drugs?”

  “I don’t do drugs!”

  She squints at you and then asks, “Are you lying to me?”

  “No! I don’t even drink alcohol! Why didn’t you ask me this stuff when my parents were here?”

  “Children tend to lie when their parents are around. They seem to be more honest when their parents leave. Are you sexually active?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  Janet gives you a look like you’re in second grade, like duh, do you need to have the “talk,” and then you say, “I’ve never had sex.”

  “Hmm.” You can tell she thinks you’re lying. Then she says, “Sexual relations during your stay will result in immediate solitary confinement, so don’t even consider it.”

  You can’t even. This woman is the devil.

  “You need to be aware of the rules.”

  She hands you a paper robe, tells you to change into it, and then heads to the door.

  “I’ll give you a couple minutes to change.”

  “Why do I have to change my clothes?”

  “I told you. I have to check to make sure you haven’t injured any other parts of your body. I can’t do that with your clothes on. I’ll be back in a minute. Tie goes in the front.”

  Janet leaves and you put on the robe, but then you curl up in the corner on the floor with your legs pulled up to your chest, and you start crying. You didn’t sign up for this. This woman shouldn’t be working at the Crazy House; she should be admitted. She’s nuts.

  The monster is roaring, and you feel a hotness inside you’ve never felt before. You’re imagining having to stand naked in front of this horrible woman as she checks you all over for marks that don’t exist. You feel like you’re about to be violated.

  Then the doorknob turns and Janet’s back and another woman is with her.

  You can’t.

  You won’t.

  You don’t want to be here. This isn’t what you deserve. You haven’t done anything wrong.

  “You have to get up; I have to take a quick look,” Janet says.

  Her voice sounds far away, the monster roars, and you’re crying hot, heavy tears, shaking your head back and forth, back and forth. “No, no, no … I can’t, please, I don’t want to do this!”

  You heave and cry and rock, because you don’t want this to be you. You don’t want to be here, in this place, in this mess, having these strangers look at your naked body.

  “Look, if you get up, we can do this really quick and painless.”

  The other lady comes over and kneels down by you.

  “Sweetie, it’ll be really quick, and you don’t have to take the robe all the way off,” she says.

  “I don’t?” you ask.

  “No, come on, get up. I’ll help you.”

  She seems a lot nicer than Janet, whom you hate with a burning passion, and you want this to be over with, so you take the nice lady’s hand and you stand up and focus on her, whom you are now going to think of as Nice Lady during this whole process to make it go by faster.

  Janet quickly scans your legs while Nice Lady talks to you, although you don’t even know what she’s talking about—she’s really good at keeping your mind focused on something—and then you feel Janet’s hands run along the length of your arms and you quiver with a hotness you hadn’t expected. You hear Janet say, “No bruises or lacerations on forearms.”

  Then Nice Lady says to you, “I’m just going to untie the front and we’re going to check your tummy and then your back and we’ll be all done, okay?”

  You nod, and then you hear Janet say, “Nothing here” and “Back is clear too,” and, just like that, it’s over. And Nice Lady is smiling at you and tying the paper robe back up.

  “That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Nice Lady asks.

  You shake your head no.

  Then Nice Lady smiles at you and leaves the room.

  Janet then checks your scalp and says, “No lice eggs.” Like you were expecting to be told otherwise. She takes five vials of blood from a vein in your right arm and wraps a blue bandage around your arm tightly.

  “And we’re all done!” Janet says cheerfully.

  You say nothing.

  “You can get dressed now,” she says, and leaves the room.

  After Janet is gone, you get dressed quickly and g
o out into the hallway where Damian is waiting for you with one of his bright, straight-teeth smiles.

  On your way to your room, you check out his tattoos—there are some skulls. Hearts. A rose. The word hope. You focus on the word hope, although you feel numb.

  All you want to do is crawl into a bed.

  In your room, the walls are not cinder block, which you were expecting, but they are white. Damian explains that the door must remain open at all times, which relieves you because then your roommate can’t kill you in the dead of night. It’s a cold, basic room with a rectangular window you can’t even get a view from—it’s too high up. The two beds, on opposite walls, are covered with navy spreads and each has one white pillow at the head. There is a dresser with three drawers between the beds and another matching dresser along the wall where the door opens. A bathroom is near the door. The floor is linoleum and you wonder if that’s for easy cleanup from the suicides and murders.

  You stare at Damian because he’s got to know this isn’t where you belong. He’s looking at you with kind eyes, gentle eyes, as if he knows what’s going on with you, as if he truly understands that you’re really scared.

  He says, “Play your cards right and you’ll be out of here in the minimum amount of time.”

  “This is crazy, right?” you whisper.

  “I know it’s tough. Do what they say, and everything will be fine.”

  You want to believe him so badly.

  “Where’s my roommate?”

  “She’s out in the common room, watching TV.”

  “Is she scary?” You’re so afraid.

  “Nah. Just don’t stare into her eyes for too long.”

  You can’t tell if he’s joking, but then he grins really wide and you see his straight white teeth again. You exhale.

  “What do I do now?”