The house was overwhelming. She did what she could in her spare time, but when Friday came, the house was not even close to being presentable. She lay in bed that evening and listened to the contradicting messages from Scott and Mike as they bantered back and forth. Mike kept saying, “I told you so. You went too far.” Scott was calling him a liar. Melissa couldn’t fathom the amount of trouble she was in. The constant back and forth made her head pound.
She cried, and soon she screamed. Someone pounded on her door, and she heard Amelia screaming. With the pounding in her head, on the door, the walls, the ceiling, she felt her head would explode. Finally her door burst open, and her mother was there with her two little sisters behind her. Melissa begged her mother to take her to the hospital. It was too much for her to handle. The voices wouldn’t stop. They couldn’t be stopped. She didn’t know what to do next or where to turn.
Cheryl frantically tried to calm Melissa, and Amelia finally called her aunt who lived only a few blocks away. Within minutes, the house filled with family members, and Cheryl took Melissa to the car and drove her to the hospital. Millbrae was full this time around, so they were going to drive to Freemont, and they would admit her there. Melissa didn’t really know where Millbrae was so she had no idea what that meant, but she was glad to be moving. Her mother gave her two of the migraine pills this time even though she was never supposed to do that.
Everything was blurry. Her pain receded, but the voices still talked. Scott was so angry. He wanted to lash out at everyone. He hated the hospital. He never wanted to go back into a facility like that again. He would rather die than be forced to spend one night in that place. Dana tried to soothe Melissa, but Scott wouldn’t stop screaming. He screamed, all the while Melissa cried. Her mother cried, as well, and asked Melissa what she could do and how she could help. Melissa couldn’t speak. She could only cry.
The call came halfway into their trek to the hospital. It was from her aunt. Her mother nodded and said, “Uh huh, yes, uh huh.” She said it over and over again. Then, she hung up.
She put the phone down between the seats and turned to Melissa.
“What the hell happened at the house while you were feeding the cats?”
Melissa never responded. It didn’t matter now. Her mother screamed at her. There would be lawyers, police, jail. Everyone would hate her. It was too much for anyone to handle or understand.
Checking into the hospital this time was much faster than the first time with her father. Maybe she was a regular, so they kept a room waiting. The paperwork went quickly. They didn’t have to explain much. The staff reviewed the rules and showed her to her room. This was her mother’s first time to a hospital like this. During Melissa’s first visit, she had neither allowed her mother to visit nor had she wanted to see her. This time around, she didn’t want to see her dad. Family are the only ones who are there for you when you need them the most, yet family are the ones you treat the very worst. Cheryl didn’t stick around very long after the hospital admitted Melissa, leaving her daughter to feel like she was happy to be rid of her. Maybe this was best for everyone concerned.
By the time everything calmed down, it was nearly 10 p.m. The night was over in the facility. Hospital staff quickly showed her mother the door and told her she could come back tomorrow during visiting hours. She told Melissa she would come if she had the time but couldn’t make any promises. She left Melissa alone in a room with a comatose teenage girl who drooled and mumbled to herself about bees or trees or something like that. Melissa curled up in her bed and cried. She couldn’t understand what had happened in her life. How was she here? What trickery had led her down this path of destruction? Nothing made sense.
A few months, or a couple of years, ago they had been a family. They all lived in one of the biggest houses on the coast. Everyone knew who they were, and her family constantly hosted parties. They had a swimming pool, they had a nanny, several cars, big Christmases, and life was as good as it possibly could be. Now her dad was gone, her mother lived a pretend perfect life, and Melissa lay on this cold, vinyl bed with a wool blanket as a cover.
The room was so basic and frigid. It had two beds, two closets, neither one with a mirror, and a couple of shelves. There was nothing sharp just in case either one of the guests might try to kill themselves or each other. The walls were sterile, painted some kind of puke light brown color that reminded Melissa of baby poop. The staff searched her bag and confiscated the crackers she brought. They even forbade unauthorized food.
The only sounds she heard were her roommate’s gurgling squeals as she went on and on about knees or trees or leaves or something. None of it made any sense, but apparently she was not dangerous. At least she hadn’t been labeled as such. Labeling people reminded her of what her dad always said. He emphatically stated that nobody really knew who was dangerous and who was not.
There was never a time when a girl walked out the door and said she was going to get into a car with a boy who would rape her or beat her, or, God forbid, kill her. It was always the boys you didn’t expect because you didn’t suspect anyone. If you did, then, you wouldn’t be going in the first place. Isn’t that why it is always the long-lost uncle who raped the little girls? Sometimes it’s a cousin, as well, or a good friend who never married but seemed like a nice guy. Everyone is a freak, she thought.
She was mildly surprised she could think anything in her state of mind. They had not given her any medicine. She had nothing to help her relax. She just lay there, listening to the mumbling, and cried to herself in the dark of some strange hospital room. Her mother was far away, driving home in her little Prius, probably calling her dad to tell him she was back in the hospital again. Maybe she told him Melissa was back in the place she belonged. Maybe this was the closest thing to a home she would ever know. Maybe this was where she truly belonged – locked away in the dark, by herself, listening to another person’s insanity as she cried.
She was alone, truly alone. We are all alone, she thought, curled up in the fetal position, wrapping her arms around her legs. She tried to protect herself because there was nobody left to protect her. She was all by herself in this world. We are all really alone. We might think we have friends and family, but when it comes down to support, be careful who you call. Most people will not have the time to help you navigate your life. Even if they could, they will most likely fall short.
Father
It never bodes well when you get a message from your ex-wife in the middle of the night. An e-mail, no less. It seemed to me that my daughter being in the hospital might actually instigate a phone call. But, Cheryl clearly didn’t agree. She barely managed a simple message.
“Melissa is in the hospital. I just admitted her, and I am driving home. I will e-mail you with more details tomorrow. She doesn’t want to see you, and she is ok and safe. More to come.”
Simple, sweet, pointed, and about as worthless as our marriage had been. I messaged her back to say that I didn’t care if Melissa didn’t want to see me. I wanted the details, including her doctor’s name in the hospital. I intended to visit her the next day. Did this woman really think that I would forego seeing my daughter? It didn’t matter whether I was invited. She was in trouble, and I would be there to show my support if nothing else.
After several back and forth messages the following morning, I finally got enough details to piece together what happened. Nobody really knew, except Melissa, if she entered the hospital to avoid getting in trouble for trashing the neighbor’s house or if she was really in trouble. Melissa always seemed to be at her lowest when she was in found guilty. It sounded fishy, but would she really let herself be admitted to a hospital again to bypass getting grounded?
I had been to a psychiatric ward once now during her first visit, and I thought nothing would be worth staying in a place like that again – unless she really needed help. Maybe she was so lost she didn’t know what she needed. It didn’t make any sense. When I looked at pictures from her earlier
years I wondered how my little girl had grown up to be in this much trouble. How did my beautiful little child turn into this lost young lady? What happened?
Karen helped keep me grounded. She agreed that no matter what I needed to at least make an appearance. Melissa had to know that she would never be able to push me completely away. I would always be there for her. Maybe not in the capacity she had envisioned, but I would always give her as much as I possibly could.
Had I been wrong in telling her she had to follow basic rules to live in my house? I reflect back on my arguments with her, and I don’t really know how to explain to her my rationale. Children and adults, everyone has to follow a minimum set of standard guidelines. Don’t curse your parents. It’s a basic principle that escapes many adolescents. No physical violence. You don’t hit your mother or your father. Do kids realize what the real world is like? Can they fathom the pressure of working, supporting a family, keeping a house running, all while dealing with kids who trash houses and sneak out at all hours of the night? Do they even care?
I constantly told Melissa that several people live in a house. She has sisters. Is it fair to them when her parent stays up all night worrying about her and, then, is too tired to take Amelia on a promised shopping trip the next day? How many times had her sisters sacrificed and given up something for her without her knowing or caring? How selfish is too selfish? Where do you draw the line?
Karen kept telling me that Melissa was giving all she could. She did her best, and she didn’t realize, at that point, how far gone she was. I just can’t help but think, at times, this was nothing more than an excuse. Is mental illness an excuse? It is so hard to understand depression and the affects it has on a human being and everyone who surrounds the inflicted person? Depression really is a family disease, not an individual’s affliction.
I wish it were as easy as putting on a Band-Aid and simply kissing a cut on a finger. I can see a cut. I can deal with a little blood. I can wrap my arms around Cassandra and hold her tight as Dora and Boots cover up her latest laceration. Kids are constantly getting hurt, and with girls there is always more drama than actual blood. But I can deal with that. I didn’t know how to deal with this invisible infliction. I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t wrap my arms around it.
I unloaded on Karen, and she listened, and held me when it was too much for me to continue. She told me to just show up – just to be there for Melissa. I didn’t have to do anything more than that. Melissa might not want me there on the surface, but deep down she needed to know that I still supported her.
I agonized over my one-hour window for visitation, and when night arrived and visiting hours approached, I made the 45-minute drive and prepared for the worst. I wondered how many people had ever entered a lock down facilities in a hospital. It is like passing through security for a prison. Attendants or guards sat at the desk. I signed in and showed my identification. I checked in at a second desk, explained who I was and detailed why I was there again. The monotonous redundancy of regurgitated information is endless if you repeat yourself enough.
I saw Melissa before she saw me. She sat at a round table in a small kitchen. There were a few other kids sitting around her. Her hair was wild, curly, going every direction possible all at the same time. Melissa always did have a beautiful thick head of hair. Curly and wavy, brown and vibrant, it helped define who she was. It could be out of control at times, but it was so beautiful and stunning on most occasions.
She wore a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that probably hadn’t been washed in a few days. She always did enjoy wearing an oversized sweatshirt. I wished that she took better care of herself. She almost looked a little dirty. Not like a homeless person, but more like somebody who had lost interest in her appearance and no longer cared as much about the outside world. I knew that she cared. She was just lost right now.
The male attendant, dressed in his white short-sleeved shirt and white hospital pants walked over to her. He mouthed the words, “Your father is here to see you.” I saw him speak, but he was far enough away that I couldn’t hear him. Melissa jumped out of her chair, slamming it to the floor as she rose. She looked like a wild animal that had been prodded by a hot stick and was suddenly ready to kill. It was mostly in her eyes. They opened fully and were darting around in circles, searching for her prey.
She spotted me through the door and yelled, screaming at the top of her lungs.
“I don’t want him here! Tell him to get the hell out of here! He has no right to be here! He is not my father – tell that asshole to leave. I don’t want to see him, and I never will!”
I wasn’t surprised, but I wiped away a tear nonetheless. The young Hispanic man came over and ushered me back to the registry desk, guiding me by my elbow as he pushed me along.
He mumbled he was sorry and said this happened all too often. I guess they were used to this kind of thing, but it threw me off kilter a little bit. I anticipated her anger and rejection, but I wasn’t prepared for the animalistic nature in which she delivered it. I almost didn’t recognize my daughter. She had the same outward appearance as my little girl, but her aura was something I had never felt in anyone. It was unnerving and unsettling. I was scared.
It was a little easier getting out, but the staff still escorted me through the locked doors. Forty-five minutes to get there, 45 minutes to get home, 10 minutes getting in and another 10 minutes getting out. All that time spent so Melissa could remind me for 30 second just how much she hated me. Still, it was a fantastic 30 seconds. It had been too long since I had seen my daughter. I missed her and loved her so much.
I sat out in my car crying. My God, I cried all the time now. I wondered if my inability to shed a tear had grown from some primal reaction to my failed marriage. Maybe it was self-preservation that instigated my lack of emotion as I trudged so long through a life that was so weary and depressing. Maybe it was the other way around, and I allowed myself to shut down and the lack of emotion ended my marriage. My head circled continuously as I cried, wondering where my little girl was.
I remembered when I was forced to march in the military. It was just my squad so there were only 10 of us marching in the middle of the night. It had been very cloudy. It was one of those nights where you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. You would wave it back and forth, and you knew it was there, but you couldn’t see it. The only way we kept together was by holding the guy’s shirt in front of you. Shirt, rucksack, string, whatever you happened to grab really, but you had to grab something or run the risk of getting swallowed up in the blackness.
We were going along at a good pace when we all of a sudden heard this, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” followed by a loud thump a few seconds later. Everyone stopped, and we all ran into the guy immediately in front of us. All of us stood there bunched up together not knowing what to do or what happened. Our instructor had some night vision goggles, and he finally told us to stand there and wait. That was it. Stand in the middle of nothing, pitch black outside and wait for…wait for what? We had no idea what was happening.
Finally, we started up again about 20 minutes later and headed back to our campsite. I found out the next morning that the guy leading us that night fell down a 15-foot drop that abruptly opened up right in the middle of our path. He had been going so fast and couldn’t see anything anyway that he had simply fallen straight down in full stride. Lucky for everyone else the guy right behind him was able to stop, otherwise all of us would most likely have followed him into the blackness, tumbling down the ravine.
I never felt such darkness before that night. At times, I walked with my eyes closed because they were useless vacant orbs, serving no purpose on that specific mission. As I sat in my car, crying for my lost daughter I wished there was somebody now to grab – somebody in front of me who could guide me. Anyone would do. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to go. My daughter was in the middle of this darkness, and I had no idea how to find her or help her find her way home.<
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Picked up by the police, AGAIN!
Melissa
Melissa spent a few days in the hospital this time, but she didn’t receive any medication. The doctors didn’t deem her a threat to herself, and she would not have to attend any outpatient program. Her normal psychologist visits were sufficient. She was released to her mother’s care, and they were on their way home. Her mom asked a lot of questions, but Melissa didn’t want to talk about her stay. It had been tolerable, not as bad as the first time. Maybe the shock value had worn off, and she was immune to the insanity surrounding her.
The voices remained, but they were more in the background than front and center. It was almost as if they were pushed aside by the other kids Melissa cohabited within the regimented establishment. Rules, rules, and more rules. Everything – right down to the bathroom breaks – was timed. Now that she was leaving, she felt like she’d gotten out of jail. The air somehow smelled a little different from the stale recycled confinement she endured.
Still, not all was going to be easy. When Melissa arrived home, her day was planned. She had a few hours to gather herself and her thoughts, but her mother informed her the police would be over that afternoon, along with her neighbors. They wanted to ask her some questions. The damage totaled approximately $300, and everyone wanted to know what happened and who had been there. Nothing like her mom to dive right back into the life Melissa had just left.
Learning to Cry Page 24