by Trish Cook
“That you’re still blaming others for your own bad decisions,” Emmy piped in.
“That you can’t see it’s not that the world is against you, it’s that you are against the world,” Chip said. “And you haven’t achieved balance and wholeness.”
“Yeah, I’m really not supposed to be here anyway,” I said. “The whole thing was a misunderstanding. So I am damn sure not signing up for more time in this place just so you can go play Children of the Corn.”
“What the hell is that?” Diana asked.
“It’s a horror movie about psychotic kids,” I said. “I think you’d identify.” And Diana was up off the bench and ready to come over the table at me.
“Fifty bucks on Diana,” Emmy said, laughing, as Chip restrained Diana and got her back in her seat.
Mohammed gave me a look. And then he spoke. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll break you out. After you behave for a week.” He extended his hand, and Diana reached out and shook it.
I should have been happy that I had something to look forward to. When I’d gotten into my bed, I had a smile on my face.
And then I woke up in the morning, and something was wrong. My head wasn’t right.
I stumbled through academic classes, including Fitness, which turned out to involve walking around the track out back.
And then it was Max time.
“How are you doing today?” he said.
I’d been resisting Max pretty effectively up until now—giving him glib sarcasm as much as possible and never saying anything meaningful. But today I didn’t have the fight left. This, of course, was how they got you.
“I’m numb,” I said.
Max looked up from his iPad. “Physically?” he said.
“No. Just emotionally. You know. I just don’t feel anything.”
“Why do you think that is?”
They always asked this question. And it always pissed me off. I didn’t know why. I mean, my parents were divorced, but that just made me like about half the kids in America. I had a pretty good life.
“There is no reason, Max,” I said. “That’s why this is a waste of time. Because we can talk and talk and talk and we’ll never figure out why I’m screwed up. It’s just the way my brain works. Or doesn’t work. Sometimes I just start feeling numb, and then after that it gets painful, and I don’t know why. I can’t figure out why now, after I had the best day I ever had at this hellhole, I suddenly get numb.”
“You haven’t been palming the meds or anything, have you?”
I’d been on a low dose of Citalopram, the cheapest antidepressant, since the acetaminophen incident. It helped. But not enough. I rolled my eyes. “I’m taking my medicine.”
“Well,” Max said. “So you don’t want to talk about causes. Fine. Then let’s focus on strategies. If you’re headed into a rough patch, how do you get through it?”
“I don’t know. I mean, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”
Max smiled at me like I’d made some kind of breakthrough.
“Okay. So tell me what it’s like.”
“I mean. It’s like. I don’t feel anything for a while. Not happy, not sad. Like, my AM group might get a field trip or whatever if we’re all good for two weeks, and I’m not looking forward to it. I just don’t feel anything right now. It’s not bad. But it’s not good.”
“Okay,” Max said, tapping frantically on his iPad and nearly salivating at the therapeutic breakthrough he thought we were having. “So then what?”
“Then, when the numbness goes away, the pain hits.”
“And then what?”
“And then … well. I get mean. I alienate people. And I do stupid things.”
“You gonna do that stuff here?”
“You got another idea for me? Because, and you know how much it kills me to say this, I am actually pretty open right now.”
Max stroked his Old Testament beard for a minute. “The thing is,” he finally said, “it has to come from you. I can’t tell you how to get through it because it’s different for everybody.”
“Awesome. Now I see why they pay you the big bucks around here,” I said.
The next day I was still numb, and I probably wouldn’t have gotten out of bed except I knew if I so much as missed breakfast I’d blow it for everybody and Mohammed would beat the snot out of me. Not that I was too concerned about that. I mean … I wasn’t afraid of it. In fact I kind of wondered if it might be worth it just to feel something. I decided to leave that option for another day. I hopped in the shower and shuffled down to breakfast, where Emmy was doing an autopsy on a slice of honeydew.
“No smartass thing to say about my breakfast?” she asked, smiling.
I put a spoonful of something in my mouth. It didn’t taste like anything. “I’m too numb to be my usual sparkling self,” I said. “You know, the numbness?”
Emmy chewed a sliver of honeydew twenty-seven times and looked at me. “No. I don’t get that. What’s it like?”
“It’s like nothing. Like I just feel totally flat.”
“Like, sad? I have crying jags.”
“Nope. Not sad. Just nothing.”
She picked up another sliver of honeydew with her fork and chewed it twenty-seven times. “Doesn’t sound so bad,” she finally said. “You want my bacon? I obviously have to get rid of it before Jenny gets down here.”
“Not really. But you know Chip will be all over it.”
“Yeah. So how long does it last? The feeling nothing, not your hatred of bacon.”
I cracked a weak smile. “Depends. A day, a week, a month? I don’t know. I don’t really mind. It’s better than the pain, which usually comes after. You know, when you have this feeling in your guts like it just hurts to be alive?”
Emmy pointed her fork—which sported another seven molecules of melon on the end—at me. “Now that one,” she said, “I’m totally familiar with.”
Last time I felt that way I’d taken a lot of Tylenol. Which didn’t really help. Obviously. But I thought, you know, painkillers. Didn’t kill the pain, though. But then the pain just kind of left on its own a couple of weeks later. I didn’t know why.
I kept hearing Max’s question. “How do you get through it?”
He was asking about my latest downturn, but I guessed the question could apply to life, too. And I didn’t know the answer.
TWO DAYS A WEEK, INSTEAD OF STUDY HALL I WENT TO A ONE-ON-ONE session with my assigned therapist. I’d only met with her twice so far, and had spent the entire time trying to convince her my admission to Heartland was all a big mistake.
It totally didn’t work, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to keep trying.
“So how how is it going this week? Are you adjusting to being away from home and getting used to the rules here at Heartland?” Brittany was asking me.
Brittany seemed like a better name for a sorority sister than a therapist. She looked like a college kid, too, with her perfectly cut bangs and perky boobs. Her age and hotness made me fairly certain I would eventually outsmart her.
“It hasn’t been a problem at all for me,” I said, emphasizing that I wasn’t the one with issues.
My words just hung out there as Brittany nodded, unblinking. I figured she wasn’t picking up on what I was laying down, so I gave her a little hint. “I mean, I appreciate the structure that Heartland provides and it’s been a real eye-opener. I understand now that my mom was pretty concerned about me not eating as healthfully as I should have been, and posting mean things about a classmate.”
Brittany smiled encouragingly. This was going to be so easy, it was laughable. “And I really think I’ve learned my lesson and I’m ready to go home. But Tina has me tethered to a pretty messed-up group—”
Brittany raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, I know that sounded mean. But it’s just that these kids seem to have way bigger problems than just making poor eating choices and using Facebook inappropriately. And I really feel like they’re impeding
my progress. So do you think we could come up with a mutually acceptable release plan, preferably by the end of this month so I can pursue my dream of attending Simon’s Rock this academic year?”
Brittany looked at me so sweetly I thought for sure I was golden. Until she came back with this. “Do you think you could cut the bullshit for a second so we can talk about what’s really going on with you?”
I noticed the familiar rumblings in my stomach, a mix of starvation and pissed-off-edness that sometimes threatened to double me over. “I’m offended that you think I’m full of … merde,” I said, using the French word for “shit” so I wouldn’t get any demerits, even though the swearing rule didn’t seem to apply here in Brittany’s office. Or Tina’s group, for that matter.
“Well, that makes us even. Because I’m offended you underestimate me so much you’d think I would fall for that crap you just handed me. Want one?” she asked, holding out a box of graham crackers.
I performed a quick mental calculation and, deciding I could do an extra ten minutes of jogging in place after lights-out, took one. I broke the two squares in half, put one on my lap and proceeded to break the other into four smaller pieces. I put the first little square in my mouth and let it sit there, the sugary goodness melting on my tongue until the sharp edges of the cracker turned mushy and round. My head buzzed pleasantly.
“I love these,” Brittany said, crunching down on an entire cracker and swallowing it in record time. I wondered how she stayed so thin, and considered warning her against eating too many before deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. She’d figure it out on her own when her pants didn’t button anymore.
“Me too,” I said, putting the next small piece in my mouth. This time, it clung to the roof of my mouth like dried bird shit. I grabbed for my water bottle and took a big gulp. The cracker went halfway down and got stuck. I chugged some more and the lump finally dissolved.
Brittany grabbed another cracker. The number of calories she was consuming in one sitting was way more than I’d ever allow myself. “So how long have you been struggling with an eating disorder?” she asked, like it was a totally normal, polite thing to say.
“I haven’t,” I said, inhaling crumbs, which sent me into a coughing fit. “Ever.”
“Well then, what about the anger? How long has that been building?”
“I don’t know why everyone assumes I’m angry,” I said once I’d stopped hacking, even more pissed off about this question than the eating one. Cracker number three went into Brittany’s mouth and down her gullet. I was horrified, but tried not to let it show.
“I’d say posting more than fifty vicious comments about someone on Facebook in a single week would indicate you’re a pretty angry person.”
Not this again. When was everyone going to let that go? I was absolutely not getting into the nitty-gritty details of why I’d done that, especially to an adult. No way, no how. “That boy yelled racist remarks at me every single time I walked by him in the hall. I mean, who wouldn’t be pissed off?” I slapped my hand on my leg for emphasis and cracker went flying everywhere. “Sorry. I mean, I guess you could say I’m situationally angry. But I definitely wouldn’t classify myself as an angry person.”
Brittany stood up and stretched. “I get the feeling me asking you questions isn’t going to get us anywhere today, so why don’t we try something a little different instead? Come on.”
I followed her down the hall to a tiny closet filled floor to ceiling with little knick-knacks and Polly Pockets and McDonald’s toys. “Uh, Brittany? I grew out of playing with dolls when I was seven.”
Brittany waved me into the closet as she stepped out of it. It was too tight a space for us to both fit in there at once. “Think of it as an experiment in your unconscious. Just pick out anything that speaks to you in any way, put it all in this basket, and then meet me back in my office.”
She left me staring at a plethora of babyish figurines. As much as I had no interest in her game, I knew I wasn’t getting out of it, so I started tossing things randomly into the basket. Animals, Disney characters, whatever. Who cared, right? I was way too smart to fall for talking about my problems while playing dolly.
When I got back to Brittany’s office, she had a miniature sandbox set up on the coffee table. I felt like I was back in preschool, when all the kids used to ask me why my my skin was a different shade than theirs, and one mean boy even pulled his eyelids tight every day to try and look like me.
“You can’t be serious,” I said, looking from my basket of dolls to the sandbox to Brittany.
“Sure I can,” she said, as calm and reassuring as ever. “So just set everything up in here any way that feels right to you and we can talk about it after.”
“Seriously?” I asked again. I couldn’t believe she was using on me what was clearly a therapy thing for kids with zero verbal skills.
Brittany just nodded and pointed at the sandbox.
I sighed and grabbed the first thing that found its way into my hand: A pink elephant with an elaborate painted-on headdress. I buried him in the middle of the sandbox, so only his trunk was showing. Next I found Mulan dressed in warrior gear and put her in a corner. Then I took this Nordic king and queen and placed them in the opposite corner. Finally, I pulled out Alice in Wonderland and put her next to Mulan, figuring Mulan looked like she could use a good girlfriend.
But something stopped me from feeling like I was done. The sandbox just didn’t look right at all. I was telling myself not to be ridiculous even as I moved Alice over to where the Norse king and his wife stood. “There,” I finally said.
“So tell me about the scene you’ve created here, Emmy.”
I stared down at the preschool portrait. “It’s a bunch of toys in a sandbox.”
Brittany laughed. “Come on, smartass. Humor me.”
“Okay, fine,” I said, smiling back at her despite myself. Oddly, I liked how she didn’t let me get away with shit. It felt like a challenge. “In this corner, Mulan. And in the blue cape, her opposition … ummmm … Thor!”
Brittany gave me a little wink. “Go on. You’re a natural at this.”
“Anyway, this is war. Mulan versus Thor and Thor’s wife. It’s going to be an epic battle where the cards are stacked against Mulan, but I think she’ll come out on top.”
“What about her?” Brittany asked, pointing at Alice in Wonderland.
“She’s the beautiful ring girl,” I said, pleased at my quick wit.
Brittany picked up Mulan and handed her to me. “So what can you tell me about Mulan?”
“Well, for one thing, she’s Chinese,” I said, and all of a sudden I had a sinking feeling this kid’s game was going to get me to reveal a hell of a lot more than I’d intended to. So maybe I wasn’t so smart after all.
“Right,” Brittany said, thankfully not stating the obvious. “What else do you know about her?”
“Well … she loves her family and wants to protect them. She hides who she really is from almost everybody. And she’s tough and courageous and fights back hard against the big bad guys even though she’s just a little girl …”
“Kind of like you, right?” Brittany said.
I nodded, because I couldn’t really think of a believable way to deny it.
“Did you notice that Alice in Wonderland wanted to be with Mulan, but you couldn’t let her? You made her leave?” Brittany continued analyzing my toy story.
I could clearly see what was unfolding here—that Mulan was me, Alice was supposed to be Joss, and Thor and his wife were my mom and dad—but there was nowhere to run and hide. “I guess,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“What might that mean?” she asked gently.
“That Joss actually wants to hang out with me? Like, she doesn’t just feel sorry for me or pity me or something?”
Brittany did me the favor of not looking smug about me admitting this. I appreciated it more than she would ever know. “Now look at Thor and his wife. Do they re
ally look like they want to fight with Mulan, or hurt her in any way?”
I picked up the big, burly blond guy and his wife and stared at them more closely. When I hastily chose them back in the closet, I was totally positive they looked mean and mad. But now, in this light, Thor looked more concerned than anything, and his wife just looked plain old sad. “No,” I muttered. “They look worried, I guess. And maybe scared.”
“So do you think maybe your parents sent you here because they love you and are extremely concerned about you? And that maybe the only person you’re fighting is yourself?”
I shrugged, those tears that always seemed to be waiting just below the surface shimmering in my eyes. I bit my lip and tried to hold it together.
“What about this guy here?” Brittany asked, pointing to the buried elephant.
“He’s …” I started, my voice shaky and small. “He’s hoping no one can see the obvious, I guess. That he’s there and looks kind of unusual.”
“So tell me everything you know about elephants,” Brittany said.
“Well, for one thing, they’re very sensitive and have strong emotions. And um … they’re revered for their strength and wisdom in Asian cultures. Also, they mourn the loss of their family members forever …” I trailed off, knowing what was coming next.
“That sounds a lot like you, too, doesn’t it Emmy?”
I nodded. It was mortifying, but I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer. Brittany gathered me into a hug and I buried my head into her awesome-smelling sorority girl hair.
“We’ll get to the bottom of all of this, Emmy. I promise. You’re not alone, okay? We’re all here for you. Me, Alice in Wonderland, Thor, and his wife—even the five people Tina has you tethered to.”
And I couldn’t help but laugh a little even as I sobbed on Brittany’s shoulder.
THE WEEK ENDED WITHOUT INCIDENT AND, AS PROMISED, WE ALL got our rewards. I was still a little bit numb, so I wasn’t as excited about the whole thing as I thought I’d be, but I did enjoy the iPod time. It was safe to say everybody got a little more relaxed as a result. Well, almost everybody. Mohammed had to wait until Sunday night to make his phone call to see who was alive, though I still wasn’t clear on that whole thing—like, he got a ten-minute phone call last week; what was magic about the twenty-minute phone call?