Where All Things Will Grow

by N. K. Smith

These kids came from all around. The hospital was renowned for adolescent mental health issues, so there were kids from D.C. and Baltimore, but also Vermont, Virginia, New York, even a few from Canada.

  I actually had several groups I went to, some for specific past experiences. Those were more difficult to handle.

  I had a session with a speech pathologist twice a week, just like in Damascus, but it wasn’t Ms. Rice. We didn’t read aloud. We worked on sounds and physical relaxation. It was back to the basics and I found myself saying “La, la, la” and “Fa, fa, fa” and “Na, na, na” over and over while rolling my shoulders back and shaking my head back and forth.

  My days were structured and routine.

  I liked it.

  It felt good to know exactly when lunch would be served. It was wonderful to know exactly which part of the day I’d be expected to use my voice.

  My roommate was younger than me, and like me, he never spoke.

  The first night sleeping in the same room was difficult, but he fell asleep before I did and when my body and mind finally shut down and I passed into quiet sleep, I awoke unharmed.

  The next night was the same and the night after that, too, until I felt secure that he was not a threat.

  Even though I felt fairly safe, I didn’t want him on my side of the room, just as I never crossed the invisible line and entered his space.

  I found out that there were single rooms in this hospital. At first it made me upset and I got angry at Dr. Emmanuel, but he reminded me that he was the doctor and he made the suggestion that I share a room for a reason.

  Since I had signed up for this stay and put myself in his hands, I couldn’t say anything more about it.

  In the same session he asked me, “What’s the absolute worst thing that has ever happened to you?”

  That was easy. “B-b-b-breaking up w-w-with S-Sophie.”

  “No,” he said. It annoyed me, but then he continued, “That’s painful right now. I’m asking you to put your whole life into perspective. What’s the worst--?”

  I cut him off because I wasn’t an idiot and didn’t need the question repeated. “B-being b-b-born.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Do you believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the best thing that has ever happened to you?”

  “Mmmmmeeting Sophie,” I said without thinking about it.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “She ranks higher than discovering music, art and literature?”

  “Yes.”

  “Higher than being removed from your father’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though she’s not your girlfriend anymore?”

  My thoughts stopped racing. I didn’t know how to respond.

  “Sssssshe’ll.. W-w-we’ll g-get b-b-b-back t-t-t-tog-g-gether.”

  He took off his glasses and regarded me. “Do you believe that?”

  I wanted to shout that I did believe it, but the little voice inside my head whispered that I had no way of knowing if we would.

  I could feel it coming on. There was panic that was slowly rising from every part of my body. I might never see her again. She would be gone. Just like Jane would be gone soon. Just like Kate was gone.

  Just like my mom.

  “Remember that you are in control of how you feel.”

  I focused on my breathing, Beethoven flooding my mind. Slowly the panic ebbed and I felt better.

  “Tell me what specifically you want to change.”

  When I could finally answer without gasping for breath, I said, “Everything.”

  His smile was soft.

  “Tell me one thing about yourself that you like.”

  I thought for a minute.

  “I-I-I-I’m k-k-kind.”

  “Good. What else?”

  With a sigh, I thought again, my mind and body feeling sluggish. “I’m smart.”

  “Excellent and what else?”

  “I’m c-c-c-compassionate?”

  Dr. Emmanuel sat back and replaced his glasses on his nose. “Are you asking me if you’re compassionate or are you telling me?”

  I knew what he was doing. I knew he wanted me to say all the good things about myself to boost my self-esteem and help buoy my spirit. “I-I-I-I know there are g-g-good things ab-b-bout me.”

  “Did having Sophie in your life validate some of those things?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you angry with your mother?”

  The shift in conversation took me by surprise, but I stammered, “N-n-n-n-no.” It was an automatic response.

  “Do you wish she hadn’t done what she did?”

  I wished she would’ve taken me with her. “I w-w-w-wish she d-d-didn’t lllleave me.”

  “Why do you think your mother used drugs?”

  I shrugged. I had no idea except that it was an escape from my father and his unyielding rules.

  “Do you think she was involved with drugs before she met your father?”

  I shook my head. “Sssssshe m-m-mmmmet hhhhim in sssssschool.”

  “Did she talk much about how they met?”

  I thought back to the things my mother would tell me before my father’s rules and routines had completely taken over all of our lives. “Sssshe thought hhhhhe w-w-was hhhhandsome and p-p-p-people just sssssort of g-g-g-gravitated t-to him.”

  “What do you think he saw in your mother?”

  My mother was beautiful and she was kind, and she had an amazing capacity to love. She had a beautiful voice and I remembered how much she did for everyone. Even high, she took care of all of us. She would take punishments meant for Joseph and me.

  “Mmmy mmmm-mmm-mmmmom loved me.”

  It wasn’t even close to an answer to the question he’d posed, but I needed him to know it.

  I needed to know it.

  It seemed like all men did was hurt and lie to me and all women did was leave.

  I didn’t give him time to respond. “Sophie said she lllll-llloved m-me.”

  “Do you believe that she loved you?”

  “I w-w-want to.”

  “But you don’t?”

  I shrugged.

  “Sophie is a very wounded person.”

  “I kn-know.”

  “I’m sure you understand that it’s very difficult for some people to find themselves worthy of things like love and acceptance.”

  “D-d-do you think sssshe lllloved me?”

  He sighed deeply and folded his hands in his lap. “I think if she didn’t, then it’s more a reflection upon her. You are a person worthy of love, Elliott, and I’m sure Sophie knows that.”

  We were silent for over a minute. I didn’t know what to say and then finally he asked, “What caused your break-up?”

  I felt sick.

  “She t-t-t-tried t-t-t-t-t-to g-g-g-g-ggg-gggg...” I felt like I couldn’t breathe again. My hands balled into fists and I hit them against my thighs.

  “Would you like to write it down?”

  I shook my head.

  “That bad?”

  No, it wasn’t that bad, but I didn’t think I could write the words any easier than speaking them.

  “Was it something sexual?”

  I nodded, thankful that he guessed right.

  “And it made you uncomfortable?”

  I nodded again.

  “And you reacted in a way that hurt her.”

  I stared at him, shocked. How did he find out?

  Then I watched him as he studied me and realized that he hadn’t meant physically, but emotionally.

  “She hhhhhhit m-m-me. She p-p-p-p... I t-t-t-took her hands and I sssssshoved he
r b-b-b-back a-a-a-a-a-and... a-a-a-and I...”

  “She hit you?”

  I nodded.

  “And you defended yourself?”

  I didn’t like the way it sounded, so I shook my head.

  “You tried to restrain her?”

  I nodded. I had wanted to control her.

  I felt sick.

  “Whatever it was that she tried to do, was this something you told her you were uncomfortable with?” When I said nothing, he asked, “How much of your history did you disclose to her before you began a sexual relationship?”

  I didn’t want to answer because at the very beginning of our sexual relationship, she didn’t know that anything like that had happened to me and even at the end, when she knew my brother had... even at the end, I’d never been specific.

  “C-c-can w-w-w-we be done?”

  I was relieved as he nodded.

  “But for next time, I want you to do something for me.”

  “W-w-what?”

  “I want you to write letters to your mother and your brother. I want you to explain to each of them how their actions, good and bad, have affected your life.”

  “B-b-b-but they’re d-d-d-dead.”

  He gave me another soft smile. “The letters aren’t for them.”

  The letter to my mother drew out quite a lot of emotion as I wrote it. I knew I had to write another one to my brother before seeing Dr. Emmanuel, but I had to take a break. I couldn’t write it in my current state.

  Before writing to my mom, I genuinely had no idea how angry I was about what she’d done. I didn’t think the letter even scratched the surface, to be honest.

  I wasn’t looking forward to writing to my brother, but knew that it had to be done. I’d put my welfare in Dr. Emmanuel’s hands and this was what he’d asked of me.

  Knowing that Dr. Emmanuel didn’t ask for it, I wrote a letter to my father anyway. I knew he’d want me to do it at some point, and I was on a roll.

  John was sitting over on his bed, gripping his elbows tightly. He had his iPod on, and his ear buds plugged in. If I listened hard enough, I could hear the music, but I hadn’t wanted to listen to music at all since I broke up with Sophie.

  I turned my focus back to the blank pages on my lap and the pen in my hand.

  I didn’t know how to start it because my father wasn’t “dear,” but I couldn’t just say, “Father,” and move on. How should I begin? I just went with the first thing that came to mind.

  I sat in group, listening as always.

  There was a girl with long blond hair. She would pull out bits of it as she spoke.

  Her mother put her in pageants when she was three. By the age of five she thought she was too fat and by ten her entire day was nothing more than a tight schedule of events. Lean breakfast, ballet, yoga, tap dance, shower, lunch, study (home school), ceramics class, gymnastics, public speaking lessons, dinner, study, read, sleep.

  By fifteen she couldn’t function without her mother giving her a task. She spoke of a time when she forgot she had to use the restroom because her mother hadn’t asked.

  As she spoke, she pulled out her hair and rolled it into a ball.

  I thought she’d go bald soon.

  Another kid, who I thought was named Miguel, but it could have been something else, lost his mother to cancer when he was five and then his father was killed in a gas station holdup.

  It was difficult to listen to his recollection of how the bullet exploded into his father’s chest. I felt sick when he told us his body was sticky with his father’s blood.

  Another girl was an addict. She reminded me of Sophie. There was so much rage that came from her. She was very angry that she was here. She called us all a bunch of retards that needed to grow up and learn how to deal with shit.

  Then she broke down and cried for fifteen minutes. I had no idea what she was crying about, but I could make out words like “don’t love,” and “fucking bitch.”

  Group was hard to get through some days.

  There were times when I hated these kids and then there were times when I felt at home with them.

  They may never be “right” either.

  “So there is quite a lot to talk about in these letters,” Dr. Emmanuel said as he refolded them and laid them on the edge of the table next to him.

  This room was brighter than Stephen’s study. My head hurt, and squinting because of the light didn’t help.

  “The nurse said that you’ve been having quite a few headaches?”

  They were happening about every day here.

  I nodded.

  “Before, after, or during these headaches does anything else happen? Is there something...?” he stopped. It seemed like he was weighing his words. “Have you been...?”

  “SSS-SSSStephen ch-ch-checked me out. I hhhhhhad an M-M-MRI and a C-C-C-Cat scan. I jjjjjjust have hhhheadaches.”

  “Did you dream last night?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you ever have times when you black out or lose time?”

  I’d seen all the movies and knew that he was trying to figure out if I was really messed up. “I-I-I d-d-don’t have m-m-m-mmmmmultiple p-p-p-personality d-dissssssorder or anything.”

  He smiled. “I wasn’t necessarily implying that you had a disorder of that magnitude. Headaches could be indicative of something deeper, or it could just be a headache.”

  “I-i-it’s jjjjjust a hhhhheadache.”

  With a nod, he changed the topic back to the letters. “So you’ve discovered a little anger toward your mother?”

  As much as I hated myself for it, I answered, “Yes.”

  “You did well articulating your hate for your father. Is that the most specific feeling you have toward him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any other feeling about him at all?”

  I thought for a moment and then shrugged. “D-d-d-dis-disap-p-p-pointment.”

  “Really? People become disappointed when their expectations haven’t been met. What were your expectations of your father?”

  My fingers curled and I fought the urge to bite the meat of my hands. “T-t-t-to nnnnnot hhhhate mmmme and mmmy mmmmom. T-t-to nnnot k-k-k-kill JJJJJJJ-JJJJJJJ, mmmmy b-brother.”

  He nodded as if those expectations made sense to him.

  “And you feel confused about Joseph.” He didn’t see my nod as he continued. “He protected you, but also wounded you in ways that are difficult to even think about.”

  My right hand moved to my mouth and my front teeth just nibbled on the first knuckle of my thumb. I didn’t break the skin.

  “Does it bother you that you may never know their true motives?”

  I felt so tired, but that was usual now. “I w-w-w-wish I c-c-c-could kn-know.”

  “Tell me what you think went through your father’s mind on an average night.”

  Now my jaw tightened and I felt my teeth tearing at the skin. I was stuck. I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t stop making myself bleed.

  “Elliott, remember what you were told when you entered the hospital.”

  I took a deep breath and forced my hand away from my mouth. They said there was no self-injury allowed here and if I was unable to control the compulsion, the hospital would have to do it for me. I thought about Jane and her off-white restraining cuffs, and the fear that blossomed within me was enough to keep my hands on the arms of the chair.

  “Talk to me about why you do that. When did it start? Do you remember?”

  “I-i-in the c-c-closet.”

  “Please explain.”

  Again, I resisted the urge to bite and I forced myself to speak. “I hhhhhad to b-be quiet. I d-d-didn’t wwww-w-want the d-d-d-demons or the angels t-t-to know I w-w-was there.”
>
  “Did it help you deal with pain?”

  I nodded. When my father would punish me, it gave me something else to focus on. When I was alone in my room, staring at the stain on the floor, it helped me focus on something other than my absolute terror.

  I liked the predictability of what would happen. I enjoyed being able to experience what different pressure did to my skin.

  “Now you use it to help you deal with emotional pain, yes?”

  Again, I nodded.

  “When you wrote those letters, did you bite your hands?”

  I didn’t know why this particular question sparked them, but my eyes pinched shut as tears formed. I struggled against them, my hands curling. I had to sit on my fists in order to stop myself from biting.

  “Would it help you to know that every emotion you expressed within those letters is normal and natural?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I’m very proud of you for writing the letter to your father when I didn’t ask for that.”

  I looked up, searching his face for some indication that he was just saying those words instead of meaning them, but I found his expression genuine.

  “Do you know Johnny Cash’s background?”

  I nodded. I knew about his brother and his later addictions.

  “The first time he held a guitar was age twelve.” That gentle smile was still on his face. “And his mother used to sing during difficult situations.”

  My discomfort grew.

  “He lost his brother when he was twelve.”

  “Hhhhis d-d-d-d, ffffather didn’t k-kill his b-b-b-b-b-brother.”

  “No, but I think it’s interesting that you have sought out music, whether intentionally or not, that mirrors some of your own pain. When did you first hear Johnny Cash’s music?”

  I was thirteen or fourteen and Stephen would bring CDs home once or twice a week and just hand them to me. There was never any rhyme or reason to his choices, and I could never discern his own musical tastes by the arbitrary selection. If I didn’t care for them, I gave them back the next day.

  “SSStephen.”

  “How do you think you’d be if he’d never helped you discover music? Do you feel like you would have discovered it at some point without his assistance?”