What did this woman think was wrong with her? Crystal sat down on a comfortable chair in what must have been the parlor of the old house and smiled at a frail young woman who looked up from the book she was reading.
“Hi; I’m Crystal. I just came by for, um…” For the life of her, Crystal could not make anything up. How weird was that?
“I’m Claire. My parents stuck me in here.” The young woman moved closer to Crystal. “Well, actually, in here I’ve learned to be brutally honest with myself; it wasn’t my parents who stuck me in here; it was a Doctor.”
“Oh?”
“It wasn’t my regular Doctor; it was his locum. That’s the guy who was filling in for him. Anyhow, he decided I needed to get off a lot of the pain medication I was on.”
Crystal liked this petite woman who was growing less timid by the minute.
“I think my parents may have got my medication mixed up on purpose. Don’t get me wrong, my parents are really good people and have taken care of me my entire life. I suffer from many chronic illnesses and my parents have always been there for me.”
Crystal had heard this before; she had read that exact phrase in the letter from ‘Stuck in the Middle’. Interesting. “Do you think they purposely over-medicated you?”
The young woman nodded. “It’s looking more and more like that. A lot of my chronic illnesses are in remission; if they even existed in the first place. But my parents are good people. I’m their only daughter and they have devoted their entire lives to me. But here, no one waits on my like a princess. I have to get up at a certain time, make my bed, get dressed. I have chores to do; one week, it’s the bathrooms; another it’s the vacuuming, that sort of thing. I have to eat three times a day and take all the vitamins they give us. Plus, there’s one other thing that I have to have done to me.”
“That sounds bad.”
“It is. I have to have a vitamin B shot in my rump every week.”
Crystal grimaced; she was not a fan of needles or anything medical really. “Why?”
“Apparently addicts; that’s what I am, I’m an addict…we need to repair our demolished immune system.”
“But why your rump? Couldn’t you get the shot in your arm?”
The young woman looked at her thin arms. “We could; but there are women here who used to shoot up. Shoot up drugs, you know? And they would be triggered if they saw a needle go into their arm.”
“I think I understand. But back to you Claire, do you think your parents treat you like a child?”
Claire put her book down and slid right over to Crystal. The two young women were now a hands breadth away from each other, talking intently, one on the chair and the other at the end of the couch.
“I do. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in here. We have group therapy sessions every day and the counsellors and especially the other women patients, really get you to look at yourself and your choices in the past and what you intend to do in the future. Well, Crystal, do you know that since I’ve been in here, I’m eating better, sleeping better and my mind is much clearer? At home, I was zoned out most of the time. Plus, and this is huge; most of my pain is gone and I’m not on paid killers! At home, I didn’t have any sort of dreams or aspirations. Now, I’m learning about operas!” She held up the book she had been reading. It was called ‘Phantom of the Opera’ and had a man wearing pince-nez.
“I imagine you would like to go to the theatre too!”
“Yes!” Claire gushed, then looked sad. “That’s something else I realized through therapy. My parents have made all my choices; they don’t let me do anything I want to do.”
“Sounds claustrophobic.”
“Oh, good word Crystal! And what about you; are you just checking in?”
Before she could answer, an elderly lady walked by, looked at the two young women and then sniffed, put her nose up higher in the air and sat down in the chair furthest away from them.
Crystal pointed to her. “Is she a counsellor?”
Claire giggled. “Oh no! She’s one of us, but she doesn’t admit it. Everybody hates her; she is such a snob. She likes me for some reason, but that’s just because I remind her of someone else. Do you know, she’s been in this treatment center for over three weeks and she still doesn’t admit she has a problem?”
Crystal was intrigued. “Are you supposed to be telling me this?”
“No, but I am anyway. She always insists that she ‘took her medication exactly the way the doctor prescribed’; she did nothing wrong. The counsellor’s pointed out that she has had her prescription filled out every month for years and they talked about the cumulative effect…but she insists that she has a nerve problem; she’s not an addict. We used to call her the princess, because she refuses to take part in anything, doesn’t do chores or even make her bed. Crystal, she thinks clearing the table is somehow beneath her! She doesn’t do dishes or laundry and certainly not bathroom cleaning.”
Claire lowered her voice. “I think she must know someone high up to get away with doing nothing day in and day out.”
“Sounds like it. But, you said you used to call her princess. What do you call her now?”
Claire winced. “It’s gross, but now we call her ‘Grandma’. She actually paid us to…”
Three women walked in the room and waved at Crystal. One walked over and introduced herself.
“Hi! I’m Dana! What are you in for?”
“Actually, I’m just visiting.”
“Sure; aren’t we all.” Dana turned to Claire. “Move over little one; I want to talk to our latest inmate.”
“But I am just visiting,” Crystal insisted. “I was out riding my bicycle and I stopped to ask for a glass of water.”
Dana roared with laughter. “That’s a good one! ‘I was thirsty so I dropped by a drug and alcohol treatment center for something to drink!’ Really, what’s your drug of choice?”
Without thinking, Crystal said, “Solitude.”
“You’re younger than most of us here, so you must really be messed up. Care to expand on this addiction to solitude?”
Crystal looked around the room; most of the faces seemed friendly and this Dana seemed genuinely interested. “Why not? It’s hard to explain, but I can be out doing stuff and I get this overpowering feeling that I should go home. It’s like I have no choice; like something bad is going to happen if I don’t get home immediately. It’s… it’s oppressive.”
“What do you do when you get home?”
“I just curl up with a mystery novel or watch television.”
Claire spoke up. “Does the feeling pass?”
“It sort of does Claire. It morphs into a different feeling. A combination of ‘I’m safe now’ and ‘what a wimp.’ Then the what-if’s start to happen.”
“What-ifs? Tell me more,” Dana said.
“I start thinking about all sorts of worst case scenarios. What if my mom were to suddenly get sick and leave me alone? What if I get cancer and suffer a long lingering death and my mom uses all her money for my medical bills and I die and she is left destitute? What if I never get a job and never learn to drive a car and just end up a crazy cat lady? Actually, I am thinking of getting a cat, but just one, not, you know, fourteen.” Crystal looked at the women. What was she thinking by saying all this? They had real problems like addictions to pain medications and injectable drugs! What were they thinking? They would probably start laughing at her any second now.
“Talk about self-imposed solitary confinement!”
“I don’t think you’re addicted to solitude,” Dana said, “I think you’re addicted to fear.”
Crystal tilted her head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“Think about it. You said this oppressive feeling overtakes you; you have to rush home and basically sit immobile while all these fears race through your mind. What’s the end result? You do nothing so nothing bad happens.”
Crystal thought this over. She said slowly, “You’re saying I’m addicted
to fear.” Her voice grew stronger as she had a light bulb moment. “If I do nothing, then nothing bad will happen. I keep returning to my old friend fear and end up paralysed; too frightened to make a change in my life. You know, when I was six years old I wanted to be a police officer like my Dad. One day I decided that I wanted to be a photographer instead.” She stopped and took a breath. “That was the day I came home and learned that my Dad had died. I’ve never made that connection before. I’m too frightened to try anything new because the last time I decided to, my Dad died.”
Dana smiled. “There’s a six year old’s logic if I ever heard it. You need to talk to that little girl inside you and tell her it wasn’t her fault her Dad died.”
Crystal sat back in the chair and covered her mouth with her hands. She then pressed them to each side of her face. “You guys are so good! Is this the kind of thing you talk about in group therapy?”
From across the room a strident voice rang out. “They talk about all sorts of crap like that.” It was the elderly women. “I want my tea. Where is my tea?”
Dana got up immediately and curtsied. “Yes my Queen. Would you like me to give you one lump or two?”
Claire giggled. “Give her as many lumps as you want to! Wait, that was violent; sorry.”
Another woman had run into a nearby bathroom and returned with the scrub brush for the toilet. “Your scepter my Queen.” She held up the bowl the toilet brush usually sat in. “And your crown!”
The woman being mocked stood up and pointed to the women, one by one as she spoke. “You are nothing but common guttersnipes. I am Mrs. Winston Fielding of the Fieldings! I’m better than all of you put together. Once my stint in here is done, I will return to my beautiful glass castle. You will all crawl back to the street where you belong. Go ahead and laugh at me. It means nothing to me. Soon you’ll return to your miserable existences and I’ll return to my beautiful castle!”
“You already said that Grandma!”
Mrs. Winston Fielding crossed her arms and continued to rage. “You filthy cheap little whores. You’d do anything for a buck, wouldn’t you? I bought you all for a song. Remember that next time you decide to make fun of me.”
The formidable looking woman Crystal had seen in the paper came striding into the room and motioned for Crystal to follow her.
At that moment, Claire announced, “Child killer.”
There was dead silence in the parlor.
The Director of the Treatment Center did not even turn to address the women, but said firmly, “Confidentiality ladies; you have all signed confidentiality agreements. Remember that please.” She ushered Crystal toward the door.
“Please contact your family Doctor for a referral and we’ll be happy to accommodate you here. But as you know; we cannot accept people who walk in off the street. I wish you all the best and congratulate you on taking this first step towards conquering whatever addiction you’re battling with.”
“Um, thanks. But, could I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Is there a place in Harrogate that a woman with a nerve problem can go for a rest treatment?”
The Director smiled slightly. “No; that would be a Mexican vacation or a cruise to Alaska; only in old books do delicate ladies go for a ‘rest’ cure. Here in the real world, we have drug and alcohol treatment centers. We have no yellow wallpaper here.” The Director smiled wider. “Excuse me; that’s a reference to a short story by Gilman. You might find it an interesting read.”
Crystal thanked her and started walking down the stair but turned around and walked back up. “So all the ladies I met have addiction problems?”
“Yes.”
“With drugs?”
The Director began looking formidable again. “Yes.”
Crystal persisted. “With Alcohol?”
The Director sighed. “Or with both.”
“Even Mrs. Fielding?”
Crystal watched as the woman opposite her pursed her lips, gave a quick nod and then went inside the house.
Fortunately, Crystal’s bike was still where she left it. As she rode home, a phrase surfaced in her brain.
I’m addicted to fear; now what am I going to do about it?
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning Crystal met Marjorie at the door of the Harrogate News with a newfound confidence. Crystal’s instincts were validated by her visit to the Treatment Center the afternoon before; plus she had been helped to see one of the root causes of her anxiety issues.
“Marjorie! You are looking particularly ravishing today!” she said effusively.
Marjorie’s orange hair was still cactus-like in appearance; but it went nicely with the burnt sienna pant suit she was wearing. “Oh get out of here and get to work, CeeCee; you still have a lot of Betty letters to finish.” She threw the envelopes on Crystal’s desk as she walked by.
Crystal chuckled at Marjorie’s fake gruffness and started opening envelopes and reading.
Dear Betty,
My husband always tells me I’m thirty-five. Which would be lovely if I was even close to that age; but I’m not. I’m nearly sixty-five. Why doesn’t he give me the respect I’m due for a person my age? When we meet friends we haven’t seen in years, he’ll always tell me later that Mrs. So and So is sure looking old.
We’re the same age! Why does he do this? It’s frustrating.
Yours truly,
The Rose in his Rose-colored glasses.
Dear Rose,
I’m confused about your issue. Is the issue that he doesn’t respect you and treats you like an immature woman or is the issue that he doesn’t seem to recognize that you’re growing older?
Are you worried that he won’t love you if he finally sees you for who you are?
Consider this, Rose, maybe he does see you as a you are; the woman he loves dearly no matter how fast her body may be collecting wrinkles.
Sincerely,
CeeCee.
The next letter was had her name scrawled across the front of it; her actual name, Crystal! She opened it in a hurry.
Dear Crystal,
Sorry I missed you; but I know you won’t be in until eight and I’ll be at home trying to get a few hours sleep before school. When my Mom’s friend Marlene said they were looking for someone to help stuff flyers, I jumped at the chance to see where you worked.
I’m really sorry you and Mom and Dad had a big fight. They really liked you that day in the coffee shop. Maybe you just need to give it some time?
I read the article you wrote about our family and it was very nice. I’m going to show it to my parents when they are feeling better. I put this letter in the mailbox for the advice column; I hope you don’t mind.
Your friend, Jennifer.
“Well isn’t that nice and I don’t mind at all!” Crystal said and put the letter in her knapsack. She was going to put it front and center on her fridge with magnets; it was so encouraging. With a hopeful spirit, Crystal picked up the next envelope. While the envelope was typed neatly, the letter inside was clearly written by a child.
Dear Mrs. Betty,
My mom says a platypus isn’t a real animal but I saw a picture of one in a book. She said I should ask you, because you know everything.
Yours truly,
Mike.
P.S. She also said even if they are real I still can’t have one as a pet.
Dear Mike,
I both agree and disagree with your mom.
I remember the first time I saw a picture of a platypus; it had a bill like a duck, the skin and fur of an otter and a tail like a beaver! And even though it is a mammal; it lays eggs! But yes, the platypus is a real animal.
But you know what? The boy platypus has spurs on it’s hind legs that are venomous! So I agree with your mom, they would not make a good pet.
You should go to the library and read more about them. There are a few other weird things about this animal that you might find interesting.
Ha
ppy reading!
Sincerely,
CeeCee.
Dear Betty,
You are a vision. I think about you night and day; I can hardly wait until we’re together forever and …”
Crystal stopped reading and dropped her eyes to the signature. “Heah Marjorie, did Betty marry someone named Arthur?”
“Yup. She’s now Mrs. Arthur Bellows. Why?”
“I’ve got a personal letter from him to her.”
“Ooh let me see. Is it juicy?” Marjorie came to Crystal’s side and read the letter.
“How boring. There’s a box on the back counter with some of Betty’s things in it; put it in there.”
Crystal put the letter back in the envelope and dropped it in the box. “I wonder why he sent her a letter now? I understand they’ve been married for nearly five days?”
“Oh you know the mail; sometimes things get held up for days. Did you notice the letter didn’t have a postal code on it? Probably the reason for the delay.”
Crystal read another letter.
Dear Betty,
Me and my girlfriends went out dancing the other night. We’re all single, with demanding jobs, so once a week we hit a club and have fun. A very handsome tall dark stranger asked me to dance and I happily accepted.
Things were fine that night but turned weird later. I don’t know how, but he found out where I lived and broke in when I was at work and left me ‘gifts’ and a note.
The gifts were a bathroom set; you’ve seen them, a rug to go in front of the toilet, a lid cover and a bathmat. They were used. How do I know? He told me in his letter that he took them from the motel he was living in and gave them to me.
How creepy is that? I threw his gifts out and disinfected everything twice, just to be on the safe side.
The thing is, Betty, he looked so normal. Better than normal.
Now he’s calling me at work every two hours. I don’t know how he found out where I live and work; I did not tell him and none of my girlfriends would.
I’ve told him I’m not interested in dating him; and I’ve asked him not to phone, but he keeps phoning. And he is getting angry.
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