by KC Decker
It doesn’t register when she moves, but all of a sudden, Margret is holding me. I am sobbing like I’ve just cracked apart, and life is gushing out of every fracture.
I guess she made her point. She’s here for me.
Chapter 4
The incident with Margret, the nurse, was cathartic and helpful in the same way that putting a band-aid on a severed femoral artery would be. After that, I was asked to take a snapshot of my feelings and transfer it to the canvas. Which I did. Too bad I’m still bleeding out.
After lunch, we have rec time, which is the only instance in which I hate combining the men and women. Meals and group therapy are fine for uniting the wings, but rec time becomes insufferable. Mainly because of the ceaseless, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap of the God-damned ping pong ball.
Lyla, Veronica, Matty, and I like to sit by the windows and read. It’s a perfectly good way to escape—were it not for the fucking hollow ball sailing back and forth like it’s its job.
During our reading time, Veronica doesn’t need to count everything, and Matty and Lyla get a reprieve from their depression. They are both here following suicide attempts, so luckily, and selfishly for me, their stays are longer than all the short-timers.
The four of us have talked about living together when I leave the system at the ripe old age of twenty-one. My aging out is the only thing I have to look forward to, so we talk about it a lot. That, and staying together because we have become a family in here.
Acquaintance “friends” have come and gone from my life, but knowing I have a future outside of this building relatively soon was the only reason I allowed these three into my orbit. I have true friends now, friends that I get to keep.
I have my suspicions about the origin of Matty’s depression, but I don’t think he has fully come to terms with it himself, so I will accompany him on his journey at his own pace. It’s a shame that the outside world has so much to say about an individual’s personal path. If everyone was allowed to be themselves and were welcomed into society with equal merit, places like these would echo instead of hum.
Before the Sig debacle, the only anxiety I ever deal with anymore is the thought of Lyla or Matty succumbing to their depression. The fact that they are both here after trying to take their own lives is a galactic size helping of unease and a fist around my heart. I can take anything that comes my way, but not losing one of the only true friends I’ve ever had.
“May I sit and read with you guys?” The singing voice interrupts my thoughts, but not my reading because my book is still face down on my lap. It’s, of course, Tracy. Nothing ever comes out of her mouth that’s not delivered like a song. She even cusses melodically.
“Of course, have a seat,” Matty says with a hundred-watt smile aimed right at her. He is nice to everyone, even the ones who don’t deserve it. I’m not saying she doesn’t deserve it, just that I prefer to take her in small doses.
“Have you guys met the new psychiatrist yet?” she sings, and her voice annoys me as much as her question. Lyla must feel me gearing up because she places a decisive hand on my thigh. It’s like she is trying to telepathically communicate that Tracy is new, and she doesn’t know the situation with Sig.
“What, Sig’s been gone for fifteen minutes, and we are all supposed to have had sessions with the new shrink?” I spit out. I’m not usually this much of an asshole, that must be why Veronica and Matty both look at me like Santa is sitting on my lap.
“No, silly. I didn’t have a session with him, I just saw him moving some boxes in. He’s not bad on the eyes, so I introduced myself.”
I’ve had enough of her voice and the ping pong racket, so I decide to stand up and go check out the usurper. I’ve already decided not to let him into my head, this is more to help me close the door on Sig. It will do me some good to see the fresh air in his stuffy old office.
Just to establish seniority here, I don’t knock on Sig’s door—it’s already open anyway. I hate myself for looking for the candy dish, it’s gone, and so is Sig. You know who’s not gone? This fool. Thinks he can put all his shit on the bookshelves and settle the fuck in.
“Mercy, hello. I’m Dr. Sutton.” Why exactly does this joker know my name? And why is he extending his hand—we don’t touch here.
“So you are.”
“I’m glad you came by.”
“Aren’t you a little young for this gig?”
“What makes you say that?”
“The vernix on your skin.”
“Mercy—” he drops his head, I don’t know if it’s in disappointment, or if he found my comment funny.
“You will be eaten alive here,” I say, I’m not sure if it’s a warning or an insult. Probably both.
“I disagree. Like yourself, I’m a high achiever.” His smile and his comment deflect my snark. He is definitely not backing down.
“Don’t pretend you know me. You only know what’s in my file—and that’s all you are going to get.”
“Oh, good! Now that that’s out of the way, can we sit? My newborn legs can no longer support my weight.”
“You sit. I’m not staying.” I turn to leave, but he stops me dead in my tracks.
“Sig left you a letter.” My pause lasts longer than I am entirely comfortable with, but my feet feel like cinderblocks, and I can’t force them to lift.
“Well, isn’t that cute? You can go ahead and put it in the g-file.”
“The g-file?”
“Yeah, Hotshot. The g-file. As in…the garbage.” Now my feet do work. In fact, they work double-time and carry me swiftly back to my crew as though I teleported there.
“Very handsome, right?” Tracy sing-songs, and it raises my hackles.
“I wouldn’t say handsome. I’d say, young,” I answer, with only a fraction of my former voice. I feel like someone opened my faucet, and my entire being just gushed out of it. I am disgusted about the thought of another doctor being here. But the really shitty part is that everyone is going to fucking loooove him just because of how he looks. He could be completely inept as a psychiatrist, and no one would even notice.
“What does he look like?” Lyla asks as she hugs her knees to her chest. “God knows there is no one else to look at in here.”
“I don’t know. He’s tall,” I offer. That’s all they’re going to get from me. They can form their own opinions about him.
“I hope he is hot; I need some new material for my alone time,” Veronica says as she strains her neck to look toward the nurse’s station, hoping for a glimpse of him. “Look at them, all huddled together. What a bunch of gossiping hens they are.”
Out of nowhere, right as I’m about to point out that we look like a similar bunch of hens, Matty puts his arm around my shoulders and speaks into my ear so only I can hear what he says.
“I know you miss him. Do you want to talk about it?” He’s brave, touching me like this, but he knows the staff are all busy fanning their loins. I lean my head into him, comforted by his presence.
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway,” I answer. The truth is, I will never want to talk about it. If I talk about it—I can’t very well ignore it, can I?
“Ok, then, will you French braid my hair?” he asks as he’s already retrieving his arm and moving to the floor in front of me. I have an intense urge to kiss the top of his head. What he wants in life is so simple, so automatic for most people. And so forbidden to him.
“Of course I’ll braid your hair. One or two?”
Chapter 5
I’ve been waiting all day for a moment of peace to myself, so I can think about the fact that Sig left me a letter. Now, as I lie here in my bed, I can’t decide if I want to cry or scream into my pillow. After nighttime meds, Lyla is usually quick to fall asleep and hard to wake up, so either choice is a viable option. Tonight, however, my girl wants to talk.
“Have you ever had a crush on someone here?” she asks. She’s whispering because we have to look like we are asleep when the RNs do th
eir checks.
“No. Wait—have you?” I ask, somewhat horrified. I’ve all but decided I’m asexual. I don’t look at anyone with any type of sexual interest or attraction, ever. I’m almost twenty-one, and I can count on one hand how many times I’ve masturbated. Even those few times, it was only to figure out what all the fuss was about. I brought myself to orgasm once, but it took so damn long that it’s not been worth the hassle since.
“Sure, here and there. I’m asking about you though, don’t you want to date when you get out of here?”
“God, no!” The thought is revolting. I don’t want some dude pawing at me all the time. Touching was not allowed at St. Vincent’s, it was never very common in any of my foster homes, and it’s treated like the Black Plague here. The thought of someone’s hairy, nude body rubbing against my nakedness and sweating all over me is enough to turn my stomach.
“I think you would like sex,” she states, confident in her assessment.
“Lyla?”
“What?”
“When do your meds kick in?”
***
At breakfast, I know my eyes are red and swollen, but my friends have the grace not to mention it. I pour the cup of GrapeNuts into my yogurt, knowing full well that I have no intention of eating any of it. Veronica is here counting away, and for once, the distraction is soothing.
I know having nothing in my stomach except coffee and meds is asking for trouble, but it’s almost like I’m welcoming the nausea. Maybe I’m punishing myself for driving yet another parental figure away. Usually, they leave me after a psychotic episode. Not Sig, though. He was the one who picked up the pieces of my discarded being. He was never scared of my psychosis.
After the nurse checks my vitals, she informs me that I need to go to Dr. Sutton’s office. I don’t know if she is worried because it’s been a pretty quiet morning for me, or if this is something standard. Either way, I don’t give a shit. I’ll go through the motions because I have to, but Dr. Sutton can go fuck himself.
For the first time in my life, I knock on Sig’s door and don’t know what to expect. The fact that I wait until Dr. Sutton opens the door is evidence of that fact.
“Hi, Mercy.”
“Why am I here? It’s not Monday.”
“Honestly? Because it might take us until Monday for me to complete my evaluation. Don’t worry though, I brought snacks, and I have a little fridge over there with bottles of water,” he says with a charming smile that has already worked it’s magic on the entire staff and seeped through both wings of the unit.
“Why would it take that long? Oh—never mind, you are new to all of this, you will probably need to Google your way through it,” I say. He snorts out a laugh as if I was being funny instead of mean. Clearly, he doesn’t know me at all. Too bad he can’t get to know me by reading my file. Nice try though, Doc.
“Nope, I’m ready. But I figured I would need to account for the hard time you will be giving me, right?”
“You might need a bedpan then; I’ve got the bladder of a camel.”
“Duly noted. Shall we initiate the standoff?” he asks. His smirk is pinched at the side as though he finds all of this amusing, but is trying not to laugh outright.
“Whenever you’re ready, Chief.”
“This is so exciting, should we sit—or remain standing?” He rapidly rubs his hands in front of him as if the anticipation was truly genuine. I didn’t exactly expect him to employ charm or wit in our session, so I don’t really know how to combat it.
“You do you, doc. I’m gonna sit.” Actually, I do one better, I lie down on Sig’s couch. Nothing feels the same, though. I wish it wasn’t 9:00 am, I’d take a nap.
“First, I’d like to go over your medications. Does that work if we start there?” he asks as he takes a seat behind Sig’s desk. Why is he asking innocuous questions, he can see what meds I’m on by glancing down at my chart. I’ll give him credit for not starting with the fanatical religious zealots that were my parents. No use fighting him on a question about meds.
“Go for it.”
“You are currently taking 400 mg of Seroquel?”
“Yes.”
“Any side effects?”
“Not anymore.”
“Are you still having hallucinations?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are they auditory or visual? Or both?”
“Both.”
“Any tactile hallucinations?”
“Yes.”
“Are you aware that others may not see or hear them when you are experiencing them?”
“Other people seeing them or hearing them doesn’t impact me at all.” I keep my gaze directly on his. He is going to push, and I’m going to push right back. I’m not going to let him define me by my diagnosis, or pretend he has the slightest clue what I’ve gone through.
“I’m trying to understand if you know they are hallucinations in the moment, or if you think they are real.”
“Sutton, they are more real than you or I.”
“Can you tell me about them?”
“I don’t think you could handle them.”
“You don’t think I’ve heard worse?” he asks as he stops writing, lays his pen down, and meets my gaze again.
“No.”
“How about you tell me about the tactile ones. Do you always feel the same thing?”
“No.”
“Do you feel like something is crawling on you? Or, like someone is grabbing you?”
“Like I’m being pinned down.”
“Are you ab—”
“And carved apart with rusty nails.” He wants to go there? Fine, we’ll go there.
“Does it se—”
“And then sprinkled with acid.”
“Ok, and th—”
“And then something is shoved in my mouth.”
“Mercy?”
“And my insides swell up and burst.”
“I’m going to be honest with you—even though I get the distinct impression you are not giving me the same courtesy.”
“I told you you couldn’t handle it,” I say pointedly.
“Dr. Sigmund’s notes never mention the nature of your hallucinations, only that you have them. He also notes that you were always sedated following an episode, is that true?”
“Not if I was in a foster home.”
“Did he ever talk to you about the specifics of what you were seeing, hearing, and feeling?”
“I was a kid when I started seeing him.”
“You were a kid when he put you on antipsychotics. That is a big deal, Mercy. I’m trying to make sense of his notes. Clearly, he went the pharmacological route, but it’s not appropriate to simply medicate and sedate psychosis. There are a lot of elements involved. I’m not seeing any of that in your file.”
“And you think he should have re-hashed all that trauma instead of medicating the hallucinations away?”
“Don’t you think that’s relevant information?”
“No. He was protecting me.”
“Are you telling me the truth about your hallucinations?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me more?”
“What do you want to know?”
“What do you hear?”
“Shouting.”
“Can you make out what’s being said? Are the voices encouraging you to hurt yourself or others?”
“No, I can’t make out what’s being said, and no the voices don’t encourage me to hurt anyone.”
“Do they encourage you to hurt yourself?”
“No.”
“Have you ever wanted to hurt yourself?”
“Yes, but not anymore.”
“Have you ever wished you weren’t alive?”
“All the time when I was younger.”
“Were you ever treated for depression or anxiety?”
“No. I was depressed because of my circumstances, not my brain chemistry.”
Dr. Sutton drops his head, probably
in defeat. I knew he couldn’t handle my shit. I’ve hallucinated since I can remember. My schizophrenia is the reason my parents threw me away, and the reason all my foster families sent me back. My psychosis isn’t something Sutton can just waltz in here and fix with a smile and the twinkle in his eye. I have a lifetime of terrifying, debilitating hallucinations under my belt. A new shrink won’t fix that.
“Mercy, I want you to be successful when you leave here. You have a tremendous light to offer the world.”
“Ok.”
“I know you were very close to Dr. Sigmund, and I am not trying to step in and fill the role he played in your life. I know I could never replace him in that regard. But if you can work with me, and learn to trust me, I think I can help you.” He looks sincere and no longer amused. Apparently, his youth affords him something that tends to grow cold over the years. Optimism.
“I’ll work with you because I have to, but I don’t like talking about my illness. I’ve learned to live with it, and I don’t want to harp on such things. That’s why Sig didn’t make me blather on about it.”
“Mercy, we don’t need to talk about the schizophrenia beyond me determining if you are on the right course of treatment. Ok?... You know what I want to talk about?”
“The Yankees?”
He gives a smile that succeeds in disarming me a little more. First, he’s witty about anticipating a standoff—I didn’t expect that approach at all. And then he goes and admits that he isn’t trying to fill Sig’s shoes. On top of that, he told me I have a light to offer the world.
Nobody has ever acknowledged that light before. In fact, it may be burning a little brighter right now. And not because of the way his hair is styled just right. Not because of his insanely blue eyes either.
“No, Mercy, not the Yankees. I want to talk about the sadness behind your eyes. I want to explore how much garbage you have been carrying around with you, and see how much of it you can leave behind when you go.”
