The Girl in the Treehouse

by Jennifer Asbenson

  MY LIFE TOOK A TURN for the worse after I quit my first job at the house with the girls two years earlier. I missed the girls daily, but I did not plan to return. When my manager revealed who had spread the vicious AIDS rumor, I lost my mind completely. Trevor’s love alone did not hold the power to save me from my own demons.

  My job in the home for the girls was the last string in my life that held me together, gave me hope, and made me feel proud. When the string was cut, I felt like a punctured balloon with an unchosen purpose to violently strike walls, lose steam, and plummet from existence.

  After my car accident, three words had brought me back to life. Now four words destroyed me.

  “It was your mom,” my manager said.

  The words were heavy. Her lips were reluctant. I noticed all the curves and creases around her mouth. It felt like I was stuck in quicksand; I could only continue to stare as she sat in silence.

  Maybe that was the only way my brain could comprehend the words—with an intense slowness. When they sunk in, warm blood flushed my face. Anger and sadness, equally strong, combined on my face, causing a well of tears to brew. As I tried to hold the feelings back, my gut began to ache, and I wondered if I might vomit. A sudden forced smile induced a cascade of tears.

  With downturned lips and weakened body language, my manager set her hand on my shoulder.

  “Your mom was fired,” she said.

  My eyes wandered the blank walls as I flashed back to the treatment I received at work, prior to the conversation. People had walked around me as if I had cooties.

  The reason for the awkwardness at work was now clear. My lips quivered as I lifted my finger in an attempt to reveal my thoughts. Weakly, I stood, grabbed my purse, and took off out the front door. On my way out, I told my manager I would be back, but I never returned. Instead, I went to the store, bought alcohol, and returned to Trevor’s house.

  In a perturbed drunken stupor, with the bedroom wall as my support, I phoned my mom. My anger could be heard through my breath.

  “Why would you tell everyone that I have AIDS? Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Because you were raped,” my mom answered.

  My anger could not be controlled. “That … was … my … job!”

  “Jennifer, usually when people are raped, they get AIDS.”

  “That’s not true! I wasn’t even raped!”

  “That was your job, you said? Did you get fired too?”

  “No! Why did you tell people that I have AIDS?”

  There was silence.

  “Sorry, that’s what I thought.”

  Confused, I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. It would comfort me to view her as ignorant, but I began to wonder if her claim could be true. AIDS was spread through sex, I knew that. The inebriation didn’t help me sort my thoughts. Out of frustration, I threw the phone across the room, and my back slid down the wall until I reached the floor.

  The images of the attack played in my head, and I reminded myself that penetration never happened. But did it? I wondered. He did bite me. Could that have given me AIDS?

  But I no longer cared. My self-worth was disputed, and my downward spiral was set into motion.

  As I sit here and write this from the safety of my treehouse, my mind is boggled. Why would my own mother start a rumor like that? Maybe she told people I had AIDS so they would feel bad for her and show her sympathy. Maybe she truly believed that if a person was raped, they would get AIDS. Or maybe she was cruel and saw that I was indestructible, so she made it her life’s mission to try and destroy me. Like a party candle you can’t blow out, I have never failed to reignite.

  Some nights, I would lie in the middle of the road, look at the sky, and talk to God. Even though Trevor loved me, I was lost. Drugs and alcohol made everything worse. Fights between us erupted like volcanoes. We’d make up, but fight again. It became a vicious cycle, until we finally broke up.

  AT MY LOWEST, I MOVED back into my parents’ house. Unloved, desperate, and vulnerable, I attracted chaos. I was a magnet for the undesirables. And I began to feel suicidal. If I didn’t get to a hospital, I knew I would kill myself.

  In the emergency room, I stood agitated. At the admittance window, an attendant assisted a man with a bloody leg.

  With a sense of urgency, I interrupted, “I need help.” It was clear I had had a rough night.

  In a bossy attempt to teach me manners, the woman stood and pointed at my chest. “One moment, ma’am. You need to take a seat. We will be with you in just a minute.”

  Normally I cared what others thought, but the horrific images of self-destruction controlled my mind.

  “I’ll be dead by then!” I yelled.

  All eyes were on me. The waiting room filled with gasps, and parents pulled their children close to shelter them. The nurses lifted their heads, but no one took action, so I headed to the doors that led outside.

  “I’m going to kill myself!” I yelled.

  Unable to stop the destructive momentum, I walked through the parking lot with haste. The street in front of me, with a steady flow of traffic, became my target. A semi-truck in the back of traffic caught my eye, so I sped up to assure I would meet it in time.

  Shoes hit the pavement behind me, accompanied by loud, out-of-shape breaths. Like a prisoner on the run, I never looked back. I began to sprint. As the truck entered my vicinity, I thrust myself in front of it. The truck driver slammed on his brakes and swerved. I was tackled to the ground by hospital employees. Because I knew what would happen next, I became combative. A sharp stick in my thigh rendered me helpless.

  My eyes rolled back in my head. As I turned off, I knew I was in good hands, and I knew where I would wake up. One thing I did not know was that this time, my life would forever be changed in the mental hospital.

  My daughter Augusta’s drawing which, for me, symbolizes hope

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Black Angel

  Up and down the halls, I danced and laughed and skipped blissfully. This place was where I felt comfort. It was my home.

  Soon I found my favorite chair—perfectly placed against the wall—and sat down to watch the others. The most interesting people in the world are the ones who don’t care about what others think. Maybe one day I will be like them, I thought.

  The morning medications had not yet delivered me to the puppet state I craved. So instead of defaulting into my fantasy world, I adopted the world around me.

  An older woman walked through the room and spoke to herself. Drool fell from her mouth as she scratched at her private area. Naturally, I averted my eyes to find someone less gross. A woman rocked back and forth on a couch with her hands in the prayer position. She repeated the word no over and over. Annoyed by the unsettled emotions I developed, I looked away again. My attention was drawn to a man who yelled violently for medication. He pounded the thick glass window with his hand, and then hit the glass with his head.

  Imagine a visit to your family. When you arrive, you find everyone in a bad mood or sick. Perhaps your sister broke up with her boyfriend, and your brother is on the run from the police. The scene before you is shocking because what you had imagined in your mind, before you arrived, is very different. Your expectations now cause you pain in the form of disappointment. That is how I felt as I sat in my favorite chair in the hospital many years ago.

  The grief I experienced was far from pleasant. My once-present smile was lost. With trembling lips, my eyes filled with moisture. Blood rushed to my face. My eyes wandered the floor as I searched for any trace of beauty. With my head low, I didn’t lift my eyes because I feared I’d witness more anguish.

  In the old hard chair, I sat with my legs crossed and my back slouched over. My hands held the opposite elbow on my lap.

  Accidentally, my eyes met another’s. I looked into my lap. For comfort, I began to mimic the woman lost in prayer. In silence, I rocked back and forth as I wondered if the eyes that recently caught mine were still on the prowl
.

  I SOUGHT THE SOLACE OF the mental hospital anytime I couldn’t deal with the outside world, but this time was different. My arrival offered no peace. The feelings I had, before I came in, did not go away. A desire to rebel against the whole world controlled my thoughts. For some reason, I couldn’t shake the agitation that built up inside me.

  The grim thoughts will cease once the medications kick in, I assured myself.

  In an attempt to avoid the man with the eyes, I stood with my back hunched over and faced my chair toward the front entrance. My head was raised just enough for my eyes to view the hands on the clock.

  The sooner the medications kicked in, the better. As I studied the large white clock, I felt trapped in my own head. Not allowed to look elsewhere, I tried to force happy thoughts.

  Everything happens for a reason, I thought. Everyone has a purpose. I reminded myself to feel better about what I had witnessed. But my thoughts just irritated me more, and I wondered if I was even given the correct medication.

  The medications they usually gave me blocked my emotional receptors. At inappropriate times, the pills caused me to become happy or sad or angry, but not for long. The most important side effect was numbness to emotional pain.

  In the mental hospitals, I never knew what medications they gave me. My diagnoses included depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, OCD, ADHD, schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder, and dependent personality disorder. On top of all the regular medications, I was also given medication to control the horrible side effects of the initial prescription drugs.

  Twenty painful minutes after I fixated on the clock, my thoughts improved. My anxiety calmed down, and I had a strong desire to move around. No longer annoyed by the man who was staring, I walked to a long table and sat across from him. He looked nice; he had a round face, a shiny black head, and warm, dark eyes. He appeared to be trustworthy.

  He sat in the same spot often. On previous visits I noticed him but never spoke to him. He was some sort of employee but not a nurse; he dressed in normal clothes. Perhaps he was an undercover security guard or a professional observer of patients. He definitely was not a patient; he acted too responsible, respectful, and kind. Anytime he was around, I felt safe.

  My eyes met his often. I almost felt like he knew something good and true about me, but it was our secret. I leaned into him as if he were a friend. At first, he pretended not to notice me.

  “You don’t belong here,” he said.

  Immediately, I jumped up. “Oh, sorry!”

  He laughed. “No wait! You can sit here. I’m sayin’ ya don’t belong here, in this place.”

  Surprised by his random comment, my forehead crinkled. “Oh, why?”

  “Trust me,” he said.

  He monitored the room as if we were secret thieves, preparing for a heist. He sat sideways on the bench and never spoke directly to me.

  “Somethin’ bad happened to ya, but you’re strong. I watch ya.”

  To hide my emotions, I cracked a joke. “You watch me? That’s kinda creepy.”

  He smiled. “Ya know what I mean.” He let out an exhausted sigh. “Do you wanna live here the rest of yer life?”

  Nobody had ever asked me that, and it made me want to yell no. On the other hand, I thought I’d miss the place.

  “No … I guess …”

  He abruptly interrupted. “You don’t.”

  His no-nonsense response made me quiet for a few seconds. In the silence, I examined my chewed fingernails.

  “How do you know what happened to me?” I asked.

  “I just know.”

  He repositioned himself so that I got a better view of his back. He placed his elbows on the table. His legs were stretched and folded in front of him. A bit more relaxed, he turned his head when he spoke. I could view either his right or left eye, but never both.

  “I’ve been here long enough to know these things. I also see that ya keep comin’ back.”

  My teeth bit what was left of my nails as I pretended not to listen. The guilt I felt was that of a girl who was caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  He was not done with his speech. “I’ve seen people come in here often and stay for years. That’s not livin’. You don’t want to be here.”

  For some reason, his words ignited a flicker of inspiration. To avoid personal responsibility, I attempted to defend myself. “I get stuck here because of the medication.”

  His still mouth convinced me to continue.

  “They admit me and give me so many meds; I turn into a zombie and end up staying a while. It’s not my fault.”

  The man slowly nodded his head as if he agreed with me.

  “Do you want to be a zombie the rest of yer life?”

  My eyes reverted to the itchy-crotch woman. Her presence knocked the wind from me as I imagined myself to be her in the future. I gulped for air.

  “No.”

  “Then ya need to figure out how to stop takin’ them.”

  “You have to take the meds. The nurses check your mouth after they give them to you.”

  He shook his head.

  “They don’t check everyone’s mouth,” he said.

  My eyes widened, and I wondered if he was really a patient who found it fun to mess with my fragile mind.

  “Whose mouth don’t they check?” I asked.

  He pointed his fingers to his eyes and then at the other patients. “Watch, and you will see,” he whispered.

  A FEW DAYS WENT BY, and I continued to take my pills like clockwork. The clues were harder to figure out when I was loaded. When medication time came, I watched the nurses check all the patients’ mouths. Confused and convinced that the man had misinformed me, I sought him out.

  The man was in his usual spot. He noticed me sitting behind him.

  “They check everyone’s mouth,” I said.

  “Watch closer.”

  The entire day, I watched like a hawk. The routine was precise and always the same. The “med freaks” received their medication first because they begged for it all day long. Then the nurses administered meds to everyone else. What am I not seeing? I wondered.

  That night, I lay on my bed for hours and zoned in on the ceiling as I thought about the medication situation. The process played in my mind so frequently it became hypnotic. Like an image of sheep jumping over a fence, I pictured patient after patient opening their mouths, one after another. Eventually, the continuous rhythm put me to sleep on my back, where I never slept.

  Startled by my awkward position in bed, I woke in the middle of the night and sat straight up. Immediately, an epiphany followed. The med freaks! I thought. They never check the med freaks because the nurses know they are taking the pills, and they want them out of the way. It was then I knew my acting skills would come into play. After I returned to my normal sleeping position, I hurried back to sleep because I knew my performance would start the next day.

  When I woke at six in the morning, I began to beg for the medication. Like I had witnessed in my earlier observations, the requests were denied. Med time was at eight o’clock, I was told, and I would receive my meds then. This gave me more time to convince them I was jonesing it.

  “Is it med time yet?” I’d ask every twenty minutes for the next two hours.

  At seven o’clock, breakfast was served. Like a bird, I picked at my food and continued to look at the med window as if I might miss their call.

  At seven thirty, I stood by the pill delivery window. The usual med freaks swarmed around me. Casually, I mimicked their agitated behavior.

  Behind the window, the pills were arranged in small white paper cups. The nurse observed and noted the other three patients and me, pacing before her. No nurses stood outside the window near us, like usual. She leaned forward to open the window, and I jumped in front of her face.

  With her mind elsewhere, she handed me my meds. With desperation, I thanked her and threw the pills back into my mouth. As I skipped away, I threw the crumpled cup in
to the trash. Within a minute, the nurse yelled out that it was med time, and other nurses began to organize the remaining patients in single file. This is the perfect opportunity for me to disappear, I thought.

  In my room, I spit the pills into the toilet and flushed it. In the swirls of the toilet water, I saw hope.

  When the man I now viewed as “the Black Angel” arrived, I joyfully pranced up behind him and sat on my knees. I tapped him on the back. He smiled.

  “You finally figured it out,” he said, as if he had been confident I would.

  My face was lit with glee. “Yep.”

  “Good. Now whatever you do, don’t flush ‘em.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just don’t.”

  “Okay.”

  Now confused about what to do with the pills, my mind wandered. As I stood, he stopped me.

  “Wait. When you get sick, just say you have the flu.”

  “Sick?”

  “Withdrawals.”

  In my room, I searched for another place to hide the pills. The thought of getting sick made me have second thoughts about my new medication plan. But I had someone to impress, someone who made me believe I had a reason to live.

  In my small cabinet closet, I found my little mountain of feminine napkins. The pink-wrapped pads were given to me by a nurse who had asked what I used for my monthly periods. This was the same nurse who passed out toothpaste, shampoo, hair combs, and other personal care products. One day, after she had handed me soap, she confronted me.

  “Uh, honey. What are you usin’ to take care of your feminine needs?” she asked.

  Confused by her question, I raised the soap in the air. “Soap?”

  “Soap! You better not be up to somethin’ fishy.” She reached into a secret bag on her cart and pulled out a large handful of pink feminine napkins.

  “Here, these should last you a while.”

  She shook her head and looked annoyed as I walked off.

  Perhaps she thought I used a sock or a banana peel as a pad. The fact of the matter was, I used neither. Periods never came for me. Amenorrhea was what one gynecologist called it. Because I didn’t have a monthly period, I would never be able to get pregnant, he told me. There would be no blood to feed the baby.