It’s all about what could have been, and what can never be. You will have that regret, Michael. You will make my story tragic. And that will be the curse YOU will live with.
Yours forever & never more,
Melissa
What the hell? What was I thinking? How sappy. I feel so stupid. I read the letter like five times, trying to remember writing it that night before I went out with Ally and got really shit-faced. Was I already high? Maybe it was intentional—maybe I did want to die. It makes me feel sick. Disgusted with myself.
My story isn’t beautiful or tragic. It’s just another story about another cursed girl living a shitty life.
Fifty-Six
I spend the next few days in my room. Not because I’m hiding. I just feel like being alone. I don’t call any of my friends. I don’t know if I ever want to call them. I reread a couple of my favourite books. I write in my journal, filling it up with everything that has happened to me in the past few months. I sort through all my clothes and chuck out about half of them. I even clean under my bed and find a souvenir hairball from Ralph. My mom checks in on me a million times a day, asking me how I feel, but she doesn’t force me to talk. Instead, she rents me movies, gets me pizza and anything I want. I stay in my pyjamas and I don’t answer my phone. And it’s like I’m seven years old again, staying home with the flu. My mom feels like “a mom.” And it all feels kinds of nice.
After a few days, she tells me she wants me to go to our family doctor, right after she takes me to the psychiatrist on Wednesday afternoon. “I want everything checked,” she says. “Everything.”
“They already checked me at the hospital, blood and everything … I’m okay,” I protest. I know she’s talking about the guys I’ve been with and how I didn’t use a condom the past few times. I guess hearing about how many there were kind of
freaked her out.
“No argument about this one, Mel.”
I don’t have the energy to put up a fight, but I do tell her I’ll go only to a clinic where no one knows me. So after I get loaded up with depression medication from the shrink, she takes me to some drop-in clinic downtown and sits with me in the waiting room full of pamphlets on every possible disease you could ever get from having sex, which just makes you terrified about being there, and if my mom wasn’t with me I’d run out the door.
In the examination room, the nurse talks to me, asking the sickest questions. How many partners? How much unprotected sex? Anal sex? Oral sex? Use of sex toys? Blah blah blah. I feel like a total slut. Then she tells me about all the tests—HIV, gonorrhea, everything. By the time she’s done talking, I’m so scared I want to throw up, because even though you learn all that stuff at school, you just don’t think anything bad will happen to you. And when you’re in that little office with nowhere to go, it’s like sitting before the all-knowing God of STDs and you must face up to all your stupid sins.
“Was it okay?” my mom asks on the way home. She’s driving real slow because it’s the first snowfall of the winter.
“Fine,” I answer.“I feel kind of sick.” I roll down the window to feel the cold air on my face. I’m thinking of all those little bits of my body I’ve left behind at the clinic: my blood, my fluids, my cells. I think about how they hold the truth to my past. And how, even if you want to forget your mistakes, the body will hold on to your secrets forever.
Deep, deep in your cells, the truth will always be there, threatening to be revealed.
Fifty-Seven
When Sisyphus almost reaches the top of the hill, I wish that for a second, just a split second, maybe even just one-millithousandth of a second, there could be some sense of accomplishment. I wish Sisyphus could pretend his task is almost complete or that a reward for his pain will soon follow. But as the story goes, before these thoughts can even begin to take root in his mind, the rock starts to creak and tremble and then it thunders downward. And, of course, he has to run after it. Down, down, down to the very bottom, where he stands in the muck. Breathless. Staring back up at a peak that looks so damn far, far away. And there is no choice but to place his palms against the gritty rock, push, and go back up again.
Up. Up. Up I go.
I wake.
I shower.
I brush my teeth.
I dress.
I eat two pieces of toast.
I follow my mom to the car.
I hold my hand up to shade my eyes, paining from the bright sun.
Ever since the OD, I feel like I’m this glass doll that everyone can peer into. Everyone knows my secrets now: my mom, Crystal, everyone at the hospital. I’m embarrassed to see Eric because he will know all of this too, even about Michael. But my mother is driving me to the appointment and she told me she’s going to take me straight to the door, so I’ll have no choice but to go.
Of course, Eric is cool about everything. He doesn’t make me feel like an idiot. He tells me I don’t have to go into everything that happened because I signed that form at the hospital and they updated him. Even though he does nothing to make me feel guilty, I do. I don’t take off my winter hat when I’m in his office. It’s so low on my forehead it almost covers my eyes. I wish I could disappear right under it. I bring my fingers up to my mouth and start biting my nails, almost non-existent now. “I’m sorry I never told you.”
“What’s that?”
I can barely force the words up my throat. I haven’t used this voice, my real voice, Melissa’s voice, in so long. I decide right then and there, no matter how hard it is, I’ll stop being Echo with Eric. I mean, I’m not ready to give her up entirely, but it doesn’t make sense for me to keep shutting out my counsellor. He’s proven I can trust him. And if I don’t start with someone I can trust, who will I ever tell my real feelings to? “I’m sorry I never told you about my boyfriend. About Michael.”
“Oh. It’s okay, Melissa. You don’t need to tell me everything. You had reasons for not telling me at the time. I can respect that.”
I stare down at my fingers, inspecting them as I speak. It’s difficult being honest! Even though I want to put Michael behind me, I still feel compelled to explain, because I feel like I was lying all this time, sending him down the wrong path and wasting his time. “Well … it was a while ago. I didn’t want to say. ’Cause he was older. But that’s why I was so sad for so long. That’s why I’m such a wreck. I think that’s what was happening to me.”
“Thanks for telling me, Melissa. It helps me understand a little better what’s happening with you. Love is an amazing thing, isn’t it? But when you lose it, it can be so devastating. Do you want to tell me about him?”
“No!” I say decisively. “I’m finished with him.”
“Okay,” he says casually, nodding his head.
I look away. A few seconds of silence pass like hours. I feel like an idiot for being so weak about a guy. Eric clears his throat. I’m staring into the goldfish bowl. Waiting. I can’t look at him. I tap on the fishbowl and pretend to be interested in Amphitrite, waiting for him to speak again.
“The psychiatrist talked to you about depression? She gave you some medication? How’s that feeling? I know it’s early. You may not notice any change for some time.”
I’m relieved he’s switched the subject, even though I know he’ll probably come back to it during another session. I shrug my shoulders. “I feel okay. I mean, I haven’t been doing anything, so it’s hard to tell.”
He tells me he knows a really good psychiatrist I could see regularly whom he knows I’d like. He says he could make an appointment, just to talk. I don’t have to commit to anything.
“You think a pill can make someone happy?” I ask.
“No. It won’t necessarily make you happy. But it might help you better deal with life circumstances, put you on a level playing field. Help you see things a little more clearly. And help you deal with problems. Which can lead to being happier.”
“Hmm.”
There’s a new, awkward silence in the ro
om. It just doesn’t feel the same between us.
“You had us all scared, Melissa. I want you to know I’m always here to help.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what my problem is.” I’m still looking downward, hiding under my wool toque. I just don’t feel like letting him see my face now.
“Well, we’ve spent a lot of time over the past couple of years talking about your anger, where it comes from.”
“I don’t feel angry anymore. I think it’s gone.”
“That’s good,” Eric says positively.“But sometimes the same feelings that cause the anger can cause a great sadness too. I feel like there’s something we should have talked about more before. I’m hoping we can start talking about it today, if you’re feeling comfortable enough. I don’t want to push you.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m wondering if you can talk to me a little about how you felt when Bradley died.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, death is pretty complicated. People have all sorts of responses to it, depending on the circumstances. Of course, there’s sadness. But sometimes there are also other feelings that are surprising. What happened after Bradley died?”
“You already know this. We talked about it before,” I say. “My mom got totally depressed. We lost our apartment and we stayed in that shelter for a bit.”
“Yes, that was a really tough time.”
“No, it was fun,” I say sarcastically. A stupid comment requires a stupid response.
“How did you feel about your mom then, do you remember?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“Were you angry?”
“A bit.”
“Do you know why?”
“’Cause we had to live in a shelter.”
“Was there anyone you were mad at?”
“My mom,” I say quickly. “But it wasn’t her fault. She had a mental breakdown.”
“Your mind knows it wasn’t her fault, but your emotions can have their own reaction. It’s okay to feel angry. It’s natural to feel somewhat resentful, at the same time as feeling sympathetic. Try to take yourself back to that twelve-year-old girl. Close your eyes. Imagine her. Do you remember a feeling of sadness or anger or apathy or …?”
I close my eyes and think about it for a second. I picture a skinny-legged, younger me in jean shorts and a blue T-shirt. A tomboy. Straggly hair. No socks. Runners. “I don’t know. Anger, I guess.”
“At who?”
I start to get annoyed with him. We already went over this. “My mom. For messing up.”
“Do you think you were more mad at your mom or at Bradley?”
“Bradley?” I look at Eric, horrified at the question. “You can’t blame a kid for dying. That’s the worst possible thing in the world to say. It would make me the Devil or something.”
“It would make you human, Melissa. You’re human. You were a kid. You had a right to be taken care of. If life crumbled after he died and you were a kid, you’d naturally blame him a bit for that.”
“Hmmm,” I respond, half interested. Was I mad at Bradley? “Anyway, it’s not a big deal to me now.”
“No. Probably not in your mind. But sometimes feelings or experiences, when they are planted inside you, can be seeds that grow in many different directions. These seeds can affect all sorts of decisions and beliefs in your life without you even realizing it.”
“Hmmm,” I respond again, which is how I answer when he says something that might be good and I need time to think about it. Eric knows I’m not the kind of person to just jump into an idea. I need to be alone first to contemplate it, then come back to him and talk some more.
“If it’s ever something you want to talk to your mom about, I’d really encourage you.”
“Why would I talk to her about that? She’d think I was a total bitch.”
Eric gets all serious and sincere. “I don’t think so, Melissa. I really don’t. I think she’d understand and I think there would be some beginning of healing between you two. Just think about it.”
“Okay,” I say dismissively, but after I leave the session I go to the washroom, open the windows, sit on the counter, and have a smoke to give myself time to think about what he said before I meet my mom in the waiting room.
Eric, as usual, might be right about Bradley. I had never really thought about feeling angry toward him because my thoughts were always rerouted to the sorrow of his death. But if I make myself think about it now, maybe there is a point to Eric’s theory. Maybe I am still mad at Bradley for dying and wrecking our family. And our future. And for messing up my mom, forever. And it is possible that I put all that anger toward my mom because she’s easier to blame. And maybe that’s why, no matter how hard my mom tries to make things work between us, I always end up pushing her away.
Someone knocks on the door. I suppose I’ve taken a long time. I butt out my smoke and flick it out the window. I spray the air freshener and then squeeze through the door, not looking at the lady waiting outside.
My mom is too busy texting on her cellphone to notice me when I walk into the waiting room. I step right up to her so our knees are almost touching. She raises her head and smiles. “How was it?”
“Good,” I say. I take a look around the room. There are a few people waiting—two adults and a guy about my age. “It’s good I came.”
“Oh,” she responds, obviously surprised at my positive demeanour.
I want to say something nice to her. Something like “Thank you” or “Sorry for all this” or something like that. But I’d feel like an idiot being so sappy. And the other people in the waiting room would hear me. And the words just won’t come out of my mouth. “Do you want to go to Starbucks?” I ask her instead, which is her most favourite place to chill out in. She knows I hate it there, so if I’m offering to go, it’s because I’m trying to be nice.
“Sounds good,” she says, rising quickly from her seat and putting her arm around my shoulder as we walk out of the room and into the main foyer.
Fifty-Eight
A few days later, I wake up with the decision in my head that I will go back to school. Snap! Just like that. For some reason, on this particular morning, I suddenly feel like putting on some makeup.
I walk into class and it’s like nothing ever happened to me. Ms. Dally welcomes me back and gives me my work. No one looks at me strange, but I keep to myself because I don’t know if the other students know about what happened.
Later in the morning, the youth worker, Sheila, pulls me out of class to talk to me in the couch room. She tells me none of the other students know why I was away and that it’s up to me to tell them if I want to. She says she was sorry to hear about everything that happened, and that she and Ms. Dally want to help me get back on track. She tells me she’s always available to talk if I’m feeling upset. I tell her I’m all talked out and that I’ve been speaking to Eric and a shrink and my mother.
“Okay. But I do have to talk to you about the overdose. About how much you took that night, and the dangers associated with mixing all those things.”
“I don’t want to go over all of it. I just want to forget about it,” I object, starting to get annoyed.
“I’m not saying we have to go over everything that happened, Mel. I’m just saying we’ll make a plan for next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“I sure hope not. But life is unpredictable. Let’s just think of a plan. It will take only a few minutes.”
She opens the binder that’s sitting on the table in front of her and begins. She’s being nice about it, and I don’t think I can do anything to get out of it, so I just go along with her plan. We start with how I felt before I went out that night with my friends. “Were you upset?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know you would be using?”
“Yeah.” I look away, biting my lower lip.“I already went over all this at the hospital.”
“I know. Ju
st bear with me.”
So we make a plan for the next time I feel that upset and want to get totally wrecked out of my mind. We write down strategies I could use to avoid turning to drugs when I’m feeling so crazy. Things like making a phone call to a friend or a helpline or even the hospital. “Delay going out as long as possible. Even one hour. And if you do choose to go out and use, never ever mix, especially sedatives with alcohol.”
She makes me write a list of personal max amounts I won’t go over, no matter what. I have to do it for each drug: alcohol, K, E, coke. “You need to draw a line, right now. A line that you will never ever cross in terms of your use. You might not stick to it, but if you clearly think about it ahead of time, you’ll be more likely to reconsider in the moment.”
Just when I think we’re finished, she makes me go over all the dangers related to my high use. Like rape, drunk driving, accidents, poor judgment, blah blah blah.
Finally, she leaves me to set a substance abuse goal for the week. I plan no more than one gram a day and no alcohol. “I’m keeping weed,” I announce firmly when she walks back into the room. “I need something.”
“We have a harm reduction philosophy, Melissa. You don’t have to stop everything. And it’s your goal. It’s up to you,” she agrees.
I finish up with my strategies: not to hang out with friends who use, not to carry money on me, to keep seeing Eric, go straight home after school, and write in my journal when things are bothering me. When we’re done, Sheila takes my sheet, follows me back into the classroom, and makes sure I put it in my binder.
Fifty-Nine
My goals are easy to keep. I stay home every night. I watch TV after school. It’s not like I’m trying to stay away from friends or drugs, it’s just that I don’t want to see them or use. I feel different inside. Not necessarily better—just different. Maybe it’s the depression medication, or maybe I just got scared. Whatever it is, I don’t think I’ll ever go back to being that old “Mel.” She’s gone. The fight is gone.
Lesley Anne Cowan Page 18
