Learning to Cry

by Christopher C. Payne

  Home Sweet Home

  Father

  When I was a child I attended church regularly. Not only did I attend church, but I was also involved in the youth group, sang in the choir, sang solos, and went to Sunday School. Don’t get me wrong, I still ventured down the dark side now and then, but for the most part I was a decent guy. I stopped going once I realized the religious establishments had as many, if not more, issues that most other organizations. The sad thing is how hypocritically they go about it.

  There was one church where my family belonged and actively participated in that was beyond extreme. The church elders were arrested and sent to prison for running a scam that siphoned money from the elderly. It was some kind of buying club, which was a precursor to stores like Costco. You paid a monthly fee and you were able to purchase items at a discount. Somehow they got access to credit cards and bank accounts and began siphoning money from old people in the guise of false purchases. The religious thing was nothing more than a way to make contacts to further their money-hungry appetites. How many times do we hear on the news about some Catholic priest feeling up some little boy? It is on TV all the time.

  I still feel that a religious foundation is a useful beginning for anyone growing up. It provides a solid starting point if you listen to the message and block out all of the political backdrops that are prevalent in any religious faction. This keeps me from attending the actual institution as an adult, but it doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God. I believe in Jesus Christ, and I also believe in helping out the guy down the block. Help thy neighbor and all of that crap is a good way to live your life.

  Sadly, not only are you faced with religions preying on the elderly and the hypocrisy of two-faced elders, you are also faced with the inept approach so many youth leaders use to teach our children right from wrong. Adults for the most part are no more knowledgeable than children in spiritual matters. Amazingly, in so many cases, they are more backwards than the kids they are trying to guide. How many adults have even read the Bible? I mean actually read the Bible, not just a passage here or there. I bet it is a miniscule fraction of the total population that attended church last Sunday.

  My personal favorite was one of my youth group ministers. We studied the religious philosophy of demonic possession. I have no idea why that was important for a bunch of teenagers other than the warped obsession of the adult doing the teaching. He was convinced that everyone was possessed to some extent or another with demons. He went so far as to point me out of the group and talk about the demon within me. He was convinced of my inner turmoil.

  I was a child, I believed in God, I looked to him as a leader, so I believed this, as well. The next thing I knew I was laying on the couch, and everyone prayed to cast out my inner demons. He chanted, the group prayed, and I convulsed with the realization that I was in some deep shit. Maybe I did have a few people lurking in the dark corners of my psyche, and what was I going to do before they popped out? At one point he and a couple of other people actually had to hold me down.

  Luckily, he called another youth leader and asked him to join us. The new adult was of a sound mind, and he instantly took control of the situation. His interpretation of that section of the Bible was more philosophical. While we all do hold inner demons, those spirits are more antagonists for temptation, than spirits wanting to control our bodies. I was not in danger of my head spinning as much as I was in danger of falling prey to underage drinking and having sex before I was ready. Those were the issues I needed to focus on.

  How sad is it the influence an adult has on a child and the directionless path some people are pushed toward by mere suggestion. I swear to God, some adults should be strung up in public and flogged for their stupidity. I don’t blame the church, but I blame the church elders and what our society has allowed to happen to spirituality. Religious rules and guidelines seem to be the important focal points. Very few people actually care about God anymore. Hail Mary and cross your chest, dude. Then when you leave the church, go sleep with your co-worker and bang the altar boy up the ass because come next Sunday you can publicly condemn the very actions you participate in.

  God Damn Hypocrisy.

  Melissa

  Melissa woke up, and it was a typical Tuesday morning. Sleeping was difficult ever since the episode with Benny. Yes, he was going to live, but those eyes. They had haunted her dreams, keeping her awake, and she now saw them all the time. She was in class the previous day, and it was almost as if they were following her everywhere. In every classroom, in the bathroom, on the way to school, she saw those two luminous circles like they were becoming part of her own body.

  Her dad made breakfast, eggs, and pancakes. He made breakfast frequently for her and her sisters. He had been on a kick lately about eating healthy and sending them all off to school with a full stomach. It was a nice gesture, but on some mornings sitting there for the required family time made her sick. It was bad enough they had dinner together every night, but to add in morning breakfast was too much. Say what you wanted about her mother, but breakfast at her house was grabbing a bagel. This was followed up at night by dinner on the couch watching TV. It might not have been healthy, but it was self-entertaining.

  As with most mornings the past few weeks, her friend Debra knocked on the door, rescuing her from her family-time hell. She bolted, grabbing her backpack, and headed out to school. The walk was uneventful, and they both chatted about the stupidity of homework and Debra’s latest boyfriend. She really went through the guys – faster than Melissa did. She still wasn’t sleeping with them, though, so at that level they ventured down different paths. Melissa already lost track of how many guys she had gone all the way with. It was hard to count sometimes when you couldn’t even remember.

  They split up when the bell rang and both headed off to first period. Melissa’s head hurt, and she felt a pounding, beating like the base drum at the last football game. She always worried when her head hurt this badly, so she immediately popped two Advil in her mouth. Her dad ensured that she always went to school with four Advil. She had strict instructions on how many she could take and how many hours she had to wait in between doses, though. Her first period teacher immediately started in on homework, which Melissa had sadly not done again. She was the only one who had failed to follow the dictated rules it seemed.

  The relentless badgering was overwhelming. Every time the teacher spoke it echoed throughout the insides of her head. No sooner had her mouth stopped moving when it began again. What was the point? The homework was not done. There was nothing that could change this fact now. It was in the past.

  “Jesus, just stop,” she heard herself saying, but the teacher went on, oblivious to her request. She even kicked Melissa out of class. But Melissa didn’t move – her body just sat there.

  She finally reached into her backpack for the other two Advil. Her head felt is if it were breaking into pieces, like the space shuttle as it sheds its gas tanks when it erupts into orbit. It was killing her. She grabbed the side of her temple with the other hand as she placed the Advil on her desk. How do you make the pain stop, she thought.

  She slobbered a little out of her mouth. Words failed her. It felt as if she were watching a movie and playing the lead role at the same time. She cried, but the teacher didn’t stop. What was she trying to prove?

  As she sat there, trying to get up the teacher’s arm brushed her desk, jolting it just enough to start the Advil in motion. It rolled, gaining speed as it reached the edge and began the arch down to the waiting floor below. Melissa caught one but the other rolled toward the boy next to her. He just stared at her, looking at her as you would a cow at a circus who has five legs or maybe a bearded lady sitting in her worn out pink cloth chair collecting a dollar from anyone who wanted to gawk.

  The boy behind her actually laughed and the noise echoed endlessly bouncing from wall to wall. As she turned around, she saw everyone was laughing. Everyone in the room gawked at her, they pointed and made faces. Some e
ven looked at her with fear, either for themselves or maybe for her. The room caved in at that point. It shrank faster than an over-filled party balloon that suddenly explodes. One second she was in her chair, trying to figure out what was happening, and the next the air was gone and the room was a black hole. Nothing. Blank.

  The Abyss

  She was screaming. She could feel that. The air came out of her lungs, and she screamed. She might have thrown her backpack, she wasn’t sure. She was definitely moving. She ran. Then, she fell. She felt herself fall and possibly cut her knee. She kept screaming, though. The screaming wouldn’t stop. It wasn’t a cry of pain but a shrill, screeching, high-pitched cry of death. Was she dying? She ran out the door into the hall toward the counselor’s office. She ran as fast as she could because they were there. She knew that. They had found her again, and this time she didn’t know if they would leave. Her head hurt; God her head hurt so badly.

  The voices were inside now. She could hear them. What did that mean? Who were they? WHY WERE THEY INSIDE HER HEAD?

  She found her counselor. Mr. Mitchell stood out in the hall as she approached. There were a lot of people in the hallway. Everyone looked at her. She continued screaming without realizing it. She ran up to him and grabbed him.

  “Please make them stop,” she screamed. “Please, dear God make them stop.”

  “Make who stop?” Mr. Mitchell asked.

  “The voices,” she said. “The voices inside my head.”

  Mr. Mitchell stood there for a few minutes, holding Melissa as she cried. She buried her head in his chest, and he just stood there. His arms wrapped around her, holding her, motioning everyone on, back to their business. The show was over. Leave the two of them alone, please. He walked Melissa into his office, and the two of them called her dad. Mr. Mitchell was concerned about the voices. He had not heard Melissa speak of this before. It was now beyond what he felt he could help with at the school. Melissa needed some directed, professional help.

  Father

  I arrived at the school not fully understanding what the situation was. I only knew it was an emergency, and my presence was needed as soon as possible. Melissa needed to go to the hospital. I ran up the front stairs, opened the door, and jogged to Mr. Mitchell’s office. My knees became weak when I saw my daughter. I wasn’t even sure this was my daughter. She looked so different than the girl I had admired, leaving a couple of hours earlier through our front door. What happened to her? I hugged her quickly before Mr. Mitchell asked me to step outside and discuss the situation.

  Mr. Mitchell had talked with the teacher, a couple of students, and with Melissa. He relayed the events to me and, then, told me about the voices. I had never heard of voices before. I didn’t know what this meant. I had no idea how to respond. Interestingly, I wasn’t even given much of a chance. I was told the best thing to do was take her to the hospital and have her evaluated. She needed to see a doctor. I still didn’t get it. I was as numb and dumbfounded as a little boy taking a vitamin because someone said it was good for him. Just swallow it, and don’t ask questions. It will make you better. Mr. Mitchell told me that it made sense to take her to the hospital, so I took her to the hospital.

  We talked some in the car on the way over. Melissa was back, a little. She was there enough to have small talk. I guess to the extent that small talk was possible. I walked into the emergency room and told them the situation. They asked us to wait, and as with all hospitals, wait we did. Finally, a nurse called Melissa’s name and ushered us back into a tiny room. She gave Melissa a physical. I left during parts to ensure her the privacy a teenager girl needs and returned as quickly as allowed. Still I was dazed and confused. I didn’t really understand what was happening.

  Then, the hospital staff told us they didn’t have the resources necessary to handle our situation. We needed to go to the facility in Millbrae. Millbrae was approximately 15 minutes away, and we needed to go immediately. They wanted to send Melissa in an ambulance since she was technically an admitted patient, but that didn’t make any sense. I told them I would drive her, and we would go there without a problem. Reluctantly, they agreed, and we were on our way.

  We again arrived in the emergency room, but this time they expected us. They ushered us back through a locked security door where a guard stood watching. We walked through another door and sat down in a room that can only be described as a bunker. When we walked into the back area, there was a large sterile enclosure with a desk and two doors that resembled the openings of a large antiquated safe. They were several inches thick, and the staff led us through one door to our final destination.

  There was a bed with a vinyl pad on it, a single chair, and four walls. I had never been in a prison cell at that time, but this room closely resembled one. The staff asked Melissa to sit on the bed, and I sat on the chair. It was ok to leave the door open, but Melissa and I actually preferred it closed. Our neighbor in the other room was actually a prisoner. I could tell this because a police officer was standing by his door. He screamed so loud and for so long it sent chills up my spine. I felt like he had the potential to attack us if we were not protected.

  We sat in our little room for two hours. Nothing happened, nobody talked to us, no one provided instructions. I asked the staff nurse sitting at the computer, but she simply asked me to be patient every time I inquired. We had to wait for further instructions. We texted Melissa’s mother who wanted to immediately come and be with us, but Melissa would not allow it. I, then, learned something that I hadn’t realized beforehand. If Melissa did not want to see her mother or me, we would be kept outside. It was her choice as the patient, and we could do nothing about it. Her mother, of course, was furious.

  Finally, a doctor arrived and sat with us for a few minutes. She told us to go upstairs where they would admit Melissa. We were currently in a holding facility, and our final destination still awaited us. We entered the first hospital eight hours prior. Had I been bleeding, I would’ve been dead by then. Something truly needs to be done about our health care system. I have very good coverage, and I get treated like a second class citizen from a Third World country.

  We went upstairs and checked in at the front desk. We passed through more locked doors, and another security guard checked our credentials. It finally seemed like we would begin the process. A nurse led Melissa into a little room where she unpacked her belongings and got settled. As we passed down the hallway, I noticed a few of her fellow inhabitants. Some of them looked as if they had just jumped off the Halloween carnival truck. One boy walked with an IV connected to his arms. His face was full of pimples in varying stages of ripeness, but what stood out were his eyes.

  His vacant glare looked through me. I don’t think he was aware of his surroundings at all. He had a hospital nightgown on and black socks going up past his ankles. His mouth let slip some drool, and he held on tightly with his left hand to the mobile pole holding his IV. He was a big boy, bigger than I was, and I was scared of him as soon as I saw him. Not the kind of fear you might get from a bully or seeing a spider. It was the fear of the unknown. I could not begin to fathom what this boy might do under the right circumstances.

  We focused on Melissa’s room and her roommate, who was sitting on one of the two beds. As with all doors, this one had to be unlocked from the outside, as well. All of the staff walked around with keys for everything in this place. Her roommate seemed nice. I would later find out that she was a frequent visitor of the hospital and had now attempted to kill herself seven times. She showed Melissa which bed was hers, where her closet was, and at that point the doctor said she would like to speak to me.

  We walked out. The door closed and locked behind me, and we went to what was described as a meeting room. I sat down in the chair and cried. It wasn’t the kind of crying where you shed a tear, I broke down and bawled. I lost all control, and it took everything I had to keep myself from falling apart completely. I probably cried for 15 minutes. The doctor told me things about the stay, wh
at the place offered, how Melissa would get help. But, she said, Melissa was there voluntarily, and if she didn’t want to spend the night, she didn’t have to.

  At that my ears perked up. All I could think about was taking her home. I hated this place. It was everything that was wrong with society. There was no way my daughter would spend the night here, and then came the “but.” If Melissa stayed the night, she would get all the exams and tests she needed. Additionally, if she stayed the entire night, it would make her eligible for an outpatient program that was one of the best in the Bay Area. The only way she qualified was to be admitted. Jesus, I didn’t care. I couldn’t handle being in this place any longer than I had to. I wanted to take her home. The doctor and I finally agreed to talk to Melissa and let her participate in the decision of what the next step would be versus me deciding on my own.

  She got Melissa, and the three of us sat down in our little meeting room. The little chairs made with brown fabric and faux wooded handles. Couldn’t they have at least given us something nice on which to sit? I guess it didn’t really matter. What in life mattered at all now? I was at the end of my emotional stability after this roller coaster day in hell.

  The situation was presented to Melissa with all the pros and cons.

  Melissa sat up straight, looked me in the eye and said, “Dad, I want to stay. I need the voices to stop. I realize this will not hold all of the answers, but I can only hope it will get me started down the right path.”

  I cried. I lost control again and burst into tears. It had been more years than I could count since Melissa had seen me cry. God, she might have never seen me cry in her lifetime. That day, she saw me at my most vulnerable. My daughter was in trouble, and there was nothing I could do.