-4-
Annie. That was the new member of the group. She came in, looked a little scared, looked down at the floor, than grabbed a chair. We always sat in a circle. The chairs weren’t too bad. Not too bad, not really. Adam introduced her. She was supposed to say something about herself. Later, she could tell us her story. Everyone had told their story except for me and Sharkey and Rafael. Look, I didn’t mind Storytime—as long as it wasn’t me telling the story.
“I’m Annie,” she said. “I’m thirty-four. I’m an addict and an alcoholic and I’ve been sober for twenty days. I’m from Tulsa, Oklahoma.”
“Twenty days.” Adam said. “Good job.”
Yeah, sure, okay.
We all nodded. “Welcome.” That’s what we all said. It was weird. We were all more or less sincere when we said it. What else were we supposed to say—run for your fucking life?
That’s when we did our Check-in thing. We went around and said stuff, how we were feeling, what we wanted to work on that day, healthy behaviors, unhealthy behaviors, secrets, stuff like that. Oh, and we always had to say something good about ourselves. We called them affirmations. We were supposed to say three good things.
Rafael was first. “I’m Rafael. I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi Rafael.” That’s what we said. That’s how it went.
And then Rafael just paused and said, “No secrets. I’m sad. Guess that’s not much of a secret.” And then he paused again and said, “I’ve been having bad dreams.” He looked at me and grinned, “There’s a lot of that going around.” He looked around the room. “No unhealthy behaviors—well, I thought about drinking. It passed.” He took a deep breath. Rafael, he was like me, he hated affirmations. “I am capable of change.” He always said that. Sometimes he said it, you know, ironically. Sometimes he sounded sincere. Today, he sounded more or less sincere.
“Yes, you are.” That’s what we all said at the affirmations. See, I just didn’t like this part of the whole group thing. Made me anxious.
“I like being sober.”
“Yes, you do.” Yeah, we were like this little congregation at church saying Amen.
“I like trees,” he whispered.
“Yes, you do,” we whispered back. Amen.
“Trees?” Sharkey interrupted. We were not supposed to interrupt during Check-in. “That’s your affirmation? You like trees?” I mean Sharkey was all outraged over the whole thing.
That just made Rafael laugh. “Yes, Sharkey, I like trees.”
I could tell Sharkey wanted to tell Rafael that it was all bullshit. But Sharkey just decided to drop it.
“Trees are good,” Adam said. “Anyone here not like trees?”
Sharkey just couldn’t take it. “What am I? Fucking Tarzan? I like cities—that’s what I like.”
Adam smiled. “You can express your love for cities when it comes around to your turn.” Adam and Sharkey gave each other snarky smiles. I liked watching that. It made me smile.
We moved on—all around the room. Lizzie was happy—sometimes she was happy. “I’m physically, spiritually and emotionally connected.” People in group said that a lot. Connected to what?
And me, God, I hated when it was my turn. “I’m Zach. And I think I’m an alcoholic.”
“You think?” Adam said.
I shot him a look. “I AM AN ALCOHOLIC.” Then I shot him an are-you-happy-now kind of look.
He grinned back at me.
I looked at the card in front of me. The card had affirmations in case we couldn’t come up with our own. “I deserve good people in my life.” I know I sounded like a wiseass when I said it. Look, let’s get real. I had no clue as to what I did and did not deserve.
“Yes, you do.” I didn’t doubt the group’s sincerity. But who wrote this card?
I stared at the card. It was really pissing me off. “Can we move on here?”
“Why is it so hard to say three good things about yourself?”
“I was born beautiful. There. How’s that?”
“Yes, you were.” Adam really smiled at that one. So did Rafael. Sharkey thought it was funny as hell. And it was funny as hell.
“My life has a purpose.” I read that one off the card.
“Yes, it has.”
I ended my Check-in with, “Physically, I’m good. Emotionally, I’m screwed. And spiritually, I’m, well, screwed. That’s the sorry dirt of it.” Next. God, I really did not like Check-in. It made me feel like I was in a really bad television show. The sad thing was that if this was a television show, there are people in the world who would actually watch it. The world is really, really screwed-up.
After Check-in, Rafael took out a picture he’d drawn. You know, we all get time to talk about our artwork and stuff. Or the lists we’re always working on. We’re supposed to ask for feedback or for whatever else we need. Like I knew what I needed.
I really liked Rafael’s painting. The guy wasn’t a hack. His art said something. It was real. The sky was really deep blue, not like it was day but like it was night. But there weren’t any stars in the painting. And there was this monster that sort of took over the whole sky and he looked like he was about to pounce on this little boy who was reading a book. God, his painting really tore me up and he’d written something on the bottom of the painting and it was like the words were part of the painting and it was as though the boy was sitting on the words.
Adam put the painting in the middle and we all looked at it. And we were all really quiet, you know studying it, and Adam said, “Will you read that for us?”
And Rafael read: I can hear the warning, the whisper: there’s a monster in the room. The whisper becomes a scream. The world is full of madmen. I have evidence. I can prove it. I look around. The room is as empty as my heart. It used to be full, my heart, but that’s another story. No one is here. Maybe not even me. I can prove there are madmen—but I can’t prove the monster exists. Who was it that whispered the warning? Listen close, the sky is falling. Maybe the monster is outside just waiting for me to step out the door. Maybe he’s already swallowed up the sky. What does he want with me anyway? Is he trying to scare me? Is that it? I was born scared—I don’t need a monster for that. Maybe the monster lives in the books I’m reading. One of books is about the genocide in Rwanda and the other book is about a little boy who gets raped. Who needs monsters?
That’s what he read. And it really tore me up. Somehow I felt as if Rafael was reading that just for me. His voice—and the way he read it—I don’t know, it’s just that all of a sudden I felt as if I was going away and I wondered about that because I didn’t like it when I did that, sort of went away because that’s what my mother did, so I made myself stay in the room. And I kept looking at Rafael’s picture and I was only half listening to what everybody was saying and thinking and feeling about Rafael’s painting and then I heard Adam ask me what I saw in Rafael’s painting and I just looked at Rafael and asked, “Is that boy you or is that boy me?”
And I didn’t know why but I was crying. And I hated that. I was just crying. I was hitting and hitting myself, hitting and hitting myself in the chest with my fists. And then I felt someone taking my fists and holding them until I unclenched them—and then I felt a hand holding my open hand. And I heard Adam’s voice saying, “I see you, Zach. I see you.”
But I didn’t know what that meant.
Maybe it was all a dream. A bad dream. But Rafael’s voice had been so beautiful so maybe it wasn’t all bad. And Adam’s voice sounded so kind when he said Zach, I see you. And I kept thinking to myself: Some people have dogs. What do I have? I have dreams I don’t want to remember. I have two roommates named Rafael and Sharkey. And I have a monster and a therapist named Adam. What happened to me that I couldn’t just have a dog like normal people? And I couldn’t stop crying.
REMEMBERING
“I need to ask you a question. Is that okay, Zach?”
I should have had a cigarette before coming into Adam’s office. But there
I was, staring into Adam’s eyes that were blue as the sea but that today looked like they were green as a leaf. I wondered about his eyes. Just like I wondered about Rafael’s eyes. And Mr. Garcia’s eyes. What was it about their eyes that made me wonder?
“Zach?”
“Yeah.”
“When you go away like that, where do you go?”
“I didn’t really go away.”
“What were you thinking about?”
Like I was going to tell him that I was contemplating eyes. “Nothing important.”
“Everything’s important.”
“Okay,” I said. Adam, he knew how to read that I-could-give-a-shit thing in my voice.
“Answer me this, Zach.”
“Okay.”
“What do you remember about coming here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Everyone seems to think I need to be here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Well, maybe I do need to be here.”
“You could leave if you wanted. You’re eighteen. You’re an adult.”
“Like that’s really true,” I said. “I’m still in high school.” I looked down at the floor. “Where would I go?”
“Don’t you have a home?”
I just sat there for a long time, not saying anything, just looking down at the floor.
“Look at me, Zach.”
I didn’t want to look at him—but I did.
“What do you remember?”
“I keep telling you that I don’t want to remember.”
“I get that, Zach. I do. But can you tell me anything about what you remember?”
“I don’t want to fucking go there. Don’t you get that, Adam?”
“I do. Look, let me ask you another question.”
“Okay.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yeah. Mostly I trust you.”
“You trust me 100%? 50%? What?”
That made me smile. He liked the percentage thing. I thought that was very cool. I don’t know why. Adam tore me up. In a good way. Well, not always in a good way. “I trust you 85%.”
“Yeah? 85%?”
“That’s not bad.”
“How much do you trust the group?”
“60%.”
“60%?”
“I thought that was pretty good.”
“Okay, how much do you trust Sharkey?”
“Sharkey? I really like Sharkey.”
“Okay, Sharkey gets 100% on the like scale. But on the trust scale?”
“70%.”
“Just 70%?”
“Look, you know him better than I do. You’re his therapist too.”
“This isn’t about what I think, Zach.”
“It never is.”
He shot me a look. You know that look that said I’m not the guy in therapy—you are.
“And what about Rafael?”
“90%.”
“Rafael is 90% on the trust scale?”
“Yeah.”
Adam nodded. And then he smiled. “So you like him, huh?”
“Everyone likes him.”
“We’re talking about you, not everyone.”
“Yeah, I like him.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
“Okay. Do you talk to him?”
“Sure I do.”
“Why do you trust him?”
“He’s trying hard to be honest. With himself, I mean.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I admire that—he’s trying to be honest even if it hurts.”
“Yes, I think that’s right. He’s trying to remember everything in his life that hurt him. You’re doing the opposite. How can you admire someone who’s doing the opposite thing from what you’re doing?” He looked straight into my eyes. Adam with the blue eyes that looked green today.
I looked back at him. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell you one thing that I remember.”
“Okay.”
“Blood.”
“Blood?”
“There was blood. That’s what I remember. There was blood.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. I just know that there was blood.”
“And what do you feel when you remember blood?”
“You know damned well how I feel.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“How would I know?”
“I know you know.”
“I don’t, Zach. I don’t know what it’s like to be you. I don’t know what it’s like to feel what Zach feels.”
“I don’t like to feel.”
“You say that every session. I get that, Zach, but—”
“But what?”
“Zach, how do you feel when you remember blood? Can you tell me?”
“How do I feel?” I looked at Adam’s eyes. They weren’t green anymore. They were blue again. “I feel like I died. That’s how I feel. Like I died.”
GOD AND MONSTERS
Rafael told me that sometimes he feels as though God is nothing more than a set of jaws that bites down on his heart. After Rafael said that, I got this picture in my head of those jaws and I started thinking that if Rafael was right, then God was the monster. Look, I think I know what Rafael’s really talking about. He’s talking about pain and where it comes from. And me, what I’m trying to do is figure out this whole thing about monsters. I thought I was supposed to get a guardian angel. No guardian angels for Zach. Nope. Look, maybe God is the real monster. What the hell do I know?
WHAT DOES THE MONSTER WANT?
-1-
I have a new addiction: I read Rafael’s journal.
Okay, this is not okay. But the guy leaves it on his desk and it’s just sitting there and it feels as though it’s calling my name. All right, journals do not call you by name unless you hear voices. There’s a woman here who walks around and shakes. She looked me straight in the eye and told me I was suffering. I may be suffering but I do not suffer from auditory hallucinations.
This is just the way it is with me right now—I just feel compelled to read what Rafael has written in his journal. Compelled, that would be a Mr. Garcia word. And now that I think of Mr. Garcia, I am absolutely certain that the only thing I really suffer from is intellectual curiosity. Okay, yeah, and the therapists here would call it something else. They would say I was not respecting someone else’s boundaries. The real story depends upon your point of view—that’s what I’m thinking. We’re back to that perspective thing.
This is what I’m thinking: if Rafael’s journal was such a private thing, then why was it just sitting there on his desk? It just sits there all the time, and it’s a public space. Okay, this is all bullshit and I know it and this is a really bad thing to be doing, yeah. Look, I guess I like getting into other people’s heads too—just like everyone else. And I especially like getting into Rafael’s head. It’s cool, the way he thinks.
Reading Rafael’s journal—around here it would be classified as a very unhealthy behavior. I mean, we have these sessions on healthy boundaries. Healthy people have healthy boundaries. Unhealthy people, well, let’s not get into that. It’s like this: some people have walls which means they let no one in. This equals unhealthy. Some people let everyone in and let themselves be stepped all over. This equals unhealthy.
No one has to tell me that reading Rafael’s journal is a violation of his privacy, which equals a definitely unhealthy behavior. In group it would also qualify as a secret. We are not supposed to keep secrets. Secrets are killing us—that’s the theory. And another thing, I am not supposed to be talking about us. I’m supposed to be talking about me. It is not a healthy behavior to speak in universals. I am only supposed to speak for myself. And I’m not supposed to use sentences using you. I’m not supposed to say things like: “When you feel sad, you cry.” No, no, no. I’m supposed to say: “When I feel sad, I cry.” Adam
always corrects us. He’s all nice and sweet about the whole thing, but he corrects us all right. Stops us right in mid-sentence. Okay, so I got the point. I, I, I. I, I, I. Okay, I am feeling this. I am feeling that. Yeah, I get it, I get it.
Therapy is tearing me up. Am I better? I’m mad. Is getting angry part of therapy? Isn’t all this about getting un-angry? What do I know? What I do know is that there’s an anger group on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Maybe I’ll join that group. Hell, I bet I could run that group.
Sharkey’s angry, that’s for sure. Worse than me. Okay, this is not a contest. I get that. And even Rafael’s angry. This is the thing: life has not been kind to us. I think I’ll make a new list: The Reasons Why I Am Angry. I am stunned out, torn up, wigged out. I am A-N-G-R-Y. This is why we have no baseball bats around this place. This is why everyone is all concerned about some clients having sharpies. Look, if you’re not a windshield, you’re pretty safe around people like me.
I’m trying to do the work. And, really, I think that Rafael’s journal entries have become part of my therapy. I mean the guy writes really beautiful things. I mean it. He tears me up to shreds. Rafael’s thinking is very, well, you know, it’s thoughtful. The guy writes screenplays for a living and that’s very cool, but I’m thinking that Rafael is some kind of poet—just like Mr. Garcia. I’m trying to learn from him. And this is not a bad thing.
Yesterday, when I was alone in Cabin 9, my feet took me over to Rafael’s desk. There were a couple of sketches on his desk that were probably going to become paintings. I reached over and began leafing through Rafael’s journal. I found this very cool story about his monster:
The Boy and the Monster
1.
The boy is reading to the monster. He is like Scheherezade. He will read a story every night—read and read until the monster falls asleep. And the boy will live one more day. He will live this way forever.
Last Night I Sang to the Monster Page 8
