Adjectives On the Typewriter
I CANT FINISH THIS STORY. Grr.
Still, tell me what you think.
[edit-its done. read it.]
The Outreach by Harmony Cox
I wake up and flex my fingers. Once, twice, Im still alive.
Goddamnit.
My neck hurts. My neck hurts bad. I want to raise a hand to feel it, but my arms feel like dead weights hinged to my torso. Its too much effort. So I try to swallow.
Big mistake. It hurts so bad it brings tears to my eyes. My tounge feels foregin in my mouth. Thick and pulpy, an unwelcome invader. I move my lips a little, and they feel the same-thick, liquidy. Like two slugs laying side by side on a garden post. I can only imagine what they look like-swollen, for sure, maybe split.
I flex some muscles in my legs. God, they ache. Pins and needles, like they were asleep for hours. Same for my stomach, which feels eerily empty. For the first time, I detect the smell in the room-a thick masking antisceptic. Under that, an animal smell of copper and bile. I must have vomited sometime the night before. Maybe thats why my throat hurts so bad.
I gather my courage and open one eye. My first impression is white. I think of something I learned in science class, on one of the few occasions I was paying attention. Back before the contionents divided, all of the land on Earth was just one great big frozen slab.. You could walk from Europe to Asia in a day. There were tribes that did that, they say, nomadic peoples that divided to conquer. Of course, the wilderness ended up conquering most of them, but the lucky few that survived made their homes by stalking across the ice flows. Out there, a cloudy sky and an icy ground, all you could see was white.
Of course, iM not cold. Im wrapped in a starchy white blanket. I can feel the abusive little granules in the fabric, and it irrtates me. If I am in a hospital (as I suspect) then they should have thought to provide more comfortable blankets. Ditto for this pillow. How can i recover correctly without proper bedclothes?
My one eye darts around, taking in the surroundings. Not much from this angle, besides the celing-tile with the pock-marks. A bit of light to the left-hand side of me indicates where a window must be. The weak light of a suburban morning. Beautiful. It really is.
I hear movement over by where I assume the window is. Someone must be in this room with me. A relative, i suppose. Surely not a well-meaning stranger. My case isnt the sort that draws people off the street. People, on the contrary, tend to avoid the depressed. I wonder if they think its contagious. Then again, its not like we're very fun to be around.
I sigh-a little too loudly-to let the person know that im awake and alive, somewhat against my will. But I can think about that as much as I want later, in the comfort of my own, not-scratchy comforter. Right now I need to get out of here.
Quick rubber footsteps-it wasnt a relative at all, but a nurse. Im a little dissapointed, but not much. Its not like a relative would have the power to get me out of this bed. However, she does, so Im inclined to treat her with courtesy. She looks at me with what appears to be genuine curiosity. "Are you awake?"
I test my throat. God, I sound awful. Like a sqeaky toy with a sore throat. "I. Um. I think so."
"Your mother is in the waiting room." I size her up while she studies me, both of us drawing snap judgements to ease the conversation along. She's young, not exactly unattractive, but a bit too square-shouldered and thin-lipped to be on the cover of Maxim. Im guessing she dosent have too many attachments in this mortal coil. Maybe a cat. She looks the type.
Id hate to think what I look like to her.
Its almsot amusing, this next part. I admit it, I love watching people look uncomfortable. She looks at her clipboard, then at me. "You had an accident."
I raise an eyebrow. Is this a joke?
"You ate too many of your sleeping pills. Your motehr reasures us that you administer them to yourself , and this must have been a mistake."
Wishful thinking, mom. But why spoil her delusions? She's happier beliving it was an oversight, let her believe it. Id rather not spend a week in a "safe place" anyway. Ive been to "safe places" before, and apparently the only way that modern psychology has decided that tenagers can be "safe" is when theyre bored stupid. I nod weakly.
She shakes her head but says nothing. She's dealt with people like my mother before. "Ill go and get her so you two can talk in person. She's been waiting in the lobby since you got in."
A stab of guilt. My mom was out there for a few hours now, just waiting to make sure i was okay. What a sweet woman. How much it would have hurt her if this had worked comes to mind, and I feel even worse. What the hell was I thinking?
"Go on, now, sit up." Ah, the no-nonsence type. I respect her, but Ill be damned if Im sitting up right now. My head feels like its full of melting jello. She taps her foot, then sighs and picks up the bed controller and palces it in my hand. "Sit UP."
I would have retaliated in some rude manner if I was more up to it, but Im so tired I dont even care. Let the woman have her fun. Bitch. I hit my button and rise, as if in a dream, to greet the world at eye level. I decide, in a fit of optimism, to start a conversaiton with the nurse.
The first thing I notice is that my angel of mercy has knobby knees.
"You have knobby knees." I squeak at her. I swear I only meant it in a conversational way. Honestly, I found them sort of charming. She stares at me a second, a cold hard glare. Im tempted to remind her that my fragile emotional state is why Im there in the first place, but that would blow that whole accident theory out of the water, and Im not sure I want that yet. I dont have much power in this situation, but I wont give up what little I have if I can help it.
"Ill get your mother", she repeats, as if this is a magical incantation that can provoke silence in sleep-addled ingrates. She soft-steps out into the hallway and is gone.
I sigh again, or try to. It comes out as more of a wheeze. My throat feels like its about to collapse in on itself. I imagine I had my stomach pumped. No wonder i feel so icky. I womnder what tipped Mom off?
I dont have long to worry about it. She dashes in, waving a pill bottle. "Aster! Aster!"
"Hi, mom." I manage this before she holds me in a massive hug. I sink into her amrs, too tired to resist. I dont really want to anyway-I feel like I was just saved from the jaws of a lion. A sinking ship, a burning building. A brush with death. Admittedly of my own design, but intoxicating nonetheless. I am the victim of my own nefarious plot, and this woman played hero to my villain. Tears make their presence known on my cheeks. Are they pain or gratitude?
"Oh, baby, baby, baby..." my mother rambles on for a few more minutes, squeezing me and rocking back and forth. "Why'd you have to go and be so careless? Godamnit, honey... my baby, honey..."
"Mom..."
And its all I can say.
****
Im standing in the lobby now, idly looking at the fliers posted on the bulletin board. Im feeling a bit better, though weak in the knees. Once it was verified that I wasnt in any "danger", they decided I could go home. In this day and age, suicide clean-up is an outpaitent process. This is sort of depressing, although Im not sure why.
I glance over at the listings for support groups. I have a feeling that my mother, in exchange for our silent agreement to not check me in to this antiseptic artic landscape, is going to want me to seek guidance in some other place. Fine by me. Ill join the friggin' Girl Scouts if it gets me out of here. I run my fingers over the listings. None of them really apply to me. Overeaters Anonymous might be a go, seeing as how Im a fan of microwave burritos, but it seems wrong somehow. Survivors of all sorts of cancer is also out, although I consider it-after all, I could lie. Would they require medical records? If they found me out, would I still get the free coffee?
Women's Outreach- now here's one that I could do. I study the flier carefully, but it is indicative of no particular agenda. No rape, no incest, none of the problems one would excpet are even acknowledged on the cheery purple paper. "Come share your storys of modern womanhood with us!" it cries. It seems simple enough. After all, maybe I'm digging to deep. Maybe just being a woman IS my problem. I was born with a set of ovaries I dont feel like I can handle responsibly. I imagine a group of women sitting around, drinking coffee, and moaning about the complexities of tampon commericals. It appeals to me in a strange way. I tear off one of the information tabs and stick it in my pocket. If nothing else, this token effort will surely appease my mother.
****
Once, when I was younger, I went through a period of time when i simply refused to leave my bed. I wasnt faking sick or trying to get out of school. I was too young to try those tricks. I just wouldnt put on my overalls and little-kid sneakers and go meet the world. I laid there for hours, reading Little Golden Books and drifting in and out of sleep. When pressed by my well-meaning mother., my answer was simple: There was no point in me getting out of bed. I had a good handle on everything at school. I didnt really have any friends, and I didnt think the teacher liked me very much. The only living person that would miss me was her, and she could come visit me in my bedroom if she needed to talk. This all made perfect sence to me, and my mother pretended to agree. In reality, while I was laying in my bed, she was frantically calling child specialists. She finally found one that made housecalls. He came, I gave my reasoning, and he gave a diagnosis.
I know I have clinical depression, have had it for years. It explains certain things about my childhood: the times I spent hiding in the bushes from the other children, my peculiar drawings of monsters, and of course my refusal to leave my bed for days at a time. It dosent feel like an honest depression, however. I dont mope, I dont wear all black, I dont write long gothic sonnets about how the worlds done me wrong. The worlds actually done quite well by me, to tell the truth. I just feel so apatehtic torwards the whole thing. I just want to give up and go home. But when Im already at home, and Ive had a bit to drink, and noone's answering the phone, I wonder where else there is to go. When I cant think of anywhere else to be, I wonder why Im here at all. And thats when bad things happen.
I try in vain to explain this to my mother while we're driving home. She keeps giving me theese sidelong glances in the rearview mirror. Its like im a defective appliance. She's always suspected I had a few wires loose, and now that her suspicion is confirmed, she can only wait for me to malfunction. Despite this, she keeps talking. She informs me that no matter what she thinks happened, she'll take my assertation that it was an accident at face value. It wont be recorded as an attempt, there wont be any sort of follow-up unless she decides on one. This is a veiled threat, of course. Eitehr I find some sort of counseling, or she will for me. I offer up my little scrap of paper from the Women's Outreach, and its accepted. She looks pleased, I look relieved, and I shove the thing back in my pocket. Weter Ill actually follow through on this is a toss-up, but as long as she's happy I could care less.
When we reach the house, I tell her Im going upstairs for a quick shower. She lowers her eyes at me, studying me for some sign of subterfuge. I hold my hands up, insiting that the storm is over and that I just feel grimy after laying in that starchy hospital bed. The sensory imagery does the trick. She shudders in sympathy and waves me upstairs, with the stipulation Im back down in 20 minutes:no more, no less, or she'll come and find me. She's done it before.
I walk into my room to grab my robe, and its all there. An empty bottle of wine, an orange prescription bottle still half full. My desk still has the note, somber words penned down on cheery Hello Kitty stationary. I wont recount it here, it's too embarrasing. I study it, looking for an answer...why did I do this? Why did I try and make such a hasty exit? Am I really that inconsiderate? The note offers no clues, and Im stuck with this relevation: I tried to kill myself last night, and I have absolutely no idea why.
I reach into my pocket and finger the scrap of paper from the Women's flier. I dont know what to think anymore...about myself, anyway. Maybe this isnt such a bad idea. They have conselors at theese things, I assume, and maybe other girls that have done the same thing I did. Maybe their reasons will tell me about mine. Maybe Ill find help here.
It isnt like I have any other ideas, anyway.
***
"Oh, youre a first time visitor? Ill just make you up a nametag...what's your name, dear?"
"Er...Molly."
"What a nice name," she muses, writing on a tag with a sharpie. Im not sure how to respond. Should I thank her? It wasnt my choice. Maybe I should commend my mother for her good taste? "Thanks, Ill pass it on?" That dosent sound right- but its mot, because szhe hands me my nametag with a dismissive smile.
Here I am in Women's Outreach, a support group that meets weekly in a small classroom in St. Christopher's School For The Blind. I wonder where all the blind kids go while the meetings go on. I assume they have families and houses of their own. I feel sort of stupid, being in a school for kids that obviously have it harder then I do. Then I flash back to last Saturday, and clench my jaw. I want answers. Im not leaving untill I get them. Its that simple. Screw the blind kids.
I glance around the room. It looks pretty depressing. All the school posters are up: Gorrilas with their distaste for mondays, kittens tenaciously clinging to tree branches, and the like. All of theese animals were dressed up, put in goofy photographs, and languished in captivity. (The gorilla probaly languished, anyway. Its hard to imagine a free-range kitten.) The things we do to animals for our entertainment are truly bizarre.
Also of note is a refreshment table. i wasnt expecting much more then coffee, but it appears that I hit the junk food jackpot: A coffee platter, Little Debbie snackcakes as far as the eye can see, veggies and dip, and baby cans of coke. I wonder who's here for help, and who's just here for the free food? I grab a plate and load it with tiny cookies, then take a seat in the semicircle of plastic chairs.
More people are filtering into the room. The look of this demographic disturbs me. Its a crowd of babyboomers, to be sure, aging hippies and hipsters that dont wanna give it up. Ive never seen so many pirs of Birkenstocks before. One woman sits next to me and smiles. I look her up and down wairly. She's wearing one of those wrinkly broomstick skirts and a shirt that says "Dont Let Your Karma Run Over Your Dogma". She puts a hand on my knee, and I jump.
"What?" I glance at her, startled. She quickly takes her hand away. I blush, embarrased. This is group therapy, right? We're supposed to be touchy feely. Its all about togetherness. I give a weak smile. "Im just...um...not a touchy sort of person."
She smiles wider, now. Her smile is so wide, it frightens me. Her lips look like theyre made of wax. "I was just suprised to see someone as young as you at our group. We usually attract an older crowd."
"Oh, I can tell." Oh, shit! Now she probaly thinks Im calling her old. This isnt good. "I mean, not old, but...um...older then me?"
She laughs, then. What a relief. "I guess we are. My name is Melanie, and Im the group's coordinator. We'll be starting in just a few minutes now. Do you have any questions?"
"Oh, no. I was just gonna play it by ear, I guess."
She laughs again, a loud beating laugh that draws the attention of the people around us. I flush harder. I wonder what happens to the vessles in my cheeks under this kind of stress? Will I bruise?
"Allright, Molly. Ill leave you to it, then." And with a swish of her broomstick skirt, I can breathe again.
Im getting nervous now. All theese women know eachother, but I dont know anybody. Im alone in a sea of middleaged women in hippie clothes. This is somehow quietly terrifying. I stuff some tiny cookies in my mouth and try not to stare. I remind myself of my quest: I am here for answers, and Im not leaving untill they are supplied. I feel braver now, like a conquistador. This is unknown territory to me, and so I will learn the customs of the nativesand try to fit in. I will benefit from heir knowledge. I will adapt.
Suddenly, the sound of calling whales fills the room. Some synthesized music meant to sound like an organ (nd what must be the mating calls of some large marine animal) are emanating from some unseen stereo. Melanie swishes to a place in the circle and sits down, smiling warmly. I am now sure that she's somewhat insane. She cant possibly be balanced and still believe that whale calls and tiny cans of Diet Coke are of any sort of help to anyone. And yet, here we are.
"Hello, everyone. I hope youve all had an interesting and productive week since we last met. This week we're going to be discussing how to positively set our minds against the blockades and struggles in our lives. But first, we have a new member of the group this evening. Her name is Rebeccah. Rebeccah, maybe youd like to say a few words to the group?"
"I..." My voice sounds quiet and scared. I wish I could run, out the door, into a cab, go all the way home and hide under a blanket untill I was sure noone could find me. Home is safety and comfort. This place is old women and kitten posters. Still. I have to stay.
I stand up, a little wobbly, and clear my throat. "My name is Rebeccah. Im 18 years old. Im a seinor at French Valley High School. I like cats, I tried to kill myself and I dont know why."
The room is silent. Not just any kind of silent, but that kind of twitching uncomfortable silence that follows such an awkward remark. This silence is throbbing and deep. This silence is alive, and will swallow us all if something dosent break it.
At the back of the room, Melanie makes a sympathetic noise.
Like a pebble predating a landslide, more follow suit. The women gather around me. Arms reach out and encircle me. All of a sudden, tears are streaming down my cheeks again. Are they pain or are they gratitude?
I can never tell.
Still, tell me what you think.
[edit-its done. read it.]
The Outreach by Harmony Cox
I wake up and flex my fingers. Once, twice, Im still alive.
Goddamnit.
My neck hurts. My neck hurts bad. I want to raise a hand to feel it, but my arms feel like dead weights hinged to my torso. Its too much effort. So I try to swallow.
Big mistake. It hurts so bad it brings tears to my eyes. My tounge feels foregin in my mouth. Thick and pulpy, an unwelcome invader. I move my lips a little, and they feel the same-thick, liquidy. Like two slugs laying side by side on a garden post. I can only imagine what they look like-swollen, for sure, maybe split.
I flex some muscles in my legs. God, they ache. Pins and needles, like they were asleep for hours. Same for my stomach, which feels eerily empty. For the first time, I detect the smell in the room-a thick masking antisceptic. Under that, an animal smell of copper and bile. I must have vomited sometime the night before. Maybe thats why my throat hurts so bad.
I gather my courage and open one eye. My first impression is white. I think of something I learned in science class, on one of the few occasions I was paying attention. Back before the contionents divided, all of the land on Earth was just one great big frozen slab.. You could walk from Europe to Asia in a day. There were tribes that did that, they say, nomadic peoples that divided to conquer. Of course, the wilderness ended up conquering most of them, but the lucky few that survived made their homes by stalking across the ice flows. Out there, a cloudy sky and an icy ground, all you could see was white.
Of course, iM not cold. Im wrapped in a starchy white blanket. I can feel the abusive little granules in the fabric, and it irrtates me. If I am in a hospital (as I suspect) then they should have thought to provide more comfortable blankets. Ditto for this pillow. How can i recover correctly without proper bedclothes?
My one eye darts around, taking in the surroundings. Not much from this angle, besides the celing-tile with the pock-marks. A bit of light to the left-hand side of me indicates where a window must be. The weak light of a suburban morning. Beautiful. It really is.
I hear movement over by where I assume the window is. Someone must be in this room with me. A relative, i suppose. Surely not a well-meaning stranger. My case isnt the sort that draws people off the street. People, on the contrary, tend to avoid the depressed. I wonder if they think its contagious. Then again, its not like we're very fun to be around.
I sigh-a little too loudly-to let the person know that im awake and alive, somewhat against my will. But I can think about that as much as I want later, in the comfort of my own, not-scratchy comforter. Right now I need to get out of here.
Quick rubber footsteps-it wasnt a relative at all, but a nurse. Im a little dissapointed, but not much. Its not like a relative would have the power to get me out of this bed. However, she does, so Im inclined to treat her with courtesy. She looks at me with what appears to be genuine curiosity. "Are you awake?"
I test my throat. God, I sound awful. Like a sqeaky toy with a sore throat. "I. Um. I think so."
"Your mother is in the waiting room." I size her up while she studies me, both of us drawing snap judgements to ease the conversation along. She's young, not exactly unattractive, but a bit too square-shouldered and thin-lipped to be on the cover of Maxim. Im guessing she dosent have too many attachments in this mortal coil. Maybe a cat. She looks the type.
Id hate to think what I look like to her.
Its almsot amusing, this next part. I admit it, I love watching people look uncomfortable. She looks at her clipboard, then at me. "You had an accident."
I raise an eyebrow. Is this a joke?
"You ate too many of your sleeping pills. Your motehr reasures us that you administer them to yourself , and this must have been a mistake."
Wishful thinking, mom. But why spoil her delusions? She's happier beliving it was an oversight, let her believe it. Id rather not spend a week in a "safe place" anyway. Ive been to "safe places" before, and apparently the only way that modern psychology has decided that tenagers can be "safe" is when theyre bored stupid. I nod weakly.
She shakes her head but says nothing. She's dealt with people like my mother before. "Ill go and get her so you two can talk in person. She's been waiting in the lobby since you got in."
A stab of guilt. My mom was out there for a few hours now, just waiting to make sure i was okay. What a sweet woman. How much it would have hurt her if this had worked comes to mind, and I feel even worse. What the hell was I thinking?
"Go on, now, sit up." Ah, the no-nonsence type. I respect her, but Ill be damned if Im sitting up right now. My head feels like its full of melting jello. She taps her foot, then sighs and picks up the bed controller and palces it in my hand. "Sit UP."
I would have retaliated in some rude manner if I was more up to it, but Im so tired I dont even care. Let the woman have her fun. Bitch. I hit my button and rise, as if in a dream, to greet the world at eye level. I decide, in a fit of optimism, to start a conversaiton with the nurse.
The first thing I notice is that my angel of mercy has knobby knees.
"You have knobby knees." I squeak at her. I swear I only meant it in a conversational way. Honestly, I found them sort of charming. She stares at me a second, a cold hard glare. Im tempted to remind her that my fragile emotional state is why Im there in the first place, but that would blow that whole accident theory out of the water, and Im not sure I want that yet. I dont have much power in this situation, but I wont give up what little I have if I can help it.
"Ill get your mother", she repeats, as if this is a magical incantation that can provoke silence in sleep-addled ingrates. She soft-steps out into the hallway and is gone.
I sigh again, or try to. It comes out as more of a wheeze. My throat feels like its about to collapse in on itself. I imagine I had my stomach pumped. No wonder i feel so icky. I womnder what tipped Mom off?
I dont have long to worry about it. She dashes in, waving a pill bottle. "Aster! Aster!"
"Hi, mom." I manage this before she holds me in a massive hug. I sink into her amrs, too tired to resist. I dont really want to anyway-I feel like I was just saved from the jaws of a lion. A sinking ship, a burning building. A brush with death. Admittedly of my own design, but intoxicating nonetheless. I am the victim of my own nefarious plot, and this woman played hero to my villain. Tears make their presence known on my cheeks. Are they pain or gratitude?
"Oh, baby, baby, baby..." my mother rambles on for a few more minutes, squeezing me and rocking back and forth. "Why'd you have to go and be so careless? Godamnit, honey... my baby, honey..."
"Mom..."
And its all I can say.
****
Im standing in the lobby now, idly looking at the fliers posted on the bulletin board. Im feeling a bit better, though weak in the knees. Once it was verified that I wasnt in any "danger", they decided I could go home. In this day and age, suicide clean-up is an outpaitent process. This is sort of depressing, although Im not sure why.
I glance over at the listings for support groups. I have a feeling that my mother, in exchange for our silent agreement to not check me in to this antiseptic artic landscape, is going to want me to seek guidance in some other place. Fine by me. Ill join the friggin' Girl Scouts if it gets me out of here. I run my fingers over the listings. None of them really apply to me. Overeaters Anonymous might be a go, seeing as how Im a fan of microwave burritos, but it seems wrong somehow. Survivors of all sorts of cancer is also out, although I consider it-after all, I could lie. Would they require medical records? If they found me out, would I still get the free coffee?
Women's Outreach- now here's one that I could do. I study the flier carefully, but it is indicative of no particular agenda. No rape, no incest, none of the problems one would excpet are even acknowledged on the cheery purple paper. "Come share your storys of modern womanhood with us!" it cries. It seems simple enough. After all, maybe I'm digging to deep. Maybe just being a woman IS my problem. I was born with a set of ovaries I dont feel like I can handle responsibly. I imagine a group of women sitting around, drinking coffee, and moaning about the complexities of tampon commericals. It appeals to me in a strange way. I tear off one of the information tabs and stick it in my pocket. If nothing else, this token effort will surely appease my mother.
****
Once, when I was younger, I went through a period of time when i simply refused to leave my bed. I wasnt faking sick or trying to get out of school. I was too young to try those tricks. I just wouldnt put on my overalls and little-kid sneakers and go meet the world. I laid there for hours, reading Little Golden Books and drifting in and out of sleep. When pressed by my well-meaning mother., my answer was simple: There was no point in me getting out of bed. I had a good handle on everything at school. I didnt really have any friends, and I didnt think the teacher liked me very much. The only living person that would miss me was her, and she could come visit me in my bedroom if she needed to talk. This all made perfect sence to me, and my mother pretended to agree. In reality, while I was laying in my bed, she was frantically calling child specialists. She finally found one that made housecalls. He came, I gave my reasoning, and he gave a diagnosis.
I know I have clinical depression, have had it for years. It explains certain things about my childhood: the times I spent hiding in the bushes from the other children, my peculiar drawings of monsters, and of course my refusal to leave my bed for days at a time. It dosent feel like an honest depression, however. I dont mope, I dont wear all black, I dont write long gothic sonnets about how the worlds done me wrong. The worlds actually done quite well by me, to tell the truth. I just feel so apatehtic torwards the whole thing. I just want to give up and go home. But when Im already at home, and Ive had a bit to drink, and noone's answering the phone, I wonder where else there is to go. When I cant think of anywhere else to be, I wonder why Im here at all. And thats when bad things happen.
I try in vain to explain this to my mother while we're driving home. She keeps giving me theese sidelong glances in the rearview mirror. Its like im a defective appliance. She's always suspected I had a few wires loose, and now that her suspicion is confirmed, she can only wait for me to malfunction. Despite this, she keeps talking. She informs me that no matter what she thinks happened, she'll take my assertation that it was an accident at face value. It wont be recorded as an attempt, there wont be any sort of follow-up unless she decides on one. This is a veiled threat, of course. Eitehr I find some sort of counseling, or she will for me. I offer up my little scrap of paper from the Women's Outreach, and its accepted. She looks pleased, I look relieved, and I shove the thing back in my pocket. Weter Ill actually follow through on this is a toss-up, but as long as she's happy I could care less.
When we reach the house, I tell her Im going upstairs for a quick shower. She lowers her eyes at me, studying me for some sign of subterfuge. I hold my hands up, insiting that the storm is over and that I just feel grimy after laying in that starchy hospital bed. The sensory imagery does the trick. She shudders in sympathy and waves me upstairs, with the stipulation Im back down in 20 minutes:no more, no less, or she'll come and find me. She's done it before.
I walk into my room to grab my robe, and its all there. An empty bottle of wine, an orange prescription bottle still half full. My desk still has the note, somber words penned down on cheery Hello Kitty stationary. I wont recount it here, it's too embarrasing. I study it, looking for an answer...why did I do this? Why did I try and make such a hasty exit? Am I really that inconsiderate? The note offers no clues, and Im stuck with this relevation: I tried to kill myself last night, and I have absolutely no idea why.
I reach into my pocket and finger the scrap of paper from the Women's flier. I dont know what to think anymore...about myself, anyway. Maybe this isnt such a bad idea. They have conselors at theese things, I assume, and maybe other girls that have done the same thing I did. Maybe their reasons will tell me about mine. Maybe Ill find help here.
It isnt like I have any other ideas, anyway.
***
"Oh, youre a first time visitor? Ill just make you up a nametag...what's your name, dear?"
"Er...Molly."
"What a nice name," she muses, writing on a tag with a sharpie. Im not sure how to respond. Should I thank her? It wasnt my choice. Maybe I should commend my mother for her good taste? "Thanks, Ill pass it on?" That dosent sound right- but its mot, because szhe hands me my nametag with a dismissive smile.
Here I am in Women's Outreach, a support group that meets weekly in a small classroom in St. Christopher's School For The Blind. I wonder where all the blind kids go while the meetings go on. I assume they have families and houses of their own. I feel sort of stupid, being in a school for kids that obviously have it harder then I do. Then I flash back to last Saturday, and clench my jaw. I want answers. Im not leaving untill I get them. Its that simple. Screw the blind kids.
I glance around the room. It looks pretty depressing. All the school posters are up: Gorrilas with their distaste for mondays, kittens tenaciously clinging to tree branches, and the like. All of theese animals were dressed up, put in goofy photographs, and languished in captivity. (The gorilla probaly languished, anyway. Its hard to imagine a free-range kitten.) The things we do to animals for our entertainment are truly bizarre.
Also of note is a refreshment table. i wasnt expecting much more then coffee, but it appears that I hit the junk food jackpot: A coffee platter, Little Debbie snackcakes as far as the eye can see, veggies and dip, and baby cans of coke. I wonder who's here for help, and who's just here for the free food? I grab a plate and load it with tiny cookies, then take a seat in the semicircle of plastic chairs.
More people are filtering into the room. The look of this demographic disturbs me. Its a crowd of babyboomers, to be sure, aging hippies and hipsters that dont wanna give it up. Ive never seen so many pirs of Birkenstocks before. One woman sits next to me and smiles. I look her up and down wairly. She's wearing one of those wrinkly broomstick skirts and a shirt that says "Dont Let Your Karma Run Over Your Dogma". She puts a hand on my knee, and I jump.
"What?" I glance at her, startled. She quickly takes her hand away. I blush, embarrased. This is group therapy, right? We're supposed to be touchy feely. Its all about togetherness. I give a weak smile. "Im just...um...not a touchy sort of person."
She smiles wider, now. Her smile is so wide, it frightens me. Her lips look like theyre made of wax. "I was just suprised to see someone as young as you at our group. We usually attract an older crowd."
"Oh, I can tell." Oh, shit! Now she probaly thinks Im calling her old. This isnt good. "I mean, not old, but...um...older then me?"
She laughs, then. What a relief. "I guess we are. My name is Melanie, and Im the group's coordinator. We'll be starting in just a few minutes now. Do you have any questions?"
"Oh, no. I was just gonna play it by ear, I guess."
She laughs again, a loud beating laugh that draws the attention of the people around us. I flush harder. I wonder what happens to the vessles in my cheeks under this kind of stress? Will I bruise?
"Allright, Molly. Ill leave you to it, then." And with a swish of her broomstick skirt, I can breathe again.
Im getting nervous now. All theese women know eachother, but I dont know anybody. Im alone in a sea of middleaged women in hippie clothes. This is somehow quietly terrifying. I stuff some tiny cookies in my mouth and try not to stare. I remind myself of my quest: I am here for answers, and Im not leaving untill they are supplied. I feel braver now, like a conquistador. This is unknown territory to me, and so I will learn the customs of the nativesand try to fit in. I will benefit from heir knowledge. I will adapt.
Suddenly, the sound of calling whales fills the room. Some synthesized music meant to sound like an organ (nd what must be the mating calls of some large marine animal) are emanating from some unseen stereo. Melanie swishes to a place in the circle and sits down, smiling warmly. I am now sure that she's somewhat insane. She cant possibly be balanced and still believe that whale calls and tiny cans of Diet Coke are of any sort of help to anyone. And yet, here we are.
"Hello, everyone. I hope youve all had an interesting and productive week since we last met. This week we're going to be discussing how to positively set our minds against the blockades and struggles in our lives. But first, we have a new member of the group this evening. Her name is Rebeccah. Rebeccah, maybe youd like to say a few words to the group?"
"I..." My voice sounds quiet and scared. I wish I could run, out the door, into a cab, go all the way home and hide under a blanket untill I was sure noone could find me. Home is safety and comfort. This place is old women and kitten posters. Still. I have to stay.
I stand up, a little wobbly, and clear my throat. "My name is Rebeccah. Im 18 years old. Im a seinor at French Valley High School. I like cats, I tried to kill myself and I dont know why."
The room is silent. Not just any kind of silent, but that kind of twitching uncomfortable silence that follows such an awkward remark. This silence is throbbing and deep. This silence is alive, and will swallow us all if something dosent break it.
At the back of the room, Melanie makes a sympathetic noise.
Like a pebble predating a landslide, more follow suit. The women gather around me. Arms reach out and encircle me. All of a sudden, tears are streaming down my cheeks again. Are they pain or are they gratitude?
I can never tell.