A Really Awesome Mess (10 page)

I noticed the familiar rumblings in my stomach, a mix of starvation and pissed-off-edness that sometimes threatened to double me over. “I’m offended that you think I’m full of … 
merde
,” I said, using the French word for “shit” so I wouldn’t get any demerits, even though the swearing rule didn’t seem to apply here in Brittany’s office. Or Tina’s group, for that matter.

“Well, that makes us even. Because I’m offended you underestimate me so much you’d think I would fall for that crap you just handed me. Want one?” she asked, holding out a box of graham crackers.

I performed a quick mental calculation and, deciding I could do an extra ten minutes of jogging in place after lights-out, took one. I broke the two squares in half, put one on my lap and proceeded to break the other into four smaller pieces. I put the first little square in my mouth and let it sit there, the sugary goodness melting on my tongue until the sharp edges of the cracker turned mushy and round. My head buzzed pleasantly.

“I love these,” Brittany said, crunching down on an entire cracker and swallowing it in record time. I wondered how she stayed so thin, and considered warning her against eating too many before deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. She’d figure it out on her own when her pants didn’t button anymore.

“Me too,” I said, putting the next small piece in my mouth. This time, it clung to the roof of my mouth like dried bird shit. I grabbed for my water bottle and took a big gulp. The cracker
went halfway down and got stuck. I chugged some more and the lump finally dissolved.

Brittany grabbed another cracker. The number of calories she was consuming in one sitting was way more than I’d ever allow myself. “So how long have you been struggling with an eating disorder?” she asked, like it was a totally normal, polite thing to say.

“I haven’t,” I said, inhaling crumbs, which sent me into a coughing fit. “Ever.”

“Well then, what about the anger? How long has that been building?”

“I don’t know why everyone assumes I’m angry,” I said once I’d stopped hacking, even more pissed off about this question than the eating one. Cracker number three went into Brittany’s mouth and down her gullet. I was horrified, but tried not to let it show.

“I’d say posting more than fifty vicious comments about someone on Facebook in a single week would indicate you’re a pretty angry person.”

Not this again. When was everyone going to let that go? I was absolutely not getting into the nitty-gritty details of why I’d done that, especially to an adult. No way, no how. “That boy yelled racist remarks at me every single time I walked by him in the hall. I mean, who wouldn’t be pissed off?” I slapped my hand on my leg for emphasis and cracker went flying everywhere. “Sorry.
I mean, I guess you could say I’m situationally angry. But I definitely wouldn’t classify myself as an angry person.”

Brittany stood up and stretched. “I get the feeling me asking you questions isn’t going to get us anywhere today, so why don’t we try something a little different instead? Come on.”

I followed her down the hall to a tiny closet filled floor to ceiling with little knick-knacks and Polly Pockets and McDonald’s toys. “Uh, Brittany? I grew out of playing with dolls when I was seven.”

Brittany waved me into the closet as she stepped out of it. It was too tight a space for us to both fit in there at once. “Think of it as an experiment in your unconscious. Just pick out anything that speaks to you in any way, put it all in this basket, and then meet me back in my office.”

She left me staring at a plethora of babyish figurines. As much as I had no interest in her game, I knew I wasn’t getting out of it, so I started tossing things randomly into the basket. Animals, Disney characters, whatever. Who cared, right? I was way too smart to fall for talking about my problems while playing dolly.

When I got back to Brittany’s office, she had a miniature sandbox set up on the coffee table. I felt like I was back in preschool, when all the kids used to ask me why my my skin was a different shade than theirs, and one mean boy even pulled his eyelids tight every day to try and look like me.

“You can’t be serious,” I said, looking from my basket of dolls to the sandbox to Brittany.

“Sure I can,” she said, as calm and reassuring as ever. “So just set everything up in here any way that feels right to you and we can talk about it after.”

“Seriously?” I asked again. I couldn’t believe she was using on me what was clearly a therapy thing for kids with zero verbal skills.

Brittany just nodded and pointed at the sandbox.

I sighed and grabbed the first thing that found its way into my hand: A pink elephant with an elaborate painted-on headdress. I buried him in the middle of the sandbox, so only his trunk was showing. Next I found Mulan dressed in warrior gear and put her in a corner. Then I took this Nordic king and queen and placed them in the opposite corner. Finally, I pulled out Alice in Wonderland and put her next to Mulan, figuring Mulan looked like she could use a good girlfriend.

But something stopped me from feeling like I was done. The sandbox just didn’t look right at all. I was telling myself not to be ridiculous even as I moved Alice over to where the Norse king and his wife stood. “There,” I finally said.

“So tell me about the scene you’ve created here, Emmy.”

I stared down at the preschool portrait. “It’s a bunch of toys in a sandbox.”

Brittany laughed. “Come on, smartass. Humor me.”

“Okay, fine,” I said, smiling back at her despite myself. Oddly, I liked how she didn’t let me get away with shit. It felt like a challenge. “In this corner, Mulan. And in the blue cape, her opposition … ummmm … Thor!”

Brittany gave me a little wink. “Go on. You’re a natural at this.”

“Anyway, this is war. Mulan versus Thor and Thor’s wife. It’s going to be an epic battle where the cards are stacked against Mulan, but I think she’ll come out on top.”

“What about her?” Brittany asked, pointing at Alice in Wonderland.

“She’s the beautiful ring girl,” I said, pleased at my quick wit.

Brittany picked up Mulan and handed her to me. “So what can you tell me about Mulan?”

“Well, for one thing, she’s Chinese,” I said, and all of a sudden I had a sinking feeling this kid’s game was going to get me to reveal a hell of a lot more than I’d intended to. So maybe I wasn’t so smart after all.

“Right,” Brittany said, thankfully not stating the obvious. “What else do you know about her?”

“Well … she loves her family and wants to protect them. She hides who she really is from almost everybody. And she’s tough and courageous and fights back hard against the big bad guys even though she’s just a little girl …”

“Kind of like you, right?” Brittany said.

I nodded, because I couldn’t really think of a believable way to deny it.

“Did you notice that Alice in Wonderland wanted to be with Mulan, but you couldn’t let her? You made her leave?” Brittany continued analyzing my toy story.

I could clearly see what was unfolding here—that Mulan was me, Alice was supposed to be Joss, and Thor and his wife were my mom and dad—but there was nowhere to run and hide. “I guess,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“What might that mean?” she asked gently.

“That Joss actually
wants
to hang out with me? Like, she doesn’t just feel sorry for me or pity me or something?”

Brittany did me the favor of not looking smug about me admitting this. I appreciated it more than she would ever know. “Now look at Thor and his wife. Do they really look like they want to fight with Mulan, or hurt her in any way?”

I picked up the big, burly blond guy and his wife and stared at them more closely. When I hastily chose them back in the closet, I was totally positive they looked mean and mad. But now, in this light, Thor looked more concerned than anything, and his wife just looked plain old sad. “No,” I muttered. “They look worried, I guess. And maybe scared.”

“So do you think maybe your parents sent you here because they love you and are extremely concerned about you? And that maybe the only person you’re fighting is yourself?”

I shrugged, those tears that always seemed to be waiting just below the surface shimmering in my eyes. I bit my lip and tried to hold it together.

“What about this guy here?” Brittany asked, pointing to the buried elephant.

“He’s …” I started, my voice shaky and small. “He’s hoping no one can see the obvious, I guess. That he’s there and looks kind of unusual.”

“So tell me everything you know about elephants,” Brittany said.

“Well, for one thing, they’re very sensitive and have strong emotions. And um … they’re revered for their strength and wisdom in Asian cultures. Also, they mourn the loss of their family members forever …” I trailed off, knowing what was coming next.

“That sounds a lot like you, too, doesn’t it Emmy?”

I nodded. It was mortifying, but I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer. Brittany gathered me into a hug and I buried my head into her awesome-smelling sorority girl hair.

“We’ll get to the bottom of all of this, Emmy. I promise. You’re not alone, okay? We’re all here for you. Me, Alice in Wonderland, Thor, and his wife—even the five people Tina has you tethered to.”

And I couldn’t help but laugh a little even as I sobbed on Brittany’s shoulder.

THE WEEK ENDED WITHOUT INCIDENT AND, AS PROMISED, WE ALL
got our rewards. I was still a little bit numb, so I wasn’t as excited about the whole thing as I thought I’d be, but I did enjoy the iPod time. It was safe to say everybody got a little more relaxed as a result. Well, almost everybody. Mohammed had to wait until Sunday night to make his phone call to see who was alive, though I still wasn’t clear on that whole thing—like, he got a ten-minute phone call last week; what was magic about the twenty-minute phone call?

Mine sure as hell wasn’t magic. Just Mom telling me the usual stuff about what was happening at home, which aunt wasn’t speaking to which other aunt, and stuff like that. It wasn’t all that interesting, and I didn’t have anything to add to the conversation.
Because what was happening here that I could tell her about? “Well, guess what, Mom? Sexual Reactivity group is still really awkward. No breakthrough in my one-on-one sessions yet. And the whole Anger Management group is getting together to break out and probably lose all our privileges for the rest of the school year.” Yeah. So I didn’t say much. And Mom cried. And I felt bad.

I didn’t start crying until after I hung up. Then I slumped down in the phone booth, grabbed my knees, and let it go.

So here was the pain I knew was coming right behind the numbness. Fantastic. The first time this happened, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. The second time I took a fistful of Tylenol, which might be a good name for an action movie with a depressed or possibly arthritic hero.

I didn’t know what it felt like for other people with this diagnosis. For me it was like somebody squeezing my stomach with a cold iron fist. Except it wasn’t really a physical pain. It was just like the act of being alive hurt so freaking much that if anybody touched me I thought I might shatter into a million pieces.

And this brittle feeling was really closely related to the anger. Because when you’re in constant pain, people who aren’t in pain were really annoying. And people asking you to do stuff you didn’t want to do were even more annoying. Like, really, why the hell would you ask me to take out the garbage when it took every freaking ounce of my energy just to feign normalcy while I was sitting here?

So, yeah, hence the anger issues. Although, I could be a dick even when I wasn’t in pain, so who knew.

I guess I just didn’t feel like anything was helping me here. Max, who was supposed to be the linchpin or keystone or something important in my “circle of support,” though circles don’t have one part that holds the whole thing together, said I had to figure stuff out for myself. Awesome. This place sucked.

So I just curled up on the floor of the old-fashioned phone booth they made us use for our calls. It was really cool to be in this relic from another century, but the best part about it was that I could be alone. I mean, even doors to the bathroom stalls here were pretty low and sported a large gap where the door met the frame, so the staff could check in on us at any time. But here in the phone booth, even though the doors had panes of glass, it was quiet and solitary and it smelled like wood and it felt good. I really could have stayed there all day. And it crossed my mind, but then there was a knock on the door, and Mohammed opened it up.

“Your twenty’s up,” he said. “My turn.” I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, snorked back a big gob of crying-induced snot, and slid out of the phone booth. I wanted to go up to my room and lie down, but I couldn’t face the stairs right then. Pathetic. I headed toward the lounge, which might have been nice when the shabby couches and chairs were bought, I was guessing sometime in the mid-nineties. As I walked away from the phone booth, I could
swear I heard Mohammed say, “Hey, baby,” as he closed the door. Who the hell called their mom “baby”? Well, I guess if he didn’t have issues, he wouldn’t be here.