Disconnected (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

The scrambled eggs are runny and the toast is burnt, but all the nurses keep telling me if I don't eat something, then basically my hospital stay will be longer. So instead of playing with and picking at my food with the fork, I take microbites and try to swallow them down. I feel sick to my stomach and want desperately to run to the bathroom and upchuck the pieces that got into my belly, but I'm being monitored. I feel like all eyes are on me as I sit here and eat this crap.

There's an older man in the corner, alone at his table full of food. He's overweight and looks like he's been through the wars, with his disheveled hair and raggedy clothes. On the other side of the kitchen area sitting at the table kitty-corner from me is a young girl. She looks around my age and is still in her hospital gown. She's frail with pasty hair and light eyes. She looks as hollow as the rest of them.

I look up and around the room a little more and realize mental illness has absolutely no discrimination. There are people as young as me and some older than the hills. There are blacks and whites and people of all kinds of ethnicity. And of the twenty or so people here, they all seem to be in their own worlds—much like myself.

Trying to take another gulp of food, I notice Heather standing next to my table. She asks, “Can I join you?”

“Sure, I was wondering when you'd come for breakfast.”

“Yeah, I was talking to my doctor. He says another couple of days and I'll be out of here.”

“That's great, Heather.”

She takes a seat next to me and places her tray down. “I don't know how they can call this food. Look at this slop.” Her puzzled face says it all as she checks her eggs, poking them to see if they're still alive.

“I know. I can't stand looking at it either. And here I have to eat it.” We look at each other and laugh.

Silence returns as we all quietly eat our food. My mind starts to wander off a bit. I wonder when I will ever get the chance to talk to Aunt Rachel. She's the only one who can help me get out of this place. I can't believe she hasn't even come up to visit me. She's all I have to rely on now, but I just hate the way she's acting.

“So why are you here, Milly?” Heather asks, wiping her face with a napkin.

“The doctor mentioned something about DID, I think he said? I don't know. Anyway, they've already started me on some kind of pills I have to pop at night. Doc says it's for my depression and anxiety.” I put my fork down and can't eat anymore.

“I'm familiar with that. My one friend has that. Where you hearing voices and stuff?”

“I guess. He didn't really get into it.” My face starts to redden and I realize more than ever I probably sound like a freak. I mean, who in the world hears voices that aren't their own? Well, I suppose since they gave it a name, I'm not alone in my struggles.

“You don't have to get into it. I know it's hard to talk about. I struggle, too, with my disorder. Are you familiar with it at all?”

“Umm…I think so.” I instantly think of the discussion Blake and I had. God, I miss him right now. “Yeah…this guy I know, his brother's got it.”

“Yes. It's more common than you think. But I've had it for years and years…since I was eighteen.”

“Really?” I ask in excitement, like I just heard something great. But really it's not great. It's awful to have gone through that at such an early age. But I am intrigued because that is my age. I wonder how she's been coping with it all this time.

“Yeah, it's been hard to deal with, and it took years and years of trying different meds, but I think I'm on the right track. Well, except for what happened. My husband and I have been having problems since Bella…well, you know….” She looks at me like she's ready to cry again.

“I'm so sorry, Heather. I didn't mean to bring it up again.”

“No, it's okay,” she cuts in to say. “It's not your fault. Really, I'm better now. Besides, she's a big part of my life and I don't want to forget her.” She gives me a smile like it's just good to be talking about it. Maybe in some way this place has helped her through it. And who knows? Maybe in some way this place will help me too.

“You won't forget her, Heather, believe me, you won't.”

She smiles again and continues eating.

I glance over at the young girl again. She too is having a hard time eating. It looks like she just got here minutes ago—like they picked her up off the streets and gave her a blue hospital gown to wear. Luckily, one of the nurses gave me clothes from the donation bins. They're actually kinda comfy; I'm enjoying them. I wonder if maybe she would like some too. I want to ask her. I feel the urge to approach her and talk about everything under the sun. Maybe it's because she reminds me of someone I'd see in school. I guess I'm just looking for a friend that I can relate to.

My mind goes back to thinking of school. It's a good thing it's Spring Break and I'm not missing anything that might set me back.

Then I think of Beth. I can still feel Amelia's hurt over the situation. Though I have a good feeling she will overcome it.

***

We all sit around the room in a circle. It's my first group therapy session and I'm nervous. It's the same kind of nervous when you have to stand up in front of class and read a paper. I don't know what will happen, but I'm assuming it will be tough to get through. I'm not one for talking about my problems in front of a group of strangers like this.

After everyone gets situated, the counselor says, “This is the eight-thirty meeting. Good morning everyone. I am Grant. I'll be your day counselor till four this afternoon.”

“Good morning, Grant,” a few people mumble back. Now it definitely feels like I'm in class. Like this is some kind of schooling for the mentally ill. I still can't get over that my life has come to this. I mean, where did it all go wrong?

The counselor goes over the rules of the group; be respectful and courteous and all that. Then he turns to Heather.

“Please introduce yourself and tell us why you're here,” he says. The counselor himself looks like he could be one of us. He's about six-foot four and gangly, with scraggly hair and glasses. “Remember, you don't have to mention anything you don't want to. But please at least listen in on the group.” He then motions to Heather again.

Heather greets everyone and introduces herself, but she says nothing more. Silence rolls in like an invisible wave, drenching us all. Even the counselor is silent for a few moments. Maybe he thinks she's going to say more, who knows? After what seems like eternity, he motions for the next person to speak.

“Hi, I'm Gregg. I have OCD. I admitted myself in a week ago.” It's the overweight man who sat alone in the kitchen earlier. I think of my one kindergarten friend, Bridget. Bridget and I were friends for all of a month, I think. She must have had OCD, because I remember how she'd wash her hands five times and never step on cracks in the sidewalk. She was also afraid of squirrels. There were other things, too, but that's the most I recall of her disorder.

One by one, everyone introduces themselves and one by one, everything is pretty much the same like “I tried to kill myself” or “I stopped taking my medication.” It seems to be the norm around here, which is so unfortunate.

I notice all of this stems from one sort of depression or another. Whether they're bipolar, schizophrenic, or obsessive compulsive or whatever the case, somehow it all stems from depression.

You're just as crazy and sick as they are.

Of course I hear from Amelia now—at the worst time ever. The one time I'm trying to concentrate on not looking like a lunatic, she has to say something. Why continue on with such hurtful things? I never meant for this to happen.

That man, Milly,
Amelia chants in my mind.
That man Keith. You must get out of here and find out who he is.

I try my hardest not to focus on anything she's blurting out in my mind, but she's making it really difficult for me to pay attention to the group. She gets so loud in my mind that I have to excuse myself.
Milly, you must get us out of here and find him.
I stand up and feel light-headed.

“Okay, but please come back to the group when you can,” Grant says.

I race to my room and try to compose myself there, taking a few deep breaths. Nothing seems to work until I look outside again.

“Look, Amelia,” I say, staring outside the glass window, “you need to calm down, just stop. There's nothing I can do about it in here. Don't you want this to stop too?” Nothing. She says nothing. So I continue to talk to her through the glass. And as I do, I see her reflection. She's sad and confused. Just as I am. And for the first time, I realize she isn't the bad guy here. No one is. I want to get out of here. And once I'm out, hopefully I will build up the courage to call the unknown man. I will find out how my parents died. And I want to know why I'm sick. I want to know a lot of things. But I can't do anything until I get myself well first. Right now I'm trapped.

As I whisper to her, I hear a knock at the door.

“Is everything okay, Amelia?” the little old nurse says.

I turn around and tell her yes.

“Okay then, please go back to the group. At ten-thirty there will be occupational therapy.”

“I'll be right there.”

When she leaves I look back at my reflection and I no longer see Amelia. Instead all I see is the metal netting. It's a constant reminder I am trapped inside this hospital. But I also remind myself that it's only temporary. I just have to comply with the rules, take my meds, and go to all the groups and I will be out of here. I make a promise to myself—and to Amelia. I will get us healthy. I will call that Keith guy. And I will figure out this mystery surrounding my parents' death.

Chapter Twenty-three

It's like being in kindergarten all over again when it comes to occupational therapy. The assignment for today, my third day on Five South, is to make a collage of the things that you like by ripping out pictures from various magazines. God forbid they give us scissors. Oddly enough though, I am finding it soothing to sift through the pictures and articles and being able to do something to kill the time.

As I thumb through the magazines, I come across a picture of a cat and think of Jinks, so I rip it out and glue it onto the poster board. I do sincerely hope Aunt Rachel's taking good care of him. If only I could be a cat, oh the life I would have. All the love and attention from your owner and being able to snooze on a sunlit windowpane—I would so enjoy that.

I see Heather across from me ripping out pictures of flowers and a small girl with blonde hair running through a field of grass. Maybe it reminds her of Bella.

Sitting kitty-corner from me is the young girl with the pasty hair, still thumbing through the array of magazines. It must be hard for her. To go from attempting suicide to making a collage of what you like. It's hard to make that transition. I imagine myself at my lowest and think of how difficult it is to carry on. As the days pass, I do feel better—stronger in mind, like I'm not thinking as much, if that's even possible. I'm still weak from just starting out on the medication, but my mind's sharper. I can feel it.

“Now, everyone, be sure to pick out all the wonderful things you enjoy,” the therapist says. She's amazingly happy and smiles constantly like a host for a children's program. Barney comes to mind. She's even wearing purple. Maybe she thinks if she's happy it will rub off on us. Or maybe she just has a good life, who knows?

Off in the other corner, Gregg the OCD patient is having a hard time too. He's distracted by the outdoors. He focuses on a bird perched on a branch in the garden outside the hospital. I imagine what he's thinking. Maybe he yearns to be outside like I do. Maybe he wants to fly like the bird, be free. He did mention in one of our groups earlier that he used to be a pilot and that when he was little he'd collect model airplanes.

Most of us are tearing out pictures, but a few are not. As I sift through all my photos, looking at the garden scene I found in
Better Homes and Gardens,
the gravestone comes to mind.
I must find out why my grandmother is buried in Aunt Rachel's garden.

I think of my grandfather again. Finally one of the nurses told me he's being treated for a heart attack. I'm eager to get out and see him again.

Vague memories of him sitting all secluded in his bedroom come to mind. Maybe he was mourning my grandmother. Or perhaps my mother. There's been so much death in our family, how could it not weigh heavily on his mind? I never really knew what it was he was thinking about. He never talked about it.

My thoughts shift to the dreams about my parents, and the man with the covered face. They felt so real, like it wasn't a dream.

I turn the pages of the magazine and see an old man, like my grandfather. Images of him breaking down in the library the night before his heart attack cloud my mind. He was sobbing over me. It's almost like he knew something was wrong with me. Was that possible? I'd never thought about that before. Perhaps Aunt Rachel knew too. Is that why they were at odds with each other? Was it all because of me? Maybe my mental illness was the thing Grandpa George didn't want to talk about. He never really did scold me or talk to me heart-to-heart about anything. He was just always distant.

Eleven-fifteen a.m. and already the class is almost over. I wonder what kind of meeting or session we'll have next. From the schedule posted up on the wall by the nurses' station, all I remember is the meal times; breakfast at eight, lunch at noon, and dinner at five. All of which I dread. Another fifteen minutes to go and then limbo for a half an hour till we eat crap again.

The therapist wraps it up and now wants everyone to say something about their collage. To my surprise the young girl stands up and says something first.

“I couldn't do it. This was a stupid idea to begin with and a big waste of time.” She gives the teacher stone-cold looks like she could zap her with her eyes. I wonder what made her so bitter in the first place. Maybe she hasn't gotten anyone to come up and visit her. She just seems like she gave up completely and is now being held against her will.

“It's okay that you didn't do the project. It was just nice of you to join us,” the therapist says. I wish they'd say that in school. Man, every time I didn't want to do something, I did it anyway, for fear of not getting a passing grade. Being here is somewhat like that. I mean, if you don't do what you're supposed to do, your hospital stay will just be longer. Maybe even worse; maybe they would move you to somewhere more permanent. At least that's what Heather told me.

Class now over, everyone heads for the door and lines up like little children ready to go out for recess. My mind is free and clear of Amelia. She's been silent for a while and it's refreshing not to hear her negative speech about this and that.

I have thirty minutes to lie down before we scarf our faces down with that mystery food, so I go to my room.

I head to the bed, wiped out already and it's not even noon. The sheets are stiff and bleached clean but the rays of sunlight spreading across the room make the blankets comfortable and warm. And after crawling in, I fall asleep easily.

***

It smells like sulfur from a lit match. I can tell something's burning somewhere. Everything is dark but I am not afraid, though I am curious. I walk around, trying not to bump into anything. When I raise my hands up to the wall, I feel the heat bubbling underneath the paint. Where am I?

I get to the door, but the knob is so hot it almost feels frozen—a freezing type of burn—so I leave it alone. When I turn around, I see a window in the wall. But what's strange about it is when I look through the glass, I'm looking from the outside in. Everything's turned around.

As I peek inside, I notice drawings on the wall. The pictures are all the same—two little girls colored in blue and yellow with dark wavy hair. They're standing under a pink tree. It's a magnolia tree. More flashes go through my mind and I can feel something in my hand. When I look down, I see that it's a purple crayon. I look back at the pictures again and see there's something written underneath one of them. I focus my eyes and, strangely enough, I'm back in the room again, looking at the pictures up close. Goose bumps sweep over my body at what I see. Under the girl on the left, it says Milly and the girl on the right, it says…Amelia. I realize this was my room at one point in my life. I am starting to vaguely remember.

I hear laughter coming from outside. From the looks of it, people are out there—two men and a woman. I can clearly see that the woman is my mother. She is looking down at the ground but it's too dark to see what she's staring at. The two men are standing with their backs turned to the window. They are all standing there with their heads down. What are they looking at?

I move in for a closer look and suddenly my nose touches glass. I'm back behind the window again. It's the only thing that's not hot to the touch. But once I open it, a plume of smoke waterfalls over the windowsill and gathers at my feet. Quickly everything turns to gray. I'm trapped inside again. I can no longer see and can barely breathe as the smoke fills my lungs. But there's something else. Someone is walking toward me.

He takes my hand and begins to drag me away.

I resist, afraid I will drown in the smoke, but he is too strong for me. Then all of a sudden the smoke clears and everything and everyone is gone. All is white and I am alone floating in the light. Am I dying?

Things start to come into focus again. I'm above a house, yet it isn't the house I've always been dreaming about. I see a familiar oak tree and I realize that it is my grandfather's old home—the one that recently burned down. I am flying above it like a cloud and as I drift I see someone in the window. It's my old bedroom window.

Peering inside, I see that it's my grandfather. He's sitting there reading the newspaper and smoking a cigar. He looks quite relaxed. He crinkles the paper away from his face and looks right at me. At first I am startled, but then we smile at each other. He lifts his hand up as I drift passed the window. He is waving…waving good-bye.

That's when I wake up.