The Finer Points of Becoming Machine (7 page)

I take my seat in group therapy, telling myself that all I have to do is act normal and nice, and after a few days, everything will be OK. If I can just figure out what
normal
is…

Instead of Dr X walking in though, another man in a white coat comes in and introduces himself as Dr Murphy. I frown. Dr X is who I need to convince to let me out of the hospital, not this other mystery doctor. I tap my fingers anxiously on my knees as I wait for everyone to finish shuffling papers and changing seats, so they can sit by their
friends
in here. I shake my head. Even in a mental hospital, it’s still like high school. I don’t even fit in with the
crazy
people.

The session starts. It takes a great deal more effort than I initially thought it would to try to keep my usual, disdainful expression from my face. It’s particularly difficult when I have to listen to things I don’t consider important. For example, almost anything to do with anyone else my age.

I remind myself of my newfound goal though, and I try hard to listen to everyone else as they talk, and keep my attention from turning inward.

It gets to be my turn in this circle-jerk pity party, and I begin a semi-rehearsed diatribe of woe-is-me teenage angst over my parents’ divorce. Even though I didn’t care about it much in the first place, and I certainly don’t care about it now. I need
something
to talk about, because I just want to get the hell out of this place.

I don’t even really listen to what I’m saying, I’m just copying a lot of what the other patients were saying – how I want to live, how I am just depressed about my family and I don’t know how to deal with it,
blah blah blah. Everyone seems to buy it, and Dr Murphy makes notes and approving grunts. Thankfully, my turn passes and I breathe an inward sigh of relief. One down, eight more of these to go, I tell myself. I’m planning on it taking about seventy two hours to undo the damage I had done initially when I got here, with that whole tree-throwing incident.

I catch myself crossing my arms and scowling midway through one girl’s speech about her third suicide attempt. It’s unbearable when she starts to talk about how she didn’t have any friends at school, and how that was her major depressive trigger. And then she starts sobbing, can you believe it? She’s sobbing because she’s not popular. Give me strength!

Remembering my plan, I change my expression to one of
faux
concern and uncross my arms, despite the fact I think she’s a shallow moron. I’m unsure what to do with my arms, so I end up just folding my hands neatly in my lap. My toes trace circles on the floor with nervous energy.

Dr Murphy asks everyone to brainstorm
constructive ideas on dealing with stress
in response to this girl’s question on how to deal with stress.

Almost everyone volunteers a thought, most of them taken from the generic list of ideas on our nearly identical treatment plans – you know, the pieces of paper that say dumb shit about gardening and calling your friends if you’re feeling upset or stressed out or suicidal that day.

I panic when I realise I can’t think of something that someone hasn’t already said, and it’s my turn to give a suggestion. And since I’m not in a waking coma, or too drugged out to answer, Dr Murphy expects a contribution from me.

Think Emma, think… What do normal people do?
Cookie cutter people
.

‘Uh, play with your dog,’ I finally blurt out.

A snicker escapes Ricky’s lips and he
quickly tries to hide it as a cough when Dr Murphy’s head snaps towards him, glaring at him for laughing at me. Ricky continues to pretend-cough, and even starts to pat his chest until Dr Murphy seems satisfied that he is not laughing at me.

The predictably lame group session ends. I’m sweating. Is it really
that
hard for me to act like a normal person? Then I notice that everyone else is pushing up their sleeves and fanning themselves with their journals. I gather that for once, instead of it being freezing cold in here, the heater must be working. I am relieved to discover that I haven’t looked weird or awkward to everyone else.

Ricky comes and sits next to me. ‘Play with puppies?’ he asks, and laughs at me.

I scowl at him, not appreciating his sense of humour and cross my arms. ‘No. I
said
play with your
dog
.’

‘Oh come on Emma. What was that all about?’

‘Uh, well, I decided after talking to my father today that I should, um, start trying to get better.’

Ricky’s eyes widen. ‘Dude, your
dad
came here?’

Aw crap, I think to myself when I realise that he’s going to keep asking questions. The only reason I’m letting this conversation even start is in the hope that the staff will notice I’m conversing with other patients and write it up in their notes.

‘Yes Ricky, he came by,’ I say, already bored.

‘Well? How’d it go?’ he asks, settling into his chair like he’s hoping for the lengthy explanation that I just won’t give him.

‘It went fine. We uh, ya know, hashed some stuff out and everything is OK.’

Ricky eyes me suspiciously. ‘And that’s it?’

‘Yup. That’s it,’ I answer, nodding for greater effect.

Ricky decides to test my story. ‘OK, well, what did you guys talk about?’

‘Stuff,’ I tell him. We glare at each other like gunfighters from the old West, and I realise that now we’re in some sort of stupid staring contest. Perhaps Ricky imagines that somehow he is going to be able to make me tell him the truth. I smirk.

Ricky is not going to win this; I’ve perfected the art of the staring contest. In life, most people don’t actually look you in the eye, and it makes them uncomfortable when someone does it to them.

Ricky finally concedes, as I knew he would. ‘Fine then. Don’t tell me,’ he says, and storms off.

Left blissfully alone, my thoughts switch from getting out of the hospital, to my mom and step-dad. What have they told my friends about me?

I think back to the night I tried to kill myself. I remember very vaguely the fire trucks with their flashing sirens, and the ambulances, and the swarm of people who descended upon the house, intent on saving me from myself.

I live in a small town, on a small street, and news tends to travel fast in places like that. I know that everyone who knows me, knows my family, and hell, even those who didn’t know
any
of us, will have heard hints, rumours, and allegations.

I feel suddenly bad. What kind of hell is Mom going through? No wonder she’s embarrassed by me. She has tried so hard after the divorce to appear normal to everyone, and here I am, a daughter who refuses to conform, who is depressed all the time, and finally tried to kill herself.

Is everyone looking at them like they are bad parents? Have they gone back to work? I suddenly see Mom, hopelessly crying on the couch, unable to go back to her job out of sorrow and sheer embarrassment.

What about my step-dad, a man who married a woman with two kids, so poor they could barely feed themselves? He has never complained about inheriting kids with some severe emotional issues. He has really tried hard to be understanding, even though he can never grasp what we’ve been through. And this is how I am repaying him.

Another thought hits me. I am worried that the insurance won’t pay for this, and somehow my parents will have to come up with thousands of dollars to cover my selfish stint in this hospital.

I can’t blame everything on my parents. I am old enough to reason, to drive a car, to make choices for myself. I
chose
to try to end my life, because I chose
not
to confront my problems and get beyond them. I’m not sure how exactly I was supposed to deal with my problems. Nobody in my family had wanted to admit that there ever
was
a problem.

I am starting to get very nervous about leaving this place. Do my parents still love
me? What kind of restrictions are going to be placed on me when I get out of here?

I sigh to myself when I realise that my panicked, worried parents are going to put me under a very close watch. I can pretty much rule out any sort of social life whatsoever, for God only knows how long. And then there is my father…

Will he want to be an active part of my life, now that I have threatened to take it? Is he guilt-stricken the way Mom most likely is? Does the thought even cross his mind that he had anything to do with this? Does he ever actually feel anything at all?
Ever
?

Now I feel irritated with myself; instead of focusing on
my
feelings, and how the events of the past were poisoning
me
, I am more concerned with how everyone else is.

Slowly but surely I am starting to see past the years of brainwashing that goes on when you grow up in an abusive home. And one of the biggest games that had been
played with my mind was to have me grow up thinking that everything was my fault.

I was told, over and over, that if I was only smarter, faster, prettier, better behaved, less selfish, that my mom wouldn’t get hit. And that I wouldn’t
deserve
to be hit.

I can see so clearly right now; no child ever deserves to go through all that. Something has clicked inside me, and I can feel a sense of righteous anger building up in me.

OK, fine. I am going to get out of here, because this place is a goddamned joke. I am already at the point where I know what is going to be said in this group therapy session or that one, and in the counselling sessions. I have nothing more to learn from these people.

I’m not bitter. Everyone here means well. This place has been like a safety net for me. It has allowed me time to explore my inner feelings, and Dr X has encouraged me – you could say he’s forced me – to deal with the
past. And these are all great things, really, so I’m grateful in a way.

But the biggest issue for me to confront is something that no group therapy session will ever help with. I am going to have to be honest with my parents.

So I have made a decision. I am not going to let myself be manipulated any more. No one will make me blame myself for what my mom went through, or for whatever caused my father to become abusive in the first place.

I have also made a decision. When I get out of here, after my parents are done screaming, yelling, crying, or grounding me (or maybe even all of those things), I am going to sit them down. I am finally going to be honest with them and tell them exactly what caused me to feel like I had to end my life. If I have to face the past, then they are going to have to, too.

I sit in Dr X’s office, waiting for him to show up for our appointment. As I wait, I draw intricate spirals on a blank page in my journal.

At last the door opens. To my surprise Dr Murphy hurries in. I am shocked and disappointed and don’t try to hide the fact.

Dr Murphy walks around to Dr X’s desk and sits in his chair. I am irritated by his assumption of that chair; the one that belongs to
my
doctor, not to him.

Dr Murphy has my file, and begins to explain that Dr X isn’t here today because
of a family emergency. I start to tune him out, but doing that isn’t going to help my case. I take a deep breath and calm myself.

Dr Murphy goes through a series of questions, checking them off as he asks them. He writes short notes underneath the questions, ‘to give to Dr X, later’.

I can reply to most of the questions with short answers. Are you feeling suicidal today? No. How are you sleeping? Fine. Are you having any problems with your medications? No. Are you following your treatment plan? Yes. Do you have any questions about your treatment plan? No.

After about ten minutes, without even looking at me, Dr Murphy ends the session. I walk out of the office confused, and to be honest, kind of hurt. I watch a string of patients go in and out of that door the way I did. I feel slighted by the way that man has treated me. Like I am just another thing to deal with on his list of daily chores.

I remember how my father had done that to me when I was growing up, and how much it had hurt me. Half the time, when he talked to me, I warranted so little of his attention that he didn’t even look up at me. Dr Murphy had inadvertently done the same thing to me in our session.

Logic tells me that he has most likely been thrown into doing the individual counselling sessions at the last minute. That still doesn’t make me feel better though. Just as it hadn’t made me feel better when my mom had tried to defend my father’s constant dismissal of me as a child.

I feel horribly, inexplicably alone all of a sudden, even though I am in a room full of people. I remember the pay phone in the hallway, and picking up my journal I walk over to it. My heart races as I stare at the phone. Since I’m not allowed to have my cell phone in here, I can’t remember any of my friends’ phone numbers. I try to think of someone I can call.

I pick up the phone and carefully dial
the only phone number I can remember. The phone rings and rings. Eventually, the familiar voice of my mother comes down the line.

‘Hi, I’m not in right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’ The machine beeps for me to leave a message, but a lump has come to my throat, and I don’t dare speak for fear of crying. I hang up the receiver and walk back, head down, to the group room.

I watch the frenzy of activity around me – people scurrying here and there, to the bathroom, to the doctor’s office, to get something from their room, to rifle through magazines and old books with missing pages on the beaten-up bookshelf. Desperate, I look for Ricky and find him, playing draughts with some kid whose name I don’t know.

I start to feel very sorry for myself. I remember going to school as a kid and how I could never seem to make many friends, or keep the ones I did make. Kids do stupid things to each other, like get into fights
and call each other names. But for some reason I considered all of these things acts of treachery that should not go unpunished. I ended up isolating myself then, just as I have done here. The truth is though, I don’t actually
like
anyone in this place. It’s just that right now, I don’t want to be alone. I am exhausted; tired of thinking, tired of pretending, tired of trying to trick people, and so
very
tired of the thoughts warring inside my brain.

I have a very bad headache that has come on quickly. I close my eyes and rub the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. I stop when I recall that I’ve seen Dr X do the same thing. I feel betrayed by him not being here for me today. I know that he has to have some sort of life outside of the hospital, but I just expected that Dr X would be there, working with me until I left. Now I am worrying that he won’t be. It’s a juvenile thought, but a genuine worry.

I have a curious mix of fear, revulsion and respect for Dr X. He has seen through me and demanded that I give him the truth.
And I have argued with him, lied to him, and resented him for making me be honest with myself as well as him. I resent him for bringing up the past and for making me deal with it.

Now I’m blaming Dr X for the way I am; stuck in here, isolated from everyone. I’m muttering to myself. Stupid doctor with his stupid speeches about getting well. I’m not really making any sense but still feel better, complaining about Dr X and blaming my current state on him. In the end I let out a long sigh. I know I can’t blame Dr X for me being in this state. I’m just sulking.

After a while I tire of being alone with myself and walk over to the nurses’ desk. I ask for drawing supplies and after a few moments get a plastic box filled with crayons, pastels and a few pencils. I sit in a chair, next to the dirty cruddy windows with the steel inside them, trying to figure out what to draw. I frown. Nothing inspires me in here. I look out of the window again, and suddenly breathe in sharply. The sun is shining through a wet, leafless tree, in
the middle of the courtyard. I have never noticed this tree before, since right across the courtyard is another wing of this hospital and usually I am trying to peer through the windows to see what’s going on over there.

The tree looks almost black, and its branches, bare and almost skeletal, stretch up and out, towards the sun. I silently thank the tree for being there, and I grab a pencil from the box. I’m going to draw that tree.

I spend most of the afternoon sketching the tree, using swift strokes of the soft pastels to show more of the contrast between the darkness of the tree, and the green of the soggy grass around it. Finally, I stare at my picture. I frown. It sucks. It looks nothing like the beautiful tree outside. That tree, despite being bare and stripped down, seems to be reaching out for sunlight to a sky that has granted only rain for days.

I admire that tree and consider it my kin. That tree has probably struggled through dry seasons, and too much rain, and been stripped down by the seasons of
life, but is still standing. And still reaching for the light.

OK, so maybe I’m not an artist, but I
can
write, and I want to get that thought down. I tuck the crappy drawing of the tree inside of my journal and flip to a blank page.

I turn to another page in my journal and, inspired by the tree, I realise that I don’t have any hobbies that don’t involve minor infractions of the law. Drinking, ditching school and having sex aren’t considered healthy hobbies. Let’s face it; they’re not hobbies at all. But they have been my only interests.

I remember the generic list in one of the leaflets, of
healthy activities
to do if you get stressed out after you are discharged from the hospital. I decide to make up one of my own. The problem is, I can’t really think of anything that I want to do. So I try to think about what I am at least
interested
in.

Music. I love music. I spent hours listening to it when I wasn’t in this place. Suddenly, I
want to listen to music so badly that I feel like crying. I sigh, and sadly write the word
music
under my list of hobbies that I want to pursue when I get out of here.

I chew on my pencil, deep in thought. I am really,
really
, having a hard time figuring out what I enjoy doing. I note with some sadness that I can’t remember the last time I really enjoyed anything. It is almost as if I’ve existed behind a plate of glass, watching other people live and laugh and feel, and being incapable of doing it myself.
That’s what machines do. Machines do lots of things, but they don’t feel.

A new fear overtakes me, one that I can honestly say I can’t remember feeling before.
What if I can’t change? What if this is how I will always be? I’ve turned myself into a machine, but can I turn myself back? Can I become a human again?

I am suddenly very worried that I am going to be stuck this way – miserable, alone, unhappy, and incapable of feeling much of anything. I think about the meds I am on,
and realise that I’ve come to appreciate them for the sense of calm they are giving me. Am I just trying to drug myself so that I don’t feel anything? Isn’t that what the meds are designed to do after all?

I feel dizzy. Too many thoughts in my head and it’s getting hard to breathe. Life suddenly seems to be a large, looming monster, one that I cannot deal with. Panic starts to overtake me as I begin to hyperventilate. Just as my erratic breathing is becoming noticeable to others, I happen to turn my head and notice the tree.

I make the slightest whimpering noise at the sight of it standing there, and I remember. I remember that the tree stands, despite the storms that it has weathered. My breathing slows back to normal, and I just focus on that tree until I feel calm again.

OK Emma. You’re OK. Everything is going to be OK. You’re going to be like the tree, Emma
, I tell myself. I whisper so that I don’t look like a total weirdo to anyone who might be watching.

You’re going to be just fine. You’re going to get through this. If the tree is still standing, you can do the same thing…

It doesn’t quite make sense; not in a linear, logical,
machine
sort of way, my fascination with this tree. But in a very
human
sort of way, my newfound love for the tree does make sense. I really
am
going to be like that tree.

I smile to myself. I, a
machine
, have fallen in love with a tree. I laugh softly when I think how silly it sounds, but it makes me happy. I have found something that makes sense to me, sets an example for me to follow. And even if it’s just a tree, well, I like that. I have at least begun to think like a human again.