The Finer Points of Becoming Machine (8 page)

So begins my journal entry this
morning
. I woke up in a foul mood, for reasons I am unsure of. I think it is a combination of mental and physical exhaustion, plus the fact that I woke, shivering, before the lights were on. The heating had gone off again.

Once again the familiar cycle of wake, shower, go to the main room, eat, take meds, and sit through group therapy has started. I am beginning to understand why
anyone who has been in here for any length of time has turned into what I call a
zombie
. This place drains the life out of you; it is even becoming a chore to move. Certainly, it is taking much more energy than I had thought it would to pretend that everything is
OK
, and that I am doing
better
.

Truth be told, even though I have enjoyed the protective environment that being in the hospital has offered, that feeling has grown old and stale. I want my clothes back; I want my make-up and – most of all – I want my music back.

I sit in the chair, waiting for my meeting with Dr X. Well, I hope it will be Dr X, not the other doctor who had casually dismissed me yesterday. If it is going to be Dr X, he is late – it is ten past our meeting time and still he isn't here.

Just as I start to think that the meeting is going to be cancelled, Dr X rushes in, dropping files and folders along the way.

‘Goddammit!' he says loudly, and I jump
in the chair, startled.

I help him pick up the files and folders, and carry them to his desk.

‘Thank you, Emma,' he says to me, and hopelessly pushes the assortment of papers to one side of his desk. I assume he'll sort through them later.

He opens my file and takes a few minutes to read it. I sit across from him, on my hands to keep them warm, swinging my legs. I notice the picture of his family and remember that he hadn't been here yesterday because of a family emergency. I am suddenly worried about them, for some unknown reason.

‘Hey Dr X, um, is everything OK?' I ask him.

He looks up at me, startled. ‘Huh?' he says back. He hasn't heard what I said.

‘They told me you weren't here yesterday because of an emergency. Is everything OK?'

Recognition crosses his face and Dr X half smiles at me. ‘Everything is fine, my wife slipped in the shower and bumped her head pretty badly. Thanks for asking, Emma.'

I smile back and wait for him to finish reading. I suddenly become nervous and hope that Dr Murphy has said good things about me. I start to chew on my fingernails.

Dr X raises his eyebrows in surprise as he reads. I can only guess at what is written in my file. After what seems like an eternity, he looks up at me.

‘Well. Seems you're doing much better, Emma. You're participating more in group sessions, focusing on your treatment plan, writing in your journal, doing your classwork. That's very good.'

He pauses and adjusts his glasses before his gaze turns razor sharp, so that it seems to cut right through me.

I know what he is doing. He is trying to see if I'm faking. I politely smile as our eyes meet.

‘So, Emma. How are you feeling?'

For a split second, I want to tell Dr X about the meeting with my father, and how my father had told me to say and do whatever I had to do to get out of here. But I don't.

‘I'm doing a lot better, Doc. Really trying to, uh, you know, deal with my issues and stuff.'

As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I want to kick myself. I'm not speaking with the poise and grace that I have practised.

Dr X continues to look straight at me. He leans back in his chair and taps his pen on the desk. He seems to be mulling something over.

‘Well, that's very good,' he says at last. ‘What do you think is helping you feel better?'

I open my mouth to speak then think better of it. I hadn't really planned for this question. I haven't been expecting it. Damn him.

‘Well, I think the medication is helping. I've been eating more, which, um, is helping. And I've been sleeping better, so that's good too. Um, I also talked to both of my parents, and they're very supportive of me and are going to help me when I get out of here.'

Dr X doesn't move. I'm not sure if I've messed up or not. I freeze beneath his icy stare.

‘You've talked to
both
of your parents,' he says. I think I know where he is going with this.

‘Yes. My father came to visit me the other day.'

‘Yes, I know Emma. How did that go?'

Again, it occurs to me that I should tell the truth. That I am confused about my
father; that I don't know what to think, and that I feel like a jerk for trying to kill myself and embarrassing my family. But, I didn't say any of that. I just tell Dr X what I think he wants to hear.

‘We both decided that we should let go of the past and start a new relationship together. He says that he wants to support me when I get out of here and spend more time with me.'

‘And is that OK with you, Emma?' Dr X asks. He makes little notes in my file as we talk.

‘Yep,' I say.

Dr X considers my answer. Then he flips through my chart and begins to re-read it. He's taking his time, reading and re-reading stuff, and making little notes. What the hell is he doing?

Dr X looks at me again, and sighs. ‘Well Emma, it would
appear
that you are doing better. The nurses, orderlies and other
hospital staff have made notes to that effect. You're co-operating more, and you're becoming more social as well.'

Dr X paused for effect.

‘
However,
I must admit I am slightly suspicious of this sudden turn for the better.'

He pauses again. I can't move. I want to scream. Instead, I'm just sitting here, silently. Dr X continues.

‘As a general rule it takes more than just a few days for a patient to show the level of change that your progress reports are suggesting. Makes me wonder…'

Dr X pauses again. It's clear that there's more he wants to say, but he just sighs and shakes his head. Eventually he continues.

‘The fact is, I cannot keep you here based on just a hunch, Emma. I've already spoken with both of your parents, and they do seem very supportive of you, and more
than willing to continue to help you with your treatment plan when you get out of the hospital.'

Dr X watches me, looking for a reaction. I don't have much of one. I'm not quite sure what Dr X is saying. One minute he seems to be implying that he doesn't believe me, the next minute he says that he can't keep me here. I'm confused, to say the least.

‘Do you understand what I'm telling you Emma?' Dr X asks.

I shake my head. ‘No. I don't.'

Dr X nods. ‘I'm sure this must be very confusing for you Emma. What I'm trying to tell you is that
personally
I think you should stay here a little bit longer. However, according to hospital protocol, you are ready to be discharged.'

I'm sitting very still, not moving. Dr X notices my lack of movement and continues to spell out to me what he's saying.

‘Emma. I can't keep you here any longer.'

I feel like a rush of cold air has hit me. I shiver as I take a deep, long breath. And I just can't help myself. I smile.

Dr X doesn't return my smile however, so I quickly stop.

‘Off the record, Emma, I'm very concerned about you. I know you haven't been honest with me since you've been here. I have my ideas as to why you hide your true self away, but I cannot prove anything. I really mean this in a nice way, Emma, but I hope I never see you again.'

I frown when Dr X says he doesn't want to see me again, before I realise what he actually means. He isn't stupid, he has seen through my act. But I'm not throwing trees at anyone or refusing to co-operate, so he's powerless to do much of anything to keep me from leaving the hospital. And when he says he doesn't want to see me again, it's just because if he does, it most likely means that I have tried to kill
myself again. He really
does
mean it in a nice way.

‘I understand Doc. You won't see me again.'

Our eyes meet, and he's sending me an unspoken message. Something along the lines of
I know that you know that I know that you're still screwed up, and I'm trying to tell you to take care of yourself
. I want to laugh because that sounds like a line from some stupid comedy show or something, but I just nod quietly. Dr X nods back at me. He knows that he's got his point across.

Dr X breaks the silence. ‘I am going to recommend you for discharge, Emma. If everything continues to go well, your parents can most likely pick you up tomorrow morning. I will speak to them today and inform them of your progress and our intent to discharge you. You just take good care of yourself, Emma.'

I am suddenly aware of the fact that I am going to miss Dr X very much. My eyes
begin to tear up. I am confused. I should be very happy, but instead I am afraid. And sad.

Dr X smiles to reassure me. ‘You're as tough as nails, Emma. You'll be fine.'

I can't talk. A lump is forming in my throat. I swallow hard and run a hand through my hair. And straighten my back. I am
not
going to cry.

‘Thanks for everything Doc,' I say, getting to my feet.

Dr X is already sorting through the stack of papers on his desk. He looks up at me. ‘You're welcome, Emma. You can go now.'

I feel I want to say something else to him, but I don't really know what. In the end though, I keep it simple.

‘Bye Doc,' I say. And that's it. That's all I can find to say to the man who has probably helped me more than anyone else in my whole life. Even so, I think Dr X understands
what I am trying to say. I look at him and realise how tired he is. I'm suddenly more grateful than ever for having met him.

‘Goodbye Emma,' Dr X answers. And then he's back to his mountain of paperwork, getting ready for the next patient.

I walk calmly to the bathroom and as soon as the door is shut behind me, I start to cry. I'm crying because I am afraid, and because I've never been very good at goodbyes. And this goodbye is permanent. It has to be.

Slowly, my tears stop. Excitement begins to well up in my chest as I remember that I am getting the hell out of here. I smile and giggle to myself. It dawns on me that I have been in the bathroom for quite some time, so I quickly wash my face to erase any evidence of tears that might still remain.

When I walk back to the group room, Ricky walks over to me and sits down. It's OK though; not even Ricky's constant but well-meaning pestering can bother me right now.

‘Well you look chipper today. What's going on Emma?' he asks.

A smile stretches from ear to ear across my face, and I know that I am going to be OK. I am tough as nails. I am going to make it.

‘I'm going home Ricky.'

My mom and I are arguing. I think this one started over my refusal to wear clothing in any colour other than black. I’m sitting on the bathroom floor and crying, with my head in my hands. My mom has hit me, and she tried to get me to hit her back. My refusal to do so has only angered her even more. I know she’s going to twist the story to make it sound like it’s my fault. She’s screaming at me and I have my hands clamped over my ears to muffle the sound.

‘What do you want Emma? What do you want? Do you want to go live with your father? I CAN’T DO THIS ANY MORE WITH YOU!’

I stop crying like a switch has been flipped. Very calmly, I lock eyes with my mother and I say what I need to say in a single simple sentence.

‘If you send me to live with that abusive asshole again, I
am
going to kill myself…’

I wake up and frown. Why in the hell have I dreamt about
that
argument with my mom? I’m not really angry about it – I knew she’d never send me to live with him, and I know she is frustrated because her daughter is a depressed mess. I didn’t blame her for her reaction then. So why am I dreaming about it now?

I don’t have much time to ponder the reason for this unpleasant reverie, because the lights are turned on and I begin the process of getting dressed. I shake off the memory as being just another nightmare and decide that I am
not
going to be in a bad mood today. Today is the day that I am going home and I am so excited I can barely stand it.

Of course, I am still nervous and unsure of what to expect when I get home. But whatever happens, it is bound to be better than being here. I mean, it
has
to be better than here, right?

I join everyone else in the main room and eat a breakfast that is just slightly warm – not burnt or rubbery for a change. I consider it to be a good omen, a sign that things
are
indeed changing. And for the better.

I am practically humming to myself when I get in line for my meds. The water feels cool in my mouth, not tepid like it usually is. Yet another good sign that things are going to start going my way.

I sit in my final group therapy session, and even talk about my excitement at getting out of the hospital. And what it will be like to begin rebuilding relationships with my family. And how I’m going to explore healthy, creative outlets for my emotions when I get out of here. And you know what? I’m not pretending. I am completely serious about trying to become a healthy, sane human
being. I’ve had enough of being sick, tired, and most of all,
a machine
.

After group therapy, when everyone is busy waiting their turn to file into Dr X’s office for their private therapy and assessments, a kindly nurse comes over to me. She explains that my parents are going to be picking me up at noon.

Excitedly, I go to my room to pack my few belongings into the plastic bag she’s given me. Really, the only things I am taking are the Bible my father had given me and my journal. I think for a moment about
not
taking the journal, just throwing it away. But I decide against it. It is a testament to my decision to get better.

I finish packing and give the bag to the nurse. She takes it up to the front desk to hold for me until I am discharged from the hospital.

The last few hours before noon seem to drag by so slowly that at times it feels like the clock isn’t moving at all.

At noon I am called to the front desk, where my mom is waiting for me. I smile, run up to her and hug her. She hugs me back, but it doesn’t feel quite the way I remembered. I frown. She feels a little stiff and uncomfortable. She’s never hugged me like that before. Or have I just been in here for so long that I have forgotten? God, is she mad at me for some reason? A twinge of nervousness runs through me, settling in my stomach.

‘Hi Mom,’ I say, and it comes out almost like a question. To my relief, she doesn’t seem angry at me. Maybe a little sad, but not angry.

‘Hi Emma. Let’s get you home, OK?’ she says. She brushes my cheek softly with the back of a finger. For once, I don’t care if anyone sees me being affectionate with my mom. In fact, I desperately
want
people to see it. Then they will see that I am loved, and that I am not a freak.

My mom has brought a change of clothes for me. I go back to my room to strip out of
the hospital clothing and slip into something that is more, well,
me
.

My mom has brought me a black t-shirt, my favorite black hoodie sweatshirt and sneakers and blue jeans. I frown. Where in the
hell
had she found blue jeans that belonged to me? I don’t even remember ever
owning
a pair of blue jeans. But still, it’s better than the hospital clothing that I’m tearing off at lightspeed.

I dress in record time and run down the hall, throwing the dirty clothes in the laundry bin in the hallway.
Good riddance
, I mutter as I toss them in, running back up the hallway to meet with my mom again. She is busy signing my discharge paperwork.

I see the nurse hand her a folder of paperwork and a brown paper bag with my meds in it. The nurse is explaining what I am taking and how often. My mom glances at me briefly, just the once, and when she does, she wears an expression that I can’t identify. Is she ashamed of me? I begin to chew on my fingers. I am anxious, just
wanting to get the hell out of here. Suddenly I am overcome with a feeling that I am
never
going to leave this place; that this is all some elaborate trick, and that my mom is going to leave without me.

At last, when I can stand it no longer, the nurse is done talking, and my mom picks up the folder and the bag. My mom hands the bag to me.

‘Hold these Emma,’ she says, all
matter-of-fact
. I peer up at her suspiciously. This is just not like her.

‘Mom, why are you acting weird? Do you still love me?’ I ask her quietly.

My mom stops walking and looks me square in the eyes. ‘Emma, I will
always
,
always
love you. That will never change, OK? I’ve just had a rough week too.’

I feel only slightly relieved, because now I feel guilty as hell. I sigh and carry on walking down the hallway, next to my mom.

We walk out of the building, towards the parking lot. When we get to the car, I stop and turn to look back at the hospital. Then, I look up at the sky. There are some clouds, but there are beautiful streaks of blue, breaking up the monotony of the grey. I look to the distance and see dark storm clouds rolling slowly towards us.

My mom interrupts my thoughts. ‘Come on, Emma. It’s supposed to rain again, and I want to get home before the weather gets too bad.’

I get into the car. We drive home with the radio on, so neither of us has to talk. I fidget, nervously. Finally, I can’t stand the silence between us any more.

‘I’m sorry Mom. Please don’t hate me,’ I blurt out.

‘Emma, I
don’t
hate you honey. Please stop saying that. Just… you need to understand… that this is going to take some time to get over. And things are going to be different when you get home.’

I had known that when I finally made it out of the hospital that things
were
going to be different. In most ways I am ready and waiting for them to be different. But I am still afraid. I remember Dr X’s words to me when he had sensed the fear inside me at our last meeting. ‘You’re as tough as nails, Emma,’ he’d said. I smile a little bit, despite myself. I tell myself that everything is going to be OK, and not to be afraid.

‘How’s Rosemary?’ I ask my mother.

My mom hesitates for a split second before she answers. ‘She’s fine. She’s at a friend’s house right now.’

I am slightly pissed off that my sister isn’t at home for me to see, but I won’t be making a scene about it.

Mom says she has to make a stop, and pulls into the car park of the off-licence at the bottom of the hill, before you come up to our house.

‘Wait here,’ she says. She comes back a
few minutes later with a bottle of wine in a brown paper bag.

We drive the rest of the way home in silence. I don’t know exactly what I had been expecting, but I had hoped that she would be, I don’t know, maybe excited to have me back home? It sounds silly I know, but I had been so excited to get home myself that I had wanted to find at least a
little
of that mirrored in my mom. But what I’m picking up on seems to be… what? Anxiety? Fear? Whatever it is, I can’t quite place it.

I am beginning to make myself a nervous wreck before I finally decide that things cannot be rushed. Healing is going to take time.

We hit the gravel in the driveway and the sound jerks me out of my thoughts. Before the car even stops, I have unbuckled my seatbelt and I run up to the house. I pull up the mat on the front porch, and discover that the key I usually use to get into the house isn’t there.

‘Hey Mom, where’s the key?’ I ask.

My mom doesn’t say anything at all. She just unlocks the door herself. I am starting to get creeped-out by my mom’s behaviour.

My mom goes into the kitchen and I follow on behind her. She opens the bottle of wine, pours herself a glass, and quickly downs the whole thing. She has still not said a word.

‘Um. I’m going to go to my room now Mom.’ I say.

My words seem to hover in the air, and my mom simply pours herself another glass of wine.

I walk through the house that is as silent as a tomb. I stop off at the door of Rosemary’s room, hoping that she’d come home from her friend’s house. Rosemary is not there. I sigh and continue walking down the hall, until I get to my bedroom.

I open the door, and my heart stops. Unable to believe what I am seeing, I run back down the hallway into the kitchen. My mother is still silent as a statue, drinking her wine.

‘Mom, what the hell did you do to my room? Where’s all my stuff? Mom?’

I had opened the door to my room to find it an empty space. No posters, no pictures, no clothes in the closet, and not a stick of furniture in it. It is like I had never existed.

‘MOM!’ I finally shout. Slowly, like it is taking a great effort, her head turns towards me. Her hazel eyes finally meet mine. There is not a shred of emotion in them, and I realise that
that
was what I had been unable to identify in my mom at the hospital. And during the ride home. She was cold… no, not just cold…
mechanical
.

When my mother finally does speak, she speaks calmly and flatly, as efficient as any judge handing out a sentence to a condemned prisoner.

‘I told you, things were going to change when you got home, Emma.’

‘OK, so what the hell does that have to do with where my stuff is Mom?’ I yell at her. I am afraid. Truly afraid. I have
never
seen my mom act like this.

My mother calmly continues. ‘I’m sorry, Emma,’ she says, pausing to pour herself another glass of wine. I just watch her drinking, stunned. Finally, I remember that I can speak.

‘Sorry for
what
Mom? Did you throw my shit away?’

My mother’s eyes meet mine, and though there is still not a shred of emotion in them, a single tear runs down her cheek.

‘Emma. I can’t do this any more. I’m sorry. You’re too much for me to handle.’

I listen to her and can’t believe what I am hearing. ‘So what the hell does that mean, Mom?’

My mother finishes her glass of wine and turns her back to me. Outside, sloppy wet drops of rain smack loudly on the car, on the pavement, over everything. My mother and I stand in the rapidly darkening kitchen in silence. Finally, I can handle it no more.

‘Mom, what the
hell
are you saying?’ I yell in frustration.

‘Emma, I packed your things and sent them to your father’s house.’

‘Well what the hell would you do
that
for?’ I ask, not understanding –
refusing
to understand – what she is saying.

‘Because Emma, you’re going to live there.’

I don’t say anything. Just what can I say to that? I stare at her and she just keeps lifting that glass of wine to her lips, regular as clockwork, like she’s a machine. It’s funny that I had never seen it before. My mom as a machine. Through my frustration and fear, I’m beginning to see that perhaps
just about anyone can become a machine. You just have to have the need to shut the world out.

But then I wonder, has my mom always been a machine and I’ve been so busy becoming a machine myself that I just never noticed? That could explain a lot about me. Perhaps it takes a machine to breed a machine.

I don’t even want to think about it as I reach down deep within myself to find the switch that hides there in the darkness. If I’m going to survive, I’d better power up.