Suicide Kills, part 6

I hate goodbyes. I suck at them. I never know what to say, especially if somebody has come to mean anything to me. So, I watched and I learned. Veronica and Jerrilyn led the rest of us in the Good Luck Ritual, which I was to find out was not a Goodbye, at all. It was far more.

We arrived in shame and solitude, alone, separated by our insanities, jailed for breaking some social boundary, whether against the law or ourselves. There was no fanfare to mark our arrival, just a dry, unsympathetic check in process which provided no comfort, no hope. But we left with hugs and love.

When we left it was our day to shine, like a bride on her wedding day or a father in the maternity ward passing out bubblegum cigars. It was a sacred day, one to be celebrated and enjoyed, because if the process worked, if all of this had been for something, it would be the re-birth of our lives. Not in a clichéd way, but in the deepest way possible- happiness. Leaving the ward was a lot like war in that sense; it didn’t matter if it was your first time there or your fifteenth, you always wanted it to be your last. And that was what the Good Luck Ritual was for, arisen out of necessity to be a somber celebration, an amazing day, forever unlike any other.

Even if we were afraid someone was not ready or that they would be back, we did not act like it. To do so would invite it, to do so was a sin against what bonded us together, because if we doubted, the one leaving believed in their failure and returned all the sooner. Like sending a child to college to be a TV News Anchor, you know there is a fairly slim chance of success, but you believe in the dream to help push them because they’ll never get through the grit any other way. Sure, they might fail several times, but each time you tell them you know this one is it, this one has the touch of luck and faith needed to bring them joy. If they fail (which they will, sometimes), you keep believing for them as long as it takes, lest they stop believing for themselves.

I watched the embraces and the words, saw how each seemed to raise Maria Rosa on a cloud of inner-strength, and I knew she would need it in the days to come. When it was my turn to hug her, I let her take the lead, still working on what I was going to say. She swept me into her arms and I rested my cheek on her green sweater-jacket, my eyes closed, and simply held her for a second.

"You’ll be okay."

My eyes snapped open and my lips parted in an O of surprise. The words had come from Maria Rosa, not me. Here, on her day, she was giving me my Good Luck Ritual, saying she believed in me, because she was leaving before it was my day.

I bit my lip, frantically searching for the right words to share with her. I should not have been so bad at this, bad at showing emotion, yet all my brilliant mind could dig up was, "So will you."

When I want to be a bitch, I can get my foot to my mouth with no problem, but when I want to show I care? Three words is all I can say? Just three? And one of them is not even love? God damn, do I ever deserve to be here...

She laughed quietly and I saw in her expression she understood, "Remember, though, okay? Be nice to eh Mari, she need it." Maria Rosa jerked her head in Marigold’s direction, and I nodded.

"Remember what I said, too." I whispered, winking, "I’ll try."

She grinned, gave me another hug, and grabbed her purse.

"Wait right here, okay? Don‘t go over there, yet. Don't leave." I said, and hurried over to where Marigold stood with the neighbor and The Debra. She watched me as I approached. Holy fuck, was that gratitude? I feel dirty. I took her place occupying the impatient woman, and Marigold went to add her name to the list of phone numbers for Maria Rosa and hug her goodbye.

That’s just gross. Now, it's official. We have bonded. I’m not naming any of my future kids after her, though.

Dr. Rathbone had finally arrived while Maria and I were saying our goodbye.  He took her back to his office. A few minutes later she came back out and left with her neighbor, walking by us as we stood at the entrance to the common room. We waved and smiled, having already said what we needed to.

After she left, the doctor asked Marigold to his office. It was my second day in the ward and I had yet to speak with him, but a rich drug addict got preferential treatment over a suicidal rape victim.
                 Yeah, I can see the logic in that. She must tip really well. Or she gives amazing head.

Marigold surprised everyone, Dr. Rathbone included, by refusing. Now, he had no choice, the poor guy. He called me in.

His office was smaller than the biggest closet in my apartment. A desk further complicated things by taking up a fourth of the room, leaving barely enough room to sit down, which I reasoned must be some comfort to his wife. I know I wouldn’t have been able to resist The Debra if she had snuck into my large, lush psychiatric ward office one night in fire-printed stirrup pants that set off her camel toe just so…
                On the wall a bug-eyed cat clock swished it’s tail. Ha ha, I get it! It’s a cuckoo cat clock! Say what you will about him, but the man had class.

The desk was really just an ambidextrous table, having openings on both sides to slide chairs beneath. The only two chairs contrasted immensely with each other, one a plush computer chair and the other a metal folding chair. We were going to play that game, were we? The superiority one?  I snorted. He should really know better.

Don’t play with psychos. Psycho’s always win whatever game is played, because when you tell them there are no rules that is exactly how they play. Take full-contact football, for instance. It’s funny how many rules game organizers will realize exist only after four people get kicked in the nuts, two get titty twisters, and one person becomes the football after an impromptu pigskin enema on the field.

I chose the plush computer chair, because I enjoy spinning. In the ward, I could spin to my heart’s content because I was unstable. Sometimes crazy has it’s perks.
                 I watched his face as he entered the room and a look of odoriferous displeasure wrinkled his nose. Point to me. He did not appreciate having his chair and balls taken by my assertion of dominance.

He unfolded the other chair and drug it over to the table, then lowered himself awkwardly into it, the metal creaking beneath his weight, and opened a folder to study. After sliding his glasses down his hawkish nose, he readjusted his butt cheek and carefully avoided my gaze, and he said, "All right, Brittni. We’re going to do an exercise. We are going to go back and forth between each other. I am going to say an object, and I want you to repeat it. After you do so, I’m going to add another object, and I want you to repeat the first object and the new one. It’s a memory test, okay? Let’s get started."

Doc, you’re talking to the Simon generation. The rapid pace of blue, green, green, green, orange, blue, red, blue, orange, green, green, green, red, blue, orange, red, green, green, green was no match for my six year old mind. Bring…it…on.

So, he began. "Clock."

I parroted, "Clock."

"Desk."

"Clock, desk."

"Stapler." He switched the leg he had crossed, the metal creating the pancake depression it would have inflicted on me had I sat in it. Certainly says something about how much concern he has for his patients.

"Clock, desk, stapler." I bet the next one is chair.

"Chair."

Yeah, buddy! I thought, grinning. My gloating was brief, however. I remembered Rathbone was the man responsible for my release from the ward, and the smile slid from my face immediately. Color me s-c-r-e-w-e-d.

"Clock, desk, stapler, chair, vent, ceiling, carpet. So, we good?" I asked, standing.

I waited to see if he took the bait. If he relented, I would be right. If he told me to sit down, I would be wrong.

My suspicions about the doctor were thus: he was not interested in seeing me as a person, which was why he looked everywhere but me. In fact, he preferred not to think of me as an actual person, because my pain and my actions created waves in his existence he did not enjoy. Purposely ignoring the very basic dignity of eye-to-eye contact in an emotional situation was a means of dehumanization. And I did not like it. But I‘ll be damned if a part of me didn’t hope I was wrong.

Why was he here if he could not even have the decency to look into my eyes and complete an image of me in his mind, though? He was avoiding recognizing that I, as a person and not a fucking folder, was real.

Psychiatrists and psychologists who are genuinely willing to wade into the muck with their patients have posters adorning the walls with kittens and kids, or matronly looking women with their arms around a weeping teenager and the words, ‘Sanctuary‘, ‘It‘s Okay‘, or ‘Suicide Kills‘.

They know the importance of meeting someone’s eyes to validate that person’s vulnerability in undergoing counseling and in demonstrating their dedication to the patients recovery.

Dr. Rathbone was not one of those. However he came by his position being the resident shrink, he did not care. I was alien to him, foreign to his world. He had no idea how to help me, nor did he actually want to.

And so…Clock.

Startled, he actually looked up when I finished the list for him, though he realized his error and immediately went back to flipping through stapled papers in the folder. "Yes, I think that is a good start. Next time, however, I want to discuss deeper issues."

Hey, uh, Doc? Were you just in the same room a few seconds ago? Unless I’m a furniture fucker and you were trying to get me hot, we did not discuss shit.

The anger fluffing my dislike of him surprised me. I had actually wanted him to ask the hard questions, ones I did not myself know the answers to. I needed that perusal of the mind, but this paper-jockey with his thin skin and smooth-surfaced brain was not the person to do it.
                I stretched, seeing if he’d have a last minute change of mind, and slowly walked to the door.

Before I could slip through it, he asked in clipped tones, "Can you please send Marigold in?"

Annoyed at his brilliant application of being fucking obtuse, I summoned the eight year old brat within and yelled her name across the hall. I secretly hoped my shout jarred him right down to his wife issued, ultra-sensible boxers, causing him to switch butt cheeks again and grimace at the bruise-like throbbing on the freed cheek. Yes, I wanted him to have a pain in the ass.

Besides me.

Marigold poked her head out of the doorway, "What?"

Wow.  Not even a scowl. That’s progress, right?

"Sorry, but the doctor is in." I told her, and started to walk across the hall. We met in the center. Before she could pass by, I grabbed her arm. "No, um. I’m sorry for more than that. I’m…sorry for what I did to you earlier. I…I don’t know what else to say. But I am sorry, Mari."

Her response was subdued.. Her eyes widened slightly. She patted my hand awkwardly, nodding.. She had absolutely no idea how to accept an apology or even be apologized to. No wonder she was so difficult to be around. It’s easier to be a bitch and unapologetic than it is to be a victim and never hear the words of regret when someone has hurt you.

At least when you’re a bitch, you have an excuse.

"That was quick." She stated, changing the subject. I took it as apology accepted.

"Yeah, he’s a fucking genius." I said, with more than a touch of loathing. "I’m cured, but I think I’m in love with Debra, now." The Debra was standing about twenty feet away at the nurses station, sporting a champion camel toe and a tight bra which made really rude fat origami of her figure. Somebody should have taught the woman to find clothes that fit. "I find those Mama-dog sags really attractive. Who knew humans could have four boobs?"

Marigold laughed softly.
                The moment felt almost momentous, us sharing a jibe instead of aiming them at each other. I dropped my hand, giving her a nod in the direction of the office.
                 She paused, "When I get done with this, I think we need to talk."

"Okay." I said, curious, but willing to hear her out.
                I figured I owed her that much, what with my being a cunt and all. To be honest, with our recent power-struggles I felt we owed it to each other.
                 Marigold seemed relieved at my agreement and flashed a shy smile at me. She then went in the doctor’s office to talk about cocks.

I mean, clocks.

Hey, we might have a budding psychomance, but that doesn’t mean all jokes stop. For all I know, she did talk about cocks.