Read The Finer Points of Becoming Machine Online
Authors: Emily Andrews
I’m still hyperventilating a little, and my dad is grabbing my shoulder and making me look at him.
‘Emma, calm down. Breathe. I’ll ask the nurses about the medication, it’s not a big deal, OK?’
But it
is
a big deal; he just doesn’t know it. He’s never taken a long look at himself. Before the divorce, when we all lived together, you had to answer every question with quick, concise answers. You got into trouble if you didn’t.
As I grew older, I began to drink and date older guys. Looking back on my behaviour now, I’m sure that I was seeking the love that my father wouldn’t or couldn’t give me, from older men. And I was in so much pain – despite all my best efforts to be a machine – that I needed to numb myself. So I chose to do that through drinking.
My father began drinking heavily round about this time too. He was drunk constantly, and would see-saw emotionally. He would go from being depressed at losing his family, to angry, to hitting the bars and
bringing home random women. Just so that he wouldn’t be lonely. We began to fight even more as his behaviour became more and more intolerable. He refused to pay a penny of child support, so my mom, my sister and I were practically starving in our apartment. Just the three of us at this time; Paul went to live with his father…
I start to slow my breathing down and clutch the Bible in my lap with an iron grip, in an effort to hide my shaking hands from my dad.
He starts to talk again, like he thinks that the sound of his voice will make things better. At least he talks about something different.
‘How are they treating you, kid? Do you have enough to eat?’
‘Yes Dad.’
‘Is the food OK?’
Apparently I make a face, and he cracks a smile, the first smile I’ve seen on his face since I walked into this tomb-like room.
‘Apparently, that’s a no then,’ he says.
‘Uh, yeah. The food sucks.’
My dad frowns at my use of the word
sucks
. Again, fear washes over me as I wait to get backhanded for saying a
bad
word. But no backhand comes.
The separation was hard on everybody, and it just got harder. My dreams of some peace once my parents finally divorced were shattered when my father, in a drunken rage, threatened to kill a pet rabbit that belonged to Rosemary. Now fifteen years old, and aged beyond my years, I jumped between him and my sister and told him to go to bed and sober up. He looked at me in absolute shock for about three seconds before he started screaming at me at the top of his lungs, about two inches from my face.
‘DON’T TELL ME HOW TO RAISE MY KIDS!’ he screamed.
‘Then raise them so that I don’t HAVE to.’
When he hit me, I hit him back. Rosemary was bawling and hyperventilating behind me, huddled in a corner of the kitchen. I picked her up and went to the phone and called my mom. She came right away and picked us up. We didn’t see much more of him after that…
It’s strange to see my father sitting across the room from me now. He looks completely baffled, so that I almost think he’s noticed how scared I’ve become.
‘Emma, why are you so jumpy?’
It dawns on me that he is completely unaware of the effect his presence has on me. Jesus, he really has no clue as to what all the years of fighting and yelling did to us – Mom, Paul, Rosemary and me.
Again I’m asking myself; ‘Do I tell him the truth, or do I just try to get through this meeting with as much grace as I can muster?’
I settle for the latter. ‘Uh, it’s the meds I think, Dad. I’m not used to taking them and I’m a little jumpy because of it.’ I can lie to him without even thinking.
My father remarried a year later. She was a nice blonde woman who had a son of her own. He moved away with her, and with Paul, to a city a few hours away from where we lived.
Mom also remarried. Daniel was a kindly man she met at work. Rosemary and I fell in love with him instantly. He had big arms that made you feel safe when he hugged you, and a laugh that was warm and friendly. Best of all, he loved and took care of my mom. That was all I wanted.
I thought things would be better after that, but I still couldn’t get past the things going on in my head, residue from all the fighting and fear that just wouldn’t go away.
I started to cut myself and my mom found out. She took me to a psychologist who prescribed pills for me and wanted to talk about the divorce. I didn’t want to talk about the divorce, so my mom told the psychologist about my father when I wouldn’t answer his questions…
My dad stares at me, hard. That stare cuts through me, and I can swear that he knows that I am lying, telling him about the pills making me jumpy. But if he does know, he’s not saying anything. For now.
‘So, uh…’ he begins. He’s searching for words to connect us, but not finding any beyond those. Neither of us knows what to say.
Not wanting to sit in yet more awkward silence, I jump in and ask him questions. I’m hoping to move the spotlight away from me in this way too.
‘How is your wife, uh, Julie, doing?’ I ask.
‘She’s fine. But she’s worried about you. I wish you’d give her a chance, kiddo. She’s a real nice lady.’
‘Uh, yeah. She seems nice.’
The truth of the matter is, Julie
is
a nice woman. My resentment towards her comes from the fact that my dad seems to treat her so much better than he treated Mom. Because of that, I’ve wanted nothing to do with Julie. I am bitter and jealous, resentful of his love and concern for her. I am polite with her, but that is it.
…Mom, Rosemary and me, we all moved up to Daniel’s house after he and Mom got married. I should have been happy but it was never that simple. It still isn’t. I met Donnie at a football game that I’d attended solely to get out of the house. Anything would do, just to be able to get drunk and smoke pot without my parents knowing. From that point it was mostly drink and drugs and Donnie that I cared about. The break up with Donnie
was, of course, like the straw that broke my back. It’s why I’m here. In this place. Sitting across from my father…
‘Julie wanted to come see you, but she didn’t think that you wanted to see her,’ my dad says pointedly. He has no way of knowing what I’ve been thinking about. All the same, I’d better pay attention. I still don’t know if I can trust him.
‘Uh, sorry Dad. I just… I’m not real proud that I’m in here, and um, don’t want anyone to see me like this. I don’t want to embarrass you.’
‘Well, that’s understandable, I suppose,’ he finally concedes. ‘It’d be nice if you’d come to visit us more. After you get out of here I mean, Emma. I’m your dad, and I miss you.’
I am suspicious of his motives for wanting me to come visit. I am sure that he wants to show me off to Julie; show
her how well behaved and intelligent and adult-like I am. God knows why he’d think I would be. But I just agree with him anyway.
‘OK Dad. I’ll come visit more.’
I really have no intention of visiting him more, though, and I know that if I tell my mom I don’t want to go, most likely she won’t make me. I am lying again, but it’s best this way. We’ll just end up in an argument, and that is the last thing that I want. What I really
do
want is for this awkward visit to end. Even though my dad is being nice, I’m not over the years when he
wasn’t
nice. I’m not over the bruises and the hurtful words, and the lying and covering up his abusive nature to the outside world. I can’t stop being suspicious.
My dad starts talking about work, about Julie, about his step-son Russ, and how
ill-behaved
Russ is. That most likely means that Russ is just a
normal
kid. I know how that would infuriate my father.
I figure that we are just about winding down the visit when my dad hits me with a whammy.
‘So, I heard about your incident with the nurse, Emma.’
I wince. Here it comes, I think. He’s going to yell at me and make me feel worthless. I brace myself and stare at the floor.
‘I’m not really sure what the hell has got into you Emma, but you need to get your shit together, kid.’
I nod in agreement with him, which is what I know he wants. ‘Yes Dad. I’m trying.’
‘It’s almost Christmas, Emma,’ he says, changing the subject again.
‘Yeah, I know Dad.’ I bite my lower lip to keep myself from crying.
‘You don’t want to be in here for Christmas, do you Emma?’
‘No Dad, I don’t.’
‘We’re going to have a big celebration at the house. We got you some presents, and I’ve already talked to your mom. She says you can come by for part of the day.
If
you get out of here in time.’
I look up, confused. My dad continues.
‘What I’m saying, Emma…’ he leans closer towards me ‘…is that you tell these damned doctors whatever it is that they want to hear, just so you can get out of this place. Got it? Just agree with them, so that we can take you home.’
I blink. My dad isn’t concerned so much with me getting out of here and
being well
; he is just concerned with me getting
out
. As far as he is concerned – or so it seems – there is nothing wrong with me. There’s no reason for me to be in this place. And the embarrassment he feels is oh-so real.
I finally nod my head. ‘OK Dad.’
My dad nods too, and leans back in his chair. Suddenly, he looks at his watch and I know that he has other, more important places to be. He’s ready to leave now.
‘I gotta get going kid. Just remember this little talk, OK? I love you Emma.’
‘I love you too, Dad.’
And that is it. He stands up, gives me a quick hug, and he walks out the door. I’m left sitting in stunned silence.
I whisper softly to myself. ‘OK Emma. You heard him. Time to get out.’
The family legend is not pretty. But legends mean nothing to a machine.
As I sit at the lunch table, my mind is preoccupied with thoughts of the meeting with my father. I’m not sure whether I should consider it a dismal failure or not. I hadn’t said much of anything; what I had said was so edited before I spoke, that it felt like I had sat there and lied to him the entire time.
He had confused me, that’s for sure. Instead of yelling at me, which I was sure he was going to do, he had appeared concerned for me. Questions still lingered in my head though. Was he really concerned about me, or was he concerned with the family image?
My mom had already told me that I had embarrassed the entire family by putting myself in here. And she had made sure to ask me not to say too much to anyone about the past.
How am I supposed to get better if I don’t confront the past though? Does my trying to get better even matter to any of them any more?
Maybe it’s just me. I absent-mindedly push the semi-frozen peas around on my plate, thinking – not for the first time – that maybe I should just get over it.
Everyone else seems to be doing fine since the divorce. Both of my parents have remarried. Paul is in the track team at his school, and Rosemary has joined the cheerleading squad. Their grades are improving, and they seem happy. Unlike me, still tormented with horrible memories of the past.
So why can’t I be happy? Why am I busy drinking, smoking, starving myself? Why
am I still up almost all night, every night, unable to sleep? Why do I refuse to appear to be even
close
to normal?
While everyone else in my family is thriving like flowers after a heavy rain, I am drowning. Still. The divorce has simply removed me from the situation; it has done nothing to remove the hurt, the way I thought it would.
I suddenly feel stupid and selfish. Once again, I feel like I am back at square one, trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. And trying to figure out why I can’t get over something that everyone else in my family seems to have put behind them. At the very least, they seem able to pretend that the horrible past had never happened in the first place.
I am an embarrassment to my family. I know by now that everyone at school will know what has happened to me. When (if) I return, I won’t be able to walk down the hallway without more whispers behind my back. I can see it now: ‘Did you hear what
Emma did to herself?’ they’ll say. And the story would evolve and grow until it’s nowhere near the truth. No matter – I can never tell them the truth anyway.
I sigh heavily. The meeting with my father is still confusing me, to put it mildly. Maybe he has changed. Maybe he and Mom just weren’t meant to be together, and now that he’s with this new, nice woman everything is OK. I suddenly feel like a jerk for refusing to visit him and his new wife.
Regardless of my confusion about my father and his motives for visiting me, he had at least said something that I agree with. ‘…Get out of here.’
I am tired of being in this shitty place, with its shitty food and fucked-up people. I begin to focus on the idea of getting out of here.
Get out. What is it going to take to prove that I can leave this place? I’ve already caused a scene, and the hospital is
keeping me here until I show ‘substantial progress’. So what exactly do they mean by ‘substantial progress’?
I am going to have to lie my ass off to get out of here. Lying to the other patients, the nurses and the orderlies shouldn’t be too hard. But I am worried about Dr X.
Dr X has already shown me that he will not buy most of the half-truths and lies that I tell everyone else. So if I do just all of a sudden start to act like everything is OK, he’ll definitely grow suspicious of me. And keep me here even longer.
Dr X presents a problem, one that I’m not quite sure how to deal with just yet.
I finish eating and put my tray away. I chew on my fingernails, deep in thought. Suddenly, an idea comes to me. Dr X had been so flustered during the past few days that our meetings have seemed to run on autopilot. He has appeared tired and overworked. I wonder if I can use that to my advantage…
The reality is, I am in a county mental hospital that is overcrowded and understaffed, and needs the space for a seemingly constant stream of new arrivals. Surely I can work that, along with Dr X’s tiredness, to my advantage. A few days of tearing up at group therapy and pretending to confess my deepest hurts and thoughts just might help persuade them that I am ready to change, that I am becoming what they want me to be.
I frown. I feel like I am going to be selling out. I am completely against the idea of acting like every other person in here. Half of them are in here seeking attention, and I hate them with every fibre of my being. The other half consists of genuine whack-jobs who have been in here for weeks.
I finally decide that it isn’t selling out, just saying whatever I need to say to get myself out of here. I tell myself that it is a mission, and no different than lying to my teachers at school about why I’d missed class. Or lying to my mom, so she won’t find out that I
have
missed class.
This is going to be trickier than just lying to a few teachers though. A plan is slowly forming in my head. The first thing I’ll need to do is to quit playing little
games
, like the one where I stare at people until they feel uncomfortable. This thought depresses me. I am bored and lonely in here and my games are keeping me entertained. But then again, maybe they’re helping keep me stuck in this place.
I’ll have to stop colouring and painting pictures with black and red on everything. I’ll have to participate more in the group sessions. I roll my eyes at the thought. Instantly I chastise myself for it. How am I supposed to get out of here if I can’t even control my thoughts when nobody is looking?
I’ll have to quit ignoring the schoolwork they assign us. I’ll have to stop sulking in the back of the classroom, and pay attention. I’ll have to stop rolling my eyes and saying as little as is humanly possible in the group therapy sessions. In short, I’ll have to start acting like a normal kid who really
wants to get better. And I’ll have to keep it up until they think I actually
am
doing better. I’ll have to start following the joke of a treatment plan that I’ve never really bothered to read.
I go to my room and dig the treatment plan out from a stack of other papers that I also haven’t bothered to read. Dr X has given me pamphlets on depression, on rebuilding your life after a suicide attempt, and various other lame subjects.
I look at the treatment plan and figure that it is most likely a generic form, handed out to everybody. It has been photocopied so many times that there are black dots on the paper and the writing has become difficult to make out. With some effort, I begin to read what is written on the crumpled paper. There is a laundry list of generic things to do to help with depression and/or suicidal tendencies.
‘Journal… yeah, I got that…’ I read aloud to myself. ‘Develop a hobby that will help you deal with stress in a constructive way, such as
painting or gardening…’ I scoff. Gardening. Who the hell does gardening anyway?
After some thought, I decide that it doesn’t really matter; all I have to say is that when I get out of here, I
plan
to have a hobby. Fine. I’ll tell them that I am going to continue drawing, since I have a mild interest in it anyway.
I continue reading the treatment plan. ‘Make a list of trusted friends or family members that you can talk to openly and honestly.’ I start to laugh. I can’t talk openly and honestly to
anyone
in my family. Either they pretend that nothing is wrong, or they really
believe
that nothing is wrong. And the few times I have tried to talk about the way I grew up my mother either gets upset and defensive, or she changes the subject. I finally grew tired of making her cry, so I quit talking about my childhood to her altogether. That leaves me with friends, then. But when I think about my friends, I am stuck there, too.
The circle of friends I have consists of punk rockers, stoners, and other social
misfits. They will discuss with a passion why a band sucks or not, but rarely discuss feelings. Unless the discussion involves a general discontent with being in high school and having a curfew.
Once again though, it doesn’t really matter if I have friends and family I can talk to. To get out of here, I have to pretend that I have people I can talk to.
I think back to when my mom took me to therapy, and instantly I become irritated. Even in the therapist’s office, I wasn’t allowed to say what was really on my mind. My mom would interrupt and correct me, or hush me if she thought I was going to start talking about something she didn’t want anyone to know about.
In her mind, she was protecting me. She was trying to make sure that nobody would take me away from her. But really, thinking about it, all she was doing was wasting her money, taking me to a therapist and then telling me to lie when I got there.
As I sit here, developing this grand scheme to get myself out of this hospital, I become saddened by what I am doing. Until my father’s visit, when he told me to ‘get out of here’, I have been busy sitting and writing in my journal. I’ve been slowly coming to the realisation that the abuse I’d grown up watching wasn’t my fault at all. Now, before I can even wrap my mind around the idea and begin to really explore it, my father has come along and basically told me to ‘get out of here’, regardless of whether I am better or not. Once again, my family is too busy being concerned about appearances, and again, I am going to suffer for it. Some things just don’t change.
For a second I regret having called the ambulance, but instantly chase the thought from my mind with a firm shake of my head.
‘No.’ I say out loud. ‘I don’t want to die. I just want to feel better.’
It is obvious though, that I am going to have to do this on my own. The staff here
can’t or won’t help me; my parents can’t or won’t help me, and neither can my friends.
I know that I can’t stay in the hospital forever, but I had hoped to stay in for a week or two more, simply because, despite the cold and the dirty walls and the crappy food, I am fairly safe here. I am being encouraged to get better. I am not told what to say, or told to hide my feelings. I have started to become human here. That’s a heck of a realisation.
Now, I am going to have to become my machine-self again. I am going to have to lie, exaggerate, and not feel, while pretending I
do
feel, in order to get out of here. I am going to have to become a
cookie cutter person
; which is what I call normal average everyday people.
The thought makes me queasy. I feel that all I have left is my individuality, and no amount of abuse or torment or mockery has taken that away from me. If anything, I have used the horrible circumstances of my family life to build the shield that protects
me from the outside world. I am machine, something that cannot feel and cannot be hurt. Not like a
cookie cutter person
. At least that’s what I’d thought.
I remain largely unconcerned with things that most
normal
girls my age are concerned with: make-up, labels and taking stupid quizzes out of teenage magazines to figure out if I am a good kisser or not. I feel superior to girls whose day is ruined if they get a zit on their usually flawless skin. Or if their hair doesn’t turn out right any given day.
I am still busy throwing all of this around in my mind when I hear someone call for afternoon therapy.
‘OK Emma,’ I tell myself. ‘Time to get out of here.’ I smooth my hair, throw my shoulders back, and grab my journal. With a new sense of purpose, I walk down the hall, ready for therapy.