Surreal Ecstasy (7 page)

"Is your mother the reason you
cut yourself?"

A cynical laugh escaped my throat. "No,
not even close. It was-" I cut myself off, not wanting to sound stupid in
front of this man I'd just met, doc or no. Then, not knowing what else I could
say, I continued. "It was my ex-boyfriend, Adim. I mean, he didn't do this
to me," I added hastily. "I've been going through this cycle with
him… and…"

"Were you trying to get away
from his abuse?"

I looked up sharply, immediately
confused. How did he know?

My expression must have said it
all, because he gestured toward my chart, saying gently, "Morgan, the
staff that treated you for your blood loss contacted me. You have bruising in
various areas of your body, some months old, some weeks old—the type of
bruising that's consistent with domestic abuse. And you have an old
third-degree burn on your arm that's over a year old."

I was silent for a moment, not
knowing how to respond to this direct inquiry. Then I decided to ignore the
abuse reference and finish what I'd been saying. "I have been going
through a whole thing of getting together with him, breaking up…" I made
little circles with my hands to illustrate my point; I'm not entirely confident
it clarified anything for him. Part of me felt like I was being featured on a
talk show. Their stories were the same every time.
We started going out, and
everything was great at first, but then out of nowhere he just started acting
crazy.
"And then something else happened-"

"What happened?"

I looked at the color of his shirt
instead of his eyes. "Someone out there is spreading rumors about me."
I didn't have the energy to explain about the fake picture. Spreading rumors
was the same thing in my book. "I just couldn't take it anymore. I have
too much shit to think about." I closed my eyes and rubbed them, hoping he
would get the hint and walk away. Was it even legal to swear in front of a
psychiatrist? I wasn't sure. I felt tired and
really
wanted to go back
to sleep.

"Morgan, I know this is hard.
But these are important things to talk about. I need to understand how you're
feeling, and whether-"

"-whether or not I'm going to
try to kill myself again, right?" I finished, craning my neck to peer over
to the hallway. Was there anyone who could come in and save me from this quack?
I was almost desperate enough to see if Erica was available. Almost.

He sighed so quietly, it was barely
audible. "Yes," he said simply. "Talk to me. Tell me what's on
your mind. Why do the rumors bother you so much?"

I was growing more and more
impatient with him for reasons I did not understand. "I don't mean to be
rude or anything, Dr. Hearse, but do you mind coming back later? I kind of want
to sleep now. I'm feeling…
tired
."

A moment passed, and I dared to
look back at him to see his reaction. He pursed his lips, thinking, and then
nodded slowly. "Yes, of course. I'll come back when you're feeling better.
If you feel like talking to me before then, let one of the nurses know, and
they'll get me, okay?" He didn't wait for my reply before heading towards
my door. He opened it, started to walk through, then paused and turned to face
me briefly. "And it's Dr. Hirsch, not Hearse, just in case you weren't
sure."

I chuckled briefly, which surprised
me. "Hearse is better."

He smiled to himself before walking
out the door.

Chapter 5

I didn't and wouldn't accept that
Friend would never appear to me again, never again encourage me and listen to
my words of sadness.

I had never intended to create him,
but he filled in the gaps of the worn-out road of my life.

An older memory—my fifth and last
hospital dream—reminded me of this.

* * *

I'm 7 years old. On TV, I see a
little story. A girl climbs on the couch with her mommy. The mommy smiles and
gets out a mug of hot chocolate. She gives it to the girl. They both laugh and
hug. The girl drinks her hot chocolate.

I run to the room where
my
mommy is sitting. I would also like to hug Mommy and drink hot chocolate. If
she does not have hot chocolate, that would be OK. Maybe we could make some
together. That might even be funner! I might make a mess or get some chocolate
on my nose. She would laugh and take a picture of me before cleaning it all up.
That way she could show the picture to Daddy later on. Now I
really
hope
she won't have hot chocolate ready. We can make a whole day of it.

I try two times to get up on the
couch. I am small for my age. I am not very good at climbing. I look up at
Mommy and smile. I hope she would see me, get happy, and sit with me for a
while.

Mommy looks down at me and pats me
on the head. Then she says, "Move, before you mess up my blanket."

I don't say anything as I get off
the couch and walk to my room. I close the door and sit in the corner of my
room and then cry. I cry for a long time. The only thing that stops me is
falling asleep.

Then I see Friend. He wipes my
tears (I guess I am crying in my dreams too) and squats next to me. He is very
nice, like always.

He never asks me what's wrong. He
knows I don't like that question. People ask you that when they really don't
want you to be sad, 'cause it makes problems for them. That's how they tell you
to be nice and not embarrass your parents. People never ask you that question 'cause
they really want to help you.

Friend puts his big arms around me,
and I hug him back, sobbing as loud as I can. We talk in my head so that I don't
have to talk out loud. He knows I hate talking out loud.

Friend:  It's okay, Morggie.

Me:  I feel sad.

Friend:  I know you do. It will
be okay.

Me:  I wish I was special or
loved.

Friend:  You are VERY special
and more loved than you realize.  Don't ever be sad.

I sob until I don't feel like
crying anymore. I smile. He laughs and takes my hand. We walk for a very long
time next to a river.

When I open my eyes and find myself
back in the corner of my room, I don't feel like crying anymore.

* * *

I hated waking up at age 23, in the
hospital of all places, thinking of the little girl inside me that wanted
affection that was always denied.

I was a sensitive child, and all my
life growing up, I was taught to believe being this way was a sin, and that it
was wrong of me to have feelings that were easily hurt. My loneliness over the
years was obvious and tangible; I'm surprised I couldn't cut it with a knife.
If I had never created Friend, there would be a huge void in my life.

I could feel more tears building up
behind my eyes. A very clear emotion ran through my body, ravaging it and
rendering my heart even more useless than it was before.

First, I was annoyed at myself. All
I seemed to do lately was cry, cry, and cry. I was forever whining about my
hurt feelings and always running away to take shelter from the cruel, cruel
world.

Secondly, at the same time, I was
tired. I was tired emotionally, spiritually, and now, thanks to my blood-loss
episode, even physically. I realized then that my wanting to die came not from
the misery brought on by others, but by the ennui I inevitably experienced from
enduring the same misery for years. I'd try feebly to stand up on my own and be
happy. Someone would take me down a notch with words or actions. I'd retreat
and cry, and then the whole cycle would start again.

I was tired of this song of mine,
so sick of hearing these lyrics, and yet I did not have the strength to move
beyond it. I yanked my hair angrily, hoping for a brief distraction in pain.

Suddenly, a deafening alarm went
off, making me jump. In fact, if it weren't for those bed rails, I would have
fallen on the floor. After a second, I realized it wasn't an alarm, but the
in-room telephone that sat on the little table to my right.

I was getting a call? Are
telemarketers doing their thing in hospitals now?

Remembering to take a deep breath
to slow my speeding heartbeats, I reached over, grunting as I did so. I needed
to get up and practice using my legs—or any of my muscles, for that matter.

"H-hello?" I asked the
phone. I groaned inwardly when it responded.

"Morgan.
WHAT
or should
I say
WHO
has gotten to you now?!"

Mommie Dearest.

"Mom? How did you–?"

"
You
put down your
father and me as emergency contacts with your apartment building manager, I'm
afraid. So yes, we know how you overdosed on drugs and cut yourself open while
high, or tripping, or whatever you kids call it.
BUT
, I know your
gentleman caller is nowhere to be seen. You're a goodtime girl, but no one
wants to be anywhere near you when things get serious, because you've already
spread your legs!"

"No, Mom, you don't
understand. That's not even close to the truth! I was–"

"Were you or were you not
naked when the ambulance came?"

I released a breath I didn't know I
was holding. God, that really did look bad, didn't it? "No, well, yes, but
I was naked because I was going to take a shower but…" I didn't know how
to finish that explanation. I was on my way to taking a shower and
she
called me, telling me about the picture or, should I say, accusing me of
prostitution.

I had so much bottled up inside of
me, so many comments about her hurtful words and emotionless demeanor that I
had accumulated over the years. More than anything I wished to express
everything to her, but I couldn't find the corkscrew to release it all and tell
her what I thought. I lacked the guts to do it, to tell her what I think and
how I feel about her. My current job consisted of cutting yards of cloth,
ribbon and string. My past jobs consisted of ringing up cheeseburgers and
putting clothes back on hangers. It had never even occurred to me to ever sell
myself or dance exotically.

But how could I begin to explain
myself to someone who already decided I was guilty?

She interpreted my sudden silence
as guilt. "Well, Morgan, I don't know how to deal with you anymore. You're
an embarrassment. But I'm an optimist, you see. I hope one day you'll come to
your senses. Do you want me to send you clothes to wear home?"

"Thanks, but I don't like how
my face looks in a nun's habit," I blurted out before I could think.

My mom choked on a couple words. I
couldn't help but laugh to myself even though she would never send me a nun's
habit and wasn't even the right religion for it. That's what I get for watching
my
Sister Act
DVD so many times in a row
.

Muttering so fast and low that I
could only catch the words "devil-girl" and "eternal punishment,"
she promptly hung up.

I laughed quietly and slowly, and
then as I re-lived my moment of temporary triumph, my laughing got harsher and
louder. Good thing Dr. Hearse wasn't nearby, or I'm sure he would have some 'interesting'
notes to add to my file.

I stopped laughing after several
minutes, and then sighed contentedly. That was great. I supposed I should have
thanked her for offering to send me clothes to wear home, since I didn't have
anything besides that butt-baring hospital gown.

But it also would have been nice if
she
had given me a chance to explain or, even better,
not
jumped
to conclusions when Ethan called her. It would have been nice if she had
thought, "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for what she did. My
daughter does not whore herself for drugs and does not cut herself up because
she's high." Or even better:  If she had even asked me once how I was
feeling. Did she even know I was in a long-term relationship, and had just
gotten out of it? I doubted it but sadly, I couldn't say for sure.

Why did she always assume
everything was my fault? I sighed and shook the thoughts out of my head. I was
barking up a tree long dead. If the answer to that was inside my brain
somewhere, I would have found it already. Lord knows I'd tried.

"Morgan?" asked a polite,
unsure voice.

My breath caught. What the hell?
Was someone here to visit me? That would be inconceivable. My eyes followed the
sound toward the partially-open door.

Dess—the girl from work who'd taken
away the most beautiful man in the universe—stood there looking timid, which
directly conflicted with the way she presented herself. She had a unique look
about her. She seemed to be of some kind of Asian descent, about four or five
inches taller than I but appeared to be younger, about 18 or so. Her long,
curly black hair had alternating purple and green highlights at the ends. On
her legs she wore things that seemed to be a cross between leggings and
tights:  cotton, black, and resembled exaggerated fishnet-style stockings. She
wore a red jean skirt over that, and a red, see-through mesh top over a black
t-shirt. She had a big red circular tattoo that covered the inside of the crook
of her slim, light brown right arm.

"Dess," I said, trying to
keep the surprise out of my voice. Where the hell was that sitting-up bed
remote thing?

She understood immediately what I
was looking for and, after a moment's hesitation, came in and found the
remote-looking device that was attached to my bed with a short cord. "Here
you go," she said, still shy and polite, my cardboard bed bending so that
I could sit comfortably. Once I sat up, she took a step back after putting a
small green vase of orchids next to my telephone.

Her voice was gentle and
respectful. "I heard you were in the hospital."

"From who? Anny?"

"Yeah," she admitted with
a short, apologetic chuckle. "Our illustrious boss was on the phone,
telling someone about it. I don't know who." Dess rolled her eyes and bit
down on her lip.