Kaleidoscope (17 page)

I became sympathetic towards my mother, realizing for a moment that I had never wanted to be the selfish one who shrugged the feelings of others aside just because I had a personal problem. There was nothing special about me for being crazy, but something was definitely special about Mom for putting up with it. My voice softened.

“I appreciate you talking to me about this...and uh, I'm sorry I upset you. I really think I'm on to something here though...you, you really helped a lot.”

Mom smiled through the last of her tears. She had begun doing her best to pull herself together. “No, I'm sorry I wasn't able to tell you anything sooner...I really, truly am. You had to figure it out on your own.” She seemed so defeated.

Mom sighed, stiffening her spine and relinquishing her hand to brush imaginary dust from her lap as she got up. “But that's a really big thing, honey. I think that you and your therapist will have a lot to talk about this week.”

I stood up too, bustling to the living room and returning with Mom's book. I placed it in her hands and she took it, relieved at the chance to immerse herself in another universe for a while.
Oh, we would
, I thought to myself.
We certainly would
.

Where would I even start? “Hey, Ms. Orowitz...so I just remembered that I tried to kill myself when I was fifteen, but I have no idea why. I was institutionalized, but you probably already know all of this from the documents of a slew of other shrinks that came before you. So, let's talk about that.”

What kind of person couldn't remember wanting to end their life? The thought made me deeply uncomfortable with myself.

I imagined my therapist's mousey, even-tempered face and her ever-present smile that erupted with any “advice” she gave during our sessions, and my eyes narrowed. I had always found her to be so smug and condescending, peering over those enormous frames at me, and now it made sense why.

The thought that pretty much everyone who knew me was more aware of what had happened in my life than I was made me simmer with rage. I feared that during my next meeting with Ms. Orowitz, I might knock those glasses right off of her face and smash them into the smelly-looking brown carpet on her floor with my boot.
How are your soul-seeing powers now?

Her horrified face in my mind blurred and then twisted into the face of a man whose very image seemed tainted with evil. He was like the grim reaper; he was a bringer of pain, with large, dark eyes sunken into his shadowed face. This was the man from my dream, the man who was named Eric. I clearly pictured now the face of a middle-aged man with scruffy dark brown and gray facial hair in the shape of a goatee around his thin lips. It made him look much older than he probably was—he also seemed very tired. His shorter hair, dark brown to match, was mop-like on top of his square head. It perched on a long neck with an Adam's apple that bulged absurdly, emphasizing how thin he was.

Probably from being on so many drugs
, I thought. I couldn't for the life of me understand why Mom would date someone like this, and even worse, allow him to live in our house. He must have lived with us for a fair amount of time. Why else would he be storing his pills in my mother's medicine cabinet, and smoking his disgusting cancer sticks in the nights of my own home?

What was even more puzzling than Mom's choice in men, however, was the instinctual feeling of fear that I felt when I thought about him. It made the image of his face disappear almost immediately, as if a door had slammed shut in front of me. I attempted to recall Eric's face to my vision, to turn it over in my mind, but it suddenly became nearly impossible to do so. I had become exhausted, and all I could see beyond the familiar scene of the now-empty dining room was an emptiness that had become just as familiar to me.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

November 16

It's a lazy Sunday for everyone here today, even for Mom. Murray has always been lazy, but today he's chosen to be lazy next to me in my room. He must know that something's up...pets always know.

I've been exhausted ever since Thursday. There's been so much to wrap my head around, and it feels like I'm spiraling out of control with nothing real to hold on to. Being the last to find out about your own life feels like being the only person not in on a secret that everyone else knows. I feel betrayed...but I know why no one told me. I get it. Mom's right...if she had told me I'd been institutionalized for trying to commit suicide, I never would have believed her if I hadn't remembered it for myself. And if my mind had ever allowed me even a glimpse into that reality, I would have shut the door faster than I could say “yes” to a piece of cake.

But now where do I go?

Something is changing inside of me, I can feel it...and it's scary. I've just now started being comfortable with who I am, with what I am, and now it's all being ripped away from me, and my brain is screaming, “No, THIS is who you are. You're a broken idiot who isn't good for anybody.”

Sometimes I think that's probably right. I've caused my mom a ton of pain, and it was crystal clear to me on Thursday when we talked. And Austin...I don't think I've had an opportunity to hurt him yet, but it's just a matter of time. I couldn't bear the thought of doing that, but I am going to have to face him sooner or later, I guess.

I tried to stretch, but every muscle in my body had stiffened into concrete. My body ached in time with my head, which had been buzzing with a dull, ever-present pain for days.
It's enough to make someone throw themselves over a balcony
, I thought. I smiled to myself at the irony, before halfheartedly trying to convince myself that such a joke wasn't funny. But humor was how I coped when everything else had failed (which it had considerably), so it was funny indeed.

First, I glanced at the overweight orange feline who had taken residence beside me on the bed. I suppose he wasn't too bad, sometimes. Right now, his company was better than nothing in the lonely world  I'd cultivated for myself as I made time for things to sink in. I pet Murray gently, soliciting immediate purring as he rubbed his short-haired orange head against my arm.

Then I glanced over at my phone, which I'd returned to its original place on my desk. I'd turned it to silent mode; Austin had been calling and texting every day since Friday in what was becoming a desperate effort to get a hold of me.

I'm sure he was worried about me. Maybe he was even afraid that he'd frightened
me
off. I hadn't seen him since our magical day downtown, after all—the day he kissed me. I just couldn't bring myself to talk to him, not while I was battling the demon inside of me that had me convinced I would ruin his very center by being in his life. I couldn't talk to him until I knew what to say.

But
, I reasoned, slowly dragging myself to a sitting position and floating over to my cell phone, t
hat could be never.

I stared at the screen, alight with the alert of a new phone call within the last thirty minutes while I'd been napping. It was a pointless use of my time, but I didn't have the energy to do much else. I thumbed through the plethora of messages that followed on the next screen:

>>
Can't blame her, I hate going to the doctor 2.

That one had been in response to my text on Thursday. In the madness of the events that ensued that afternoon, I had completely forgotten to respond to him. Feeling like more of an idiot than I already did, I continued reading.

>>
Hey, havent heard from you much today, I'll call after work, k?

That one had been from Friday.

>>
Hey beautiful, call me back when u arent busy. =)

>>
Uh oh, did u get kidnapped walking 2 take the trash out? Haha, call me!

And the newest two were from today.

>>
Jade, havent heard from you in a while now, everything okay?

>>
You're really starting 2 worry me, please call ASAP. Hope everythings okay.

I didn't think I could manage actually calling Austin, but he deserved to know I was safe and that I didn't hate him. I settled for a vague text response.

Hey Austin, really really sorry I haven't been responding,
I typed. Ugh, texting really did drive me nuts—it felt like a robot talking to another robot. There was no emotion behind it. How much would I reveal?

>>
Hey Austin, really really sorry I havent been responding. I'm just going through some things with my therapy, but Ill call you soon. I promise.

I sighed and slumped into my desk chair, very aware of the static that took over my mind in the wake of my stress. I had terrible coping mechanisms for handling too many things at once—perhaps that was another possible reason for my...well, instability. It was difficult to think, difficult to reason, and even more difficult than usual to concentrate on anything at all. Right now, the only thought on my mind was Austin's beautiful eyes, his dark, tousled hair, and the mellow complexion of his skin. Most of all I thought of his smile beaming at me like a lighthouse through a storm, and how he made me laugh when I didn't even want to smile.

If there ever was anything which made me truly aware of my inferiority as a human being, it was that despite how much I deeply cared for Austin, and possibly even because of it, I was unable to act on my feelings for him. It was that although it felt like my insides were being serrated with a hot knife when I thought about living a life without him, now that I knew him, I couldn't be bothered to pick up the phone and let him know what was happening.

It was that, despite Austin clearly seeming to care about me too, and even though he'd shared so much with me, I couldn't convince myself it was enough to trust him completely. I was much, much more of a “work in progress” than I think Austin knew, and it was heartbreaking to think that such a truth would shatter the fragile relationship I'd slowly been building with him.

I didn't want to admit to myself that if it felt this awful just thinking about losing him right now, I didn't want to know how it might feel to never see that dark hair and bright smile again. I didn't know if I could handle it in my current state of chaos. I didn't know if I would be able to even in normal circumstances.
Why do people want to be in love?

The worst part of the entire ordeal was how much I
wanted
to trust him—I truly did, and I never wanted much of anything to do with other people. Austin was different...and yet, something held me back. It was something I couldn't quite hold on to, something I couldn't quite see, but that I felt lurking just below the skin like a ghost. It must just be another fragmented puzzle piece to this mess of my psyche that I was trying to fix.

I wished I could just fix my life with sheer willpower, and knowing this was impossible sent waves of anger rolling and crashing inside my head. I shut my eyelids tight against it, as tight as I could, to reinforce the dam of numbness I'd built around myself. I knew I could get through this if I just didn't feel it, even though all I'd ever wanted for the past couple years was to feel. Did that even make any sense?
I really am messed up.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I strode casually to Ms. Orowitz's office for my weekly therapy class. My hands dug deep into the pockets of my sweater, and I stared at the sidewalk to keep the drafty breeze from numbing my face too much. I could see my breath on this chilly day, and as a gust of wind threatened to knock me down, I hurried my pace to the warm office building.

The cold won out against my hesitance to talk with Ms. Orowitz today. I shook my head, though no one was around to see it. There was just too much that had gone on this week, but I couldn't ignore it forever.

“Welcome, welcome as always Jade!” she said as I entered. I felt like a heavy gray cloud descending upon the room as I entered, sucking up all of her cheer and spitting it out as lightning.

“Yep. Hi.”

I lifted my head and noticed the therapist's normally optimistic eyes had become level as if she were about to discuss something important with me.
She must know.

“Go ahead and have a seat, dear. How has your week been?” She smiled, and I sat down with no more enthusiasm than I'd had when I entered. I crossed my legs and hunched my shoulders, placing my hands in my lap. I never knew what to do with my hands while I was here---Ms. Orowitz was always analyzing every move I made, even if she didn't say so, and I didn't want to do the wrong thing. It only served to increase my anxiety and irritation every week.

“Well, it's been...eventful,” I replied.

It was best to test the waters. I'd been thinking about how I might broach my sudden clarity of memory for the better part of the last few days, but I was still nervous. Mostly, I didn't want to get committed again—which was really a stupid fear, considering how long ago those events had transpired, and since remembering them was what I was
supposed
to be doing. However, logic has never been able to quiet my nerves.

Ms. Orowitz's face became attentive; looking at her again, I thought perhaps I had just imagined that she knew I'd be talking about this. The whole situation grated heavily on me, so anything was possible. Plus, I was crazy, of course.

“Oh really? Do you want to talk to me about it?”

I squirmed in my seat. “Well...not really,” I admitted. “But I suppose I probably should.”

Ms. Orowitz smiled at my honesty and perched her chin on those tiny hands of hers. She gave me her whole attention and didn't say a word. It made me even more uncomfortable.

“Well...alright. So, I wrote this down in my journal too, but...I went to the doctor with my mom on Thursday. She had a check-up and prescription renewal, and she didn't want to go alone. While I was in the waiting room, I...remembered something.”

I told her in as much detail as I could about the memory I had. I told her about the severely uncomfortable talk between Mom and I about it. I didn't have the will just yet to tell her I'd also been kissed for the first time since I last saw her—it seemed completely irrelevant in this room with her. Even though Austin's kiss meant the world to me, I had also been stowing that away for later. I didn't want it to be overshadowed by this negativity, to be tainted with the inconvenient timing of my “progress.”

When I finished, Ms. Orowitz's dark, magnified eyes were filled with a variety of different thoughts that reflected back at me. I saw pleasure that I was fulfilling her goal of remembering my past and making her feel good about her job. I saw surprise there as well, maybe at how quickly things seemed to clicking into place, but mainly I saw a grave look that darkened her eyes. They were tinted with sadness that must be empathy for me. We both knew this was big, and that it meant our sessions would now be taking it up a notch.

“Wow, Jade...well, first let me say that I'm very sorry this had happened to you. But I'd also like to tell you how amazing it is for you to remember, and I feel so much pride on your behalf for your ability to push into such a sordid and large detail of your life.”

“I know you must already have known about this,” I replied pointedly, ignoring her sympathies. “It's probably the entire reason that I've even been in therapy.”

I had expected this to catch Ms. Orowitz off guard, but it didn't. Instead, she sat up, folding her dainty hands in her lap, and put on her best 'stern therapist' face.

“I did know, yes. But I'm sure you must also know, as I've told you before, that I can't simply tell you what happened in your life, because just knowing isn't the goal! You see, you had to remember for yourself...and as traumatic as it must have been for you--” her glance asked me to verify this perception, and I nodded, “--I'm glad that you did.”

“Well...I guess. Mom said the same thing.” I looked down at my fidgeting hands again. “But, there is one thing I can't remember that seems just a little important. I don't know why I did it. I can't remember any feelings at all of why I did it. Do you...is that something you were told? Because if it is, I think that it's something I should know, even if it's something I can't remember on my own.”

“Oh Jade...” the sorrow in the therapist's eyes sparkled as she sighed at me. “This is, of course, the biggest question of all for you to find the answer to. Unfortunately, I can't help you answer it...I don't know why anyone does what they do. Even if you were able to remember more about the incident, I could offer my professional insight, but I couldn't give you the reason why you would have tried to commit suicide. The answer to that is something that exists only in you, and you must find out for yourself.”

I became despondent. I never really counted on Ms. Orowitz for answers, or any therapist really, but I'd held on some hope that she could magically tell me some of these details and I could just move past this whole thing and be done with it. I was tired of dwelling on it. I was tired of looking through a door that was only half-opened, expecting to see everything that was inside.

The clock continued ticking in the background, and I sighed with defeat, looking around the room like a caged bird. I settled on looking through the slats of the blinds covering the window in the corner of the room directly to my left, where I could see the wind whipping through what was left of the browned leaves that still clung to a few trees.

As per usual, the silence didn't last long before Ms. Orowitz's piercing voice broke through it. “Well, Jade...this might be a little bit of good news for you.”

“What's that?” I asked without looking away from the window.

“Well, I think I'm ready to give you a bit more of a concise diagnosis. You've made so much progress that I'm able to narrow it down a little bit more, and by doing so, we'll be able to get even further!”

“Oh goodie.” I glanced up only slightly to hear the verdict on what brand of insanity I was blessed with. Ms. Orowitz had waddled over to her desk and was rummaging through a few manilla folders that lay scattered on top of them, 'hmm'-ing as she did so until she found what she was looking for. She held one folder up in victory, then ambled with no grace  at all back to her imprinted seat.

She opened the manilla folder in her lap, adjusting her glasses as she skimmed over the papers within. “Well, I believe that your dissociation results as a subtype from post-traumatic stress disorder.” She paused and looked up, as if seeking my permission to continue.

“Okay?”

“Dissociation is one of the most direct defenses that the psyche has against a traumatic experience that's just, frankly, too overwhelming. When things are tough and there really is no escape from the internal distress that one is feeling, he or she will detach themselves from their external environment, making them feel like they aren't a part of what's going on around them. Usually this means a person will have a tough time associating any feelings with an event. And of course, memories with associated feelings tend to be remembered more clearly and more easily.

I don't want to get too scientific on you, dear, as that isn't the point of this discussion, but I want to explain to you why emotions are so important to remembering things. There are three parts of the brain that are very important and relevant here. One is the amygdala, which helps the brain process emotions, and also plays a key role in what you probably know as the 'fight or flight' response. Next is the prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for a slew of things, including concentrating and decision-making, and it also houses our 'working memories'. That's the part you probably know as the short-term memory.

Finally we have the hippocampus, which basically combines all of the perceptive information you've taken in throughout the day and the emotional information of an event, supplied by the amygdala, and decides if it should be committed to long-term memory based on how...intense, I suppose, the information is. It's like a computer saving a file to a hard drive. So you see, when there's a lot of emotional information lacking, from dissociating yourself from the world around you, your brain is less likely to hold on to that information because it doesn't fire up quite as much of a neurological storm. It doesn't seem as important, so that information doesn't make it to the long-term memory. This is likely a reason why you continue to have problems remembering more recent things.”

I raised my eyebrows. This was a lot of what I'm sure was really useful information, but it was so hard to concentrate. It was a difficult task in general, but when Ms. Orowitz went on one of her psychological rambles, it was almost impossible to not slip into one of my daydreams. Nonetheless, I forced myself to listen as she continued.

“And did you know,” she went on, flipping to a different page in her folder and raising her hand matter-of-factly, “that the hippocampus actually shrinks during traumatic events? This part isn't just for storing memory, it's for recalling them too. And just as I said before, as far as the brain being like a computer, if your hippocampus is shrunk due to trauma, it will act like a shorted hard-drive...it still works, just not as well. When it recalls memories, the links are broken. Sometimes flashbacks occur when a person sees something that is relevant to their broken memory...” she finally paused to take a breath, looking intently at me as she did so. “Which is how you've been tracking down your lost memories. And one more thing...remember how I'd talked about the prefrontal cortex?”

“Yep, you just said it about two minutes ago.”

“Oh...yes, well, just making sure you're paying attention! No pun intended...sorry about that.” Ms. Orowitz winked at me, and I rolled my eyes. “Post-traumatic stress disorder research has shown that the prefrontal cortex can also become damaged, leading to memory and concentration problems that make it even harder to recall memories and to make new ones.”

Ms. Orowitz pulled her thin, ruby-colored lips into a line that made them almost nonexistent, signaling the end of my psychology lesson for the day. I leaned forward on the couch again, having reclined while my therapist jumbled along about my brain and how damaged it was.
Shrinking, damaged, shorted out...great.

“So, basically you're telling me that I have several important parts of my brain that are shrinking and shorting out and making my life a living hell because I can't cope with stress?”

“Oh no dear, trauma is much more than stress. It's
severe
mental stress that--”

“Yeah, whatever. Stress,” I interrupted. “So...how do we fix it then? I mean, is there some kind of pill you're going to ask me to take, or some kind of...brain exercise I can do?” I was well aware I was grasping for straws here, but in my defense, this wasn't my area of expertise. If it were, I wouldn't be here in the first place.

“Well, sometimes depression medication can help with the heightened effects of stress on the body,” Ms. Orowitz mused. “But I've never been big on medication, myself. I like to use those as a last resort, after every other route has been tried. Medication will help mask the problems you face due to your issue, but we're after a solution. However, there certainly are a few things we can try, such as stress management techniques and cognitive behavioral therapy, which will be a little bit more...involved I suppose, than our previous sessions.”

She sighed. “If only we knew a little bit more behind your story, I could be more specific, and maybe even enlist in the help of a specialist. Perhaps as you continue your journey, it will become clearer.”

“So...I just keep doing therapy. Only now instead of dealing with my memory issues, we're just going to try some new crap.”

Ms. Orowitz frowned. “Well...it's a bit more positive of a change I think, but yes, essentially that's how we can begin to approach your post-traumatic stress disorder.”

I groaned. This was more of the same, and nothing else. She certainly had a way of making all of this “progress” feel completely insignificant. Static threatened to overtake my attention as I gazed again out the small open part of the window.

“However,” Ms. Orowitz added, “Things like your painting classes and continuing to make new friends will be helpful in your therapy as well.” She paused, ruffling her folder of papers into a disorganized pile and placing them on her desk. “How
have
your friendships been lately, if you don't mind my asking? Are you still going to those painting classes?”

She sounded almost too eager, and it almost felt nice to thwart her with my response just so she might be wrong for once. “No, I actually haven't gone since we finished the painting project.”