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Hello—
At the end of our session yesterday Tracy told me I should think about writing letters to myself. I’m not sure how to address myself. Is that weird? Right now I’m sitting in the Gen Pop activity room. Brandy is playing Uno with Billy, and Gideon and Nick are building Legos and arguing over something. I don’t know where Charlotte is. She seems to disappear a lot. Gideon told me to be careful around Charlotte and that she lies. She says Charlotte’s been here a lot longer than twenty days,
Anyway. Should I say “Dear me”? Or “Dear Bella”? Or maybe I should say “Dear Isabella,” because it seems like no one here can remember I just want to be called Bella. I don’t know. Anyway, I’m writing this letter to myself because Tracy said I have a lot of things inside (duh) and it might help me to get them out, rather than letting it all bottle up. Actually, I think she used the word “metastasize” (Idon’t think I spelled that right, but whatever—I’m the only one who is going to see this).
After I ripped up all the paper from the water bottle, she had me scoop it onto her desk and she was all “I asked you difficult things and I watched you begin to pick your cuticles and bite your lip and then decimate this label. This pile is your anxiety. It’s what you’re carrying around.” Frankly, I think that’s stupid. Not the anxiety part, but because what I feel is way heavier than a bunch of paper fluffs.Try enough paper fluffs to equal ten thousand bricks and then maybe we can talk. She said it’s possible I may have an anxiety disorder that contributes to my drinking. She said there are a lot of different types and people can sometimes go their entire lives without being diagnosed. She said she’ll suggest outpatient therapy for me to my parents (good luck with that, Tracy!).
I have to be careful because I don’t want to tell her too much. I know she’s an adult and all and this is her job, but I will never be over Dylan telling me I was too much. Like, I thought when you were close to people, that’s what you did, and I turned out to be wrong. Even Kristen and Cherie got sick of me talking about Dylan. So. Tracy can get dribs and drabs, just enough to satisfy her.
I did tell her, though (because it felt like not too much to say) that things are hard for me, in general, and that I kind of like to avoid people and certain situations because they get me all nervous and anxious.
And then she looked at me and said, “Unless you’re drunk. Then you can manage.” Like, point-blank just said that to my face, easy as pie. And so, I answered, “Yes.” I know what she’s going to try to get at. I’ve seen the movies. She’ll peck and poke until I break down or something and say “I’m an alcoholic” and she’ll swoop in and music will swell and she’ll save me, but that isn’t going to happen. Because I’m not going to say that because that is not what I am.
It isn’t.
Gideon and Quinn have managed to build a pretty tall Lego house over there. I think I’d like a me-sized Lego house to hide in. Maybe I can get them to build me one. Tracy also said that when I write to myself, I should note some positive things about being here. Like things I feel physically and mentally. So here they are:
I think I have some friends (Brandy, Holly).
I think I might have some others (Gideon, I hope—she seems cool enough right now, and maybe I can get that story about her going psycho and what that’s all about).
Josh is a positive (it was nice he came back for me on the run yesterday).
Josh is a negative (I do not need another Dylan).
I only had to stop once on the run this morning with Chuck and it was maybe a little nice to be outside and I did have more energy after that run than before. Josh ran with me for a little bit until Gideon doubled back and kind of gave him the side-eye and then he ran ahead. Maybe she thinks I’m headed for whatever those kids Emmanuel and Shelly did, but that’s not going to happen.
So far I feel like I’m dragging myself around and can barely function, but I felt…I don’t know…refreshed after that run.
Look at me, I sound like I’m in a feminine hygiene commercial.
Tracy mentioned that it sounds like I’ve been self-medicating. Soothing myself. I’m not opposed to that term. It actually sounds like I’m just trying to take care of myself in a weird way, doesn’t it? Applying some sort of wonderful balm to my hurts.
Today was the fifth day of daily photos. I managed to not flinch when Tracy clicked the button (positive).
But I still didn’t look at my photo. I’m an expert now at looking at myself in the mirror without actually looking at myself when I brush my teeth or wash my face. I kind of let my eyes go blurry so whoever that is in the mirror is cloudy, indistinct.
I don’t want to see that person.
I’m not sure who she is.
Goodbye—
Day Seven
I still can’t sleep verywell at night; I just roll around in my bed. It seems like everyone else gets to sleep just fine, even after the night nurse comes in to do random urine or blood tests. You don’t know when that’s going to happen, I guess. I don’t even know how you’d get something in here to take, anyway. They came in last night and took out Holly and Gideon. It was hard for me to relax after that. I don’t know why I’m so jittery so late at night. I should be tired from that god-awful ball exercise Phil made us do again this morning and the running every day, but mostly it’s just making my muscles ache.
So I get out of bed and walk up and down the hall. Sometimes Janet is on duty, sometimes it’s someone different. I like Janet because she plays music. If I had my phone, I’d wear it. I’m jealous of the kids that do.
But I just walk. I’m up to forty laps now. I try not to think of anything as I walk. I’m focused on chipping away the time, because each second, minute, day that goes by is one more day and night down.
—
On one wall of the activity room in Gen it’s like a chapel of Polaroids. Tracy takes extras so some kids can take them home when they leave, and the others stay on the wall if they givepermission. If you stand far away, it kind of looks like one whole face, almost, made up of hundreds of people. It reminds me of the mosaic mural through the Fourth Avenue Underpass. I don’t know who did it, but it’s cool. It’s like thousands of photographs of actual people on small panels all put together so when you walk through the Underpass, it’s just faces, faces, faces.
Tracy was right. You can see a difference in some people’s faces in these Polaroids. They start out angry or afraid, eyes pinched, mouth tight, and gradually there’s a softening, a brightening of their skin. Sometimes a smile.
Sometimes there isn’t, though. Sometimes it’s just the same face all the way through: set and determined, a defiance in the way the kid looks at the camera. The same stance every time.
