“Oh God, don’t let them get me.” That was my reoccurring thought in Western. But, between the forces raging around me, it was difficult to pin down exactly who “they” were.
It was a case of, “Will the real enemy please stand up?”
* * * * * * *
In his infinite wisdom, Lucifer took on the name of “Damian” as his new identity in his attempts to make contact with J.
(I don’t know who was in worse shape.) J wasn’t too impressed with the name—not considering someone named Damian being particularly trustworthy. She just added that name to the list of characters that dwelt in The Mark.
Poor Lucifer was still struggling with a feeling like a failure. (I guess he was struggling with his identity on more than one level.)
* * * * * * *
(THERE’S A FRIEND OF MINE WHO KNOWS A FRIEND WHO WANTED TO KILL HERSELF TODAY. Why? FOR MUCH THE SAME REASON AS I SOMETIMES DO. What happened? WELL, SHE DIDN’T KILL HERSELF, AND I’M GLAD FOR THAT. BUT, IT MAKES ME SAD JUST THE SAME. Because, she wanted to off herself? NO, BECAUSE OF THE PAIN. PAIN IMPOSED FROM AN OUTSIDE FORCE THAT JUST SHOULDN’T BE THERE.)
* * * * * * *
They tried everything to get me to stop cutting my arm. One of the staff, obviously imposing her own values, asked me what I would tell my children about the scars on my arm? (This, she asked of a fourteen year old?) I said I hoped that I’d have the intelligence to tell my children the truth.
They told me I did it for attention. They told me I was just “playing games.” A phrase who’s meaning completely escaped me.
They revoked my privileges and kept me from going to incentive movies and special outings. They threatened to revoke my weekends at home privileges. A threat (I can assure you) that they didn’t act on soon enough to meet my needs.
Another counselor had a heart to heart talk with me. Off the record, she informed me that if I didn’t stop cutting myself within six months I would be sent to detention because Western couldn’t do anything for me. This last hurt me a lot. I knew the woman was lying, but it hurt that she would even say it.
All of which led to nothing—a stalemate. No one was getting what they wanted least of all me. What did happen was that the lines of communication between me and the staff got stretched to the breaking point. Until (if you listen faintly), it nearly snapped.
* * * * * * *
Frobisher’s daughter came to visit along with his son and ex-wife (they were on friendly terms). His first family came to see what his second family was all about. (The second family lived on the other side of the state.) Sally was uneasy but braved through the process.
What the first family saw was two little “gentle winds” (here-to-fore known as “babies”) complete with a Newness that is difficult to mar. They spent the weekend playing with the twins.
Frobisher felt like a fractured fairy tale. Sally’s children felt ignored. Frobisher’s ex-wife felt jealous—she had wanted all his children. His daughter felt numb when she was around them. Later, she felt jealous. The twins would think he was their Daddy when he had really been her and her brother’s first. His son was so glad to see his father that he decided he wanted to stay with him during the summer after school was out.
All in all, everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the weekend was over, and they all said good-bye.
* * * * * * *
We came back late one Sunday afternoon—my father and I...
* * * * * * *
(OH, KONRAD. I REMEMBER YOU SO WELL. TALL WOMAN…. Actually, no taller than you. YEAH, SHE WORE THOSE OUTRAGEOUS CLOGS WITH A LONG PURPLE ROBE AND CURLY RED HAIR. I CAN STILL HEAR HER PACING IN THOSE CLOGS…I HOPE YOU ARE WELL SOMEWHERE, KONRAD…)
* * * * * * *
It was my father who noticed first. “I guess your friend really hurt herself this weekend.” He pointed at Konrad sitting frozen in a chair in the day room. Her wrist thickly bandaged.
It took a minute to sink in to what it all meant. Cheri walked up and added, “Yeah, we were really glad you weren’t here. Konrad came screaming up the hall blood everywhere. We just kept saying, ‘Thank God, Joceile is gone this weekend. It would have really sent her over.’” I felt a pain in my stomach but wanted to know the details anyway.
Konrad had come up to Karen and asked to borrow a razor to shave her legs. Karen, being new and still somewhat trusting, asked her to promise not to hurt herself. A desperate arm cutter has no problem making that lie. Konrad went down to the tub room and slashed her artery.
She came screaming up the hall—blood everywhere. They wrestled her, bandaged her, and carted her off to Mainside to have it sewn up. (We called the main hospital for adults “Mainside.”)
Everyone concurred they were glad I hadn’t been there implying they didn’t want two wild arm cutters on the loose. What no one said, but I wondered, was that maybe Konrad wouldn’t have been so alone if I had been there to talk to. No, I couldn’t have handled seeing Konrad’s blood. I knew that for sure. But, maybe I wouldn’t have had to. I’d never know, and it never seemed to occur to anyone else.