“How does the mind do anything? The Mia you created helped save you from abuse and captivity. She gave you entrance to a world that you were being denied. Heather and the others did the same thing. They’re all very protective over you. I suspected you weren’t ready for school. I wasn’t even sure you were quite ready for the outside world. Your body may have been physically ready, but your head was not. I felt at the time that spending time at home reestablishing your relationships with your family would better help with your recovery. I underestimated how overwhelming that would be for you. I should have waited to sign your discharge papers.”
I shot her a questioning look, not understanding what she meant. “Why?” I asked.
“You had already exhibited signs that your brain had manifested other hallucinations while you were in the hospital. My hope was that being released from the hospital would distance you from them. Initially, it appeared I was right. The hallucinations had given you closure and had already taken steps to let you go.”
Her words were confusing me. I didn’t understand what she was trying to tell me. It was just me at the hospital. My Mia was already gone by then. She wasn’t making any sense. The only person I knew was Gunner. I shook my head in denial.
Dr. Marshall actually looked pained as she waited for me to figure out what she was trying to get me to understand. I shook my head again, refusing to give her what she wanted.
“Mia, tell me about Gunner,” she finally said, giving me no out.
Gunner? What did he have to do with this? Why would she bring him up when we were talking about my broken head and its need to trick me? Gunner was special. He didn’t belong in this conversation. The first stirrings of aggravation rose up in me.
“You remember how scared you were about all the firsts you’d be tackling?” She spoke softly, pushing me toward a door I didn’t want opened. Not now, not ever. What she was saying was not possible. “You were scared about how you would handle all the things you didn’t understand. Do you remember that?”
I refused to answer her, digging my fingers into my rib cage until they poked painfully between each one.
“Mia, Gunner was there to help you. He made all those firsts less intimidating. He gave you the confidence to believe you were ready to face the outside world.”
“You’re wrong,” I said in a quivering voice. “Everyone loved Gunner.”
“Everyone loved you, honey. Gunner’s personality inside you gave you the confidence to talk to the people who terrified you. He gave you the push you needed. A push we all were grateful for.”
I shook my head again. “No, this isn’t right.” A filmstrip of memories ran through my head. I could see myself stowing a candy bar wrapped in orange paper in the pocket of my robe, shuffling down the hall that first time, making my way to the doors that would lead outside, stepping outside and seeing Gunner for the first time. Now though, the bench was empty except for me, talking to someone who wasn’t there. My mind recalled another memory of me climbing the stairs, holding my arm out like I’m helping someone up, but now all I could see was me alone.
I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the truth away. I didn’t want to see any of it. The memories wouldn’t stop though. Next I stood against the wall outside the office at school. I’m breathing heavily in the memory, on the verge of a panic attack. I lifted my head as if someone had called out to me, but in this memory no one was there. Again I was alone, walking down the hall, talking to myself.
The last memory was the worst. I sat in the cafeteria talking to my three friends, but of course, they’re not really there. It’s just me alone at the table, talking to no one while everyone in the cafeteria looks on.
A flush of embarrassment rose to my cheeks as I grabbed my arm, wishing for the flame from my lighter. Everyone knew. Everyone except me. All those kids who judged me at school had been right. No wonder they came after me so relentlessly. I had been the freak since day one. Dr. Marshall may not use the word, but there was no denying that I was crazy. I longed for my basement prison, missing its safety. I would even take the punishments over all of this.
My heart ached for Gunner. How could he not exist? “Everyone liked him,” I said defensively. I began crying harder, grieving for my loss. If only my tears could wash me out to sea, away from the harsh realities of truth. I hated the truth. I hated this life. Most of all I hated my brain. If I could scoop it out of my head, I would gladly do it. I’d stomp it into a pile of mush that could never be retrieved again.
A nurse came in to save me from drowning, carrying a life preserver in the form of a needle. As she found my vein, I would have thanked her if I weren’t drowning in a million tears I had kept locked away for so many years. The medicine quickly took effect, sending Dr. Marshall and the ruthless truth fading into the background. I drifted to sleep, feeling more loss than I’d ever felt in my life.
33
LIFE INSIDE the Brookville Mental Facility was as different as night and day versus a regular hospital. There were more rules and schedules galore. Visitors weren’t allowed to pop in whenever they wanted and patients weren’t allowed to roam freely. I couldn’t have cared less about any of the goings on inside the facility. There always seemed to be a group activity or session we were forced to attend. We were watched constantly and our every move was monitored by the watchful cameras stationed throughout the entire building. I ignored the cameras like everything else, refusing to interact with anyone who talked to me. I went where they told me, ate what was served in the small cafeteria, and accepted whatever pills were handed to me before lights-out. If this was my life, then this was what they would get.
Day after day I met with Dr. Marshall but I remained stoically silent. There was nothing left to say. I had nothing left to give. Accepting her revelations became more than I could handle. I found myself second-guessing everything and everyone around me. My days when I wasn’t being forced to participate were spent sitting alone, keeping my room as dark as the nurses would allow. The faces of everyone that walked by my room felt like they were taunting me. They would glance at me as they passed, but were they real? I had no idea. I wasn’t sure I cared anymore. My only solace came when I was given my daily dose of medication at which point my mind drifted into a state of nothingness. No threat of creating imaginary friends or first kisses with a boy who didn’t exist.
Mom and Jacob tried to visit me the first couple of weeks, but I was too ashamed to see them. Like Dr. Marshall, they knew I was crazy and chose to keep it from me. They let me make a fool of myself, coddled me when I deserved the truth.
My next therapy session with Dr. Marshall consisted of my continued silence. For her part, she remained unaffected and did all the talking. She opened her laptop and pulled up cases similar to mine. Even though I refused to talk, my eyes devoured the words on the screen. It didn’t escape my notice that many doctors believed my condition was a camouflage for deflecting other mental illnesses.
“Mia, you have to talk,” Dr. Marshall said, closing her laptop.
I bit the side of my nail, tugging at the skin. Chewing my cuticles was the only form of self-mutilation I was allowed. The burns on my arm I kept hidden by a gauze bandage had been discovered by the hospital staff. They were treated and wrapped and already starting to heal. Not that I made it easy for them. I picked at the new skin during my first night in the facility, smiling in the dark when I felt it oozing down my arm. I was so wrapped up in its comforting tenderness I gave no thought to what would happen when it was discovered in the morning. My sores were treated and bandaged again by a stone-faced nurse along with a notation to my chart. That night I was strapped to my bed rails, making it impossible to pick at the sores again.
Dr. Marshall watched me chew my thumbnail down to the quick, but didn’t comment on my mutilation. “Mia,” she prompted.
I looked up from my nail. “What?” I finally demanded.
“Can you tell me what you are feeling?”
I didn’t answer right away, sticking my index fingernail between my teeth. “What I’m feeling? I traded one prison for another. At least in my old prison I wasn’t surrounded by other crazy people who scream all night.” My words came out faster than bullets.
“Do you miss living with Judy?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow at me.