E. Montes - Perfectly Damaged

With my arms crossed, I lean back in the seat and stare out the window. “Sorry, but I’m not budging on this one. No.”

She huffs one last time and pulls into the parking lot of our favorite local restaurant.

And that’s the end of that conversation.

Jenna

The one person my mother tried to keep Brooke and me away from was my grandmother. She felt it was the only way we wouldn’t find out the truth—the truth of her past. But after I received my schizoaffective diagnosis, she had no choice. Ultimately, coming clean about all of the mental health history in the family was her only option.

Born and raised in Philadelphia as an only child, my mother came from nothing. She loved her father dearly. He used to work endless hours as a mechanic to support his mentally ill wife. When my mother was only ten, her mother was admitted to a psych ward and diagnosed with schizophrenia after stabbing her husband—yes, my grandmother attempted to murder my grandfather because the voices in her head told her to. After Mom was left with no mother of her own, she fought to make sure she’d never have to go through the turmoil of her childhood ever again. She vowed to stay away from anything that remotely reminded her of her mother’s illness.

Until me, that is. Until I inherited the fucking crazy gene. Mom didn’t have to say it; the expression on her face every time she looked at me explained it all. Her every glance was filled with disgust, hurt, and disapproval. She tried to change after Brooke was gone, desperate to build a relationship with me, but by that time it was too late. I didn’t need her. I needed Brooke.

Three months before Brooke’s death, we went in search of our grandmother. Mom refused to give us any information as to which facility she was housed in. Brooke researched endless hours until we found her. She did it more for me than for herself. Brooke knew how difficult it was for me to go through this alone. Yes, I had her by my side every step of the way, but no one truly understood the demons that I fought in my head: Every. Single. Day. I needed answers. The only way we felt we could find them was by finding her.

But even after my first visit with my grandmother over ten months ago, I didn’t find answers. I still haven’t. Every time I come here, I hope to leave with some type of reason as to why I am the way I am, but I leave just as confused as I entered. My grandmother lives at The Brandy Mental Health Facility. It houses people with mental disorders who are incapable of taking care of themselves, or are a threat to themselves or those around them. Instead of stopping my visits after Brooke passed, something compelled me to keep coming on my own. Knowing that I’m no different than her, facing the harsh reality that she is, in fact, all alone in here frightens me.

It could be me sitting in that chair with my head bowed low and my body slumped from all the mind-numbing drugs. Her eyes may be the most disconcerting thing about her. They’re empty, lost in the world inside of her. Soft music plays in the background of the visiting room. Anxiously, my eyes leave my grandmother and roam the area. There are only ten patients in the room—all different ages and genders—and my eyes zoom in on one in particular. She looks so young, maybe late teens. Long, dark locks of her hair spill over her shoulders. She’s curled up in a ball on the chair, legs pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her face is buried in her legs, but her eyes peek out above her knees.

The girl rocks in place, humming along with the soft tune. A woman sits in front of her, chatting away. I assume this is her mother. I wonder what’s going through the young girl’s mind. Is she terrified that this may always be her life? At such a young age, does she feel nonexistent, even though she’s clearly here? Does she see how everyone around her looks at her as if she’s crazy, even when they claim they don’t? Is she watching everyone else live a normal life while she’s stuck in a world she sees and hears differently? I feel for her immensely. I remember being her age and having these thoughts. I still have these thoughts.

“W-well, h-hello, Jenna. How are you?” I hear from behind me. Turning in my seat, I spot Thomas.

I smile at him. “I’m doing well, Thomas. How are you?”

He grins brightly. Blinking rapidly, he responds, “I-I’m d-doing well. My son is v-visiting me today.” Thomas has been a patient here for a few years. When I first came to see my grandmother, he was in the visiting room. Every day he waits patiently for his son to come, but it never happens. “W-want to play a game with me?” he stutters.

“I wish I could, but I’ll be leaving soon. I have an appointment.”

The sad expression on his face breaks my heart. “O-okay. M-maybe next time?”

For some reason, I have a soft spot for Thomas. I take a quick look at my grandmother, who’s still out of it due to the medication they gave her. It’s either sit here and watch her sleep for the last fifteen minutes of my visit or put it to good use and spend it with Thomas. “Cards?” I suggest to Thomas. His face lights up, nodding in excitement like a kid instead of a fifty-year-old man. He grabs a deck of cards from the table beside him and begins to shuffle.

* * *

Dr. Rosario’s office is empty as I enter, so she takes me in right away. I watch her as she looks over my file. Her dark hair, highlighted with shades of caramel, is twisted into a low bun. Square-shaped designer glasses frame her thin face perfectly. Dr. Rosario crosses her right leg over her left, dangling her three-inch platform shoe in place.

She reminds me of the nurses that take care of the patients where my grandmother lives. They’re good at what they do, sure, but they’re detached, clinical. They do their jobs and go through the motions. They don’t really care about their patients. And Dr. Rosario doesn’t really care about me. Everything about her and this office screams she doesn’t give a crap about my condition. She cares about the money my condition bestows upon her. She’s paid very well by my parents to “treat” me. More like keep everything hush-hush.

Everyone from family to friends thinks I’m in therapy because I need to talk about my feelings after Brooke’s death. None of them know I’ve been in therapy practically all my life. If word got out that the McDaniels’ precious little girl, the only one they have left, is screwed up in the head, rumors would spread rapidly. And my mother wouldn’t want that.

Dr. Rosario clears her throat. Lifting her head, she stares at me through her glasses. “Jenna, how was your weekend?”

“Good,” I respond.

She smiles. “Did you do anything interesting?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“No,” I answer again.

There’s an awkward few seconds of silence. She finally huffs out, “Jenna, in order for this to work out, you need to be a bit more active in these sessions.”

“Active?”

“Yes. More involved. I ask you a question. You answer.”

“I am answering, Dr. Rosario.”

She uncrosses her leg, adjusts herself in the seat, and places my file down flat on her lap. “Yes, you are, but I’d like a little more. A bit more description would be nice. Do you think you can do that?”

“Sure.” I cross my arms over my chest. She wants more description. I can handle that. I lean back against the three thousand dollar white leather sofa.

“Good.” She nods. “Okay, so how was your weekend?”

“It was good.”

“Did you do anything interesting?”

“No. I. Did. Not.” I emphasize every single word—descriptively, of course. I understand this is a bit childish of me, but let’s face it, she’s counting down the time just as much as I am. Only thing is I’m counting down to get out; she’s counting to get paid.

Of course, since she’s been my psychiatrist for the last year, she knows how to push my buttons. She leans back with a daring expression on her face. “Did you have a chance to work on your painting this weekend?”

There. She’s done it. She’s hit a nerve. I shift uncomfortably and tear my eyes away to settle over her desk on the left-hand side of the office. It’s an excessively large desk if you ask me. “No, I didn’t have an urge to do so.” She knows how to make me tick. Right now I’m ticking. “But I did look over a few old paintings,” I confess.

“Good, Jenna. That’s a start. How did you feel when you looked at them? Did it bring anything up for you?”

Another tick. “I felt and remembered things that I’ve worked hard to forget.”

She nods in understanding and scribbles something down. “Most individuals try to forget certain events or parts of their life for various reasons. It’s normal. We feel if we don’t revisit these memories or feelings, then there’s less of a chance for vulnerability or a potential breakdown. But I find when I go back and learn how to cope with these issues and memories, there’s a better chance that I learn how to deal with them and know what to do if I’m faced with them in the future.”

I laugh at the last comment, turn my head from the desk, and dart glares at her. My expression is serious now; I can hear the ticking in my head. TICK. TICK. TICK. It grows louder, faster. Soon I’ll be ready to explode. “That’s exactly what I don’t want. I don’t want to ever deal with any of it again. I’m trying to have it all go away.” My hands drop to my thighs. “I don’t need it. I’m comfortable staying in the small cave of my room, away from everyone, completely isolated. I’m fine with never going out, having friends, or ever meeting someone. I understand this is my life.” I point at my chest, staring at her intensely. I’m trying to make her fully understand, but it’s pointless. She never will. No one ever will. “I know that I’m going to be alone, so I accept it, Dr. Rosario. I’m one hundred and ten percent okay with knowing that I’ll always be sick in the head. Some days will be good, and others will be extremely ugly—”