by Wesley Robertson, NU student
Abstract
This story takes place around my fifteenth or sixteenth year, and my brother’s thirteenth or fourteenth. My family had to leave the mission field in order to enter counseling, and my brother was attending to a life-controlling issue at the same time. The plot revolves around my own internal battle with what was happening; loss of home, loss of self, and anger. However, a small portion of my brother’s story is also included. Ultimately this is my conversion story. The person I portray in the text seems foreign yet familiar. I grew up in the church my entire life, but sadly it took a major event to actually accept Christ as my Savior. Northwest University has many students with a similar background as my own, and by participating in this story, Northwest no longer says: “these are my parents,” “I grew up in the church,” but rather says, “I believe this” and “I go to church here.” Psychiatry is also a large part of the story. I want it known that whether it is depression, anorexia, or any other ailment, one may not have just a spiritual battle but a physical one. Don’t be afraid to seek help. Christians, we are broken and we all need fixing. Be strong.
I.
Looney Toons was muted on the ancient box against the wall. The pale green room curled up to the ceiling, almost as if to spite me. It was a distinct contrast to the blues of the other wards situated in the hospital; a small hole in the wall where the staff didn’t visit much unless required to. My teen self was in the corner, the clock in the other, and the “Murse” assigned to this particular level of Inferno came through the box of the door. If you spend any time in a hospital, it becomes easy to spot these figures that dress as clowns. They can be seen from a mile away with their shining teeth, unnatural smiles, and pure-white shoes. That one looked young, probably not experienced, but nice enough. I didn’t hate him. I didn’t know him. Yet, somehow any type of perfection, even a façade, seemed unwelcome in a room where self-loathing desired to prosper.
Time for lunch, I guess.
That was always the fun part. You couldn’t tell whether something was going to be digested by a stomach or a garbage truck in a few hours. Luckily, that time, it seemed to be the former. The food was presented on a gray tray and laid down onto a swiveling table; one tall enough to hang over the bed.
Guess it helps if the food is good.
Who knew a sandwich would bring about such relief? I looked down at the bed frame. The restraints lay there in the shade, and I knew the tube was situated nearby. They weren’t needed, luckily, but their presence was still known. Murse sat there while my brother ate, and they both discussed Looney Toons.
At least the clown tries.
My brother and I always loved Looney Toons; I liked the humor, and he liked watching them comedically kill each other. The Murse pointed out the rooster on screen and asked if we knew the clucker’s name. I knew the answer, but I simply couldn’t remember. My brother asked him as he tilted his head and shrugged. “Foghorn Leghorn,” Murse said as he adjusted his glasses behind sky blue eyes. He waited until the plate was clear and then, weirdly smiling, left. I turned off the TV. My brother grunted toward me, as he had now lost his entertainment.
Just two more weeks.
II.
The clock was silent as it turned. No ticking or odd buzzing. Instead, never-ending hands spin, watching and circling like a lone patrol. They see all. They are time. They are infinite. My whole life was put to question by the silent judging watchers as I tried to wrestle with my own creation. I looked at the unspeaking numbers and made empty promises to God. Words to plead for an intervention on the reality of mine. “Outta time,” I could hear The Almighty, as I was thrown into hellfire. As long as silence exists there will be nothing. No pain. No mocking God. No this. I heard the sound of sneakers squeak their way into space down the hall. Snow-colored shoelaces and the desire to crush glasses entered my mind.
Damn, this is real.
III.
Counseling wasn’t something I looked forward to. How was counseling going to be beneficial for me?
I’m not the sick one here!
As we drove to the clinic, all I could think of was lying in a chair, while a lady in glasses accused me of wanting to sleep with my mother. I stepped out of the car reluctantly and proceeded into the dark brown building that glared at my small frame. My mom and dad headed up to the reception desk while my brother and I sat in the lounge area. I never related Christianity with psychiatry before. Apparently, this was the place to be if you wanted both. The reception desk person smiled just like the Murse, just like everyone at Sunday church.
I hate those smiles.
We waited to meet a lady with glasses who wasn’t so accusatory, yet somehow bugged me in odd ways.
IV.
The first session was over; a lot of emotions were thrown out. I honestly hadn’t thought that would happen.
Why did they make you talk so much?
I had never talked so much in my life. Even better, after that session, I started on my own with another therapist. “Having someone who can deal with your situation,” was what I was told. This therapist can’t work with me. All the dirt that I flung into the room surprised everyone.
I thought everyone else felt this way.
I guess I really am sick.
V.
Days were life, and life was routine. Every day my brother’s not-dying was a good one, every day I left the hospital was a godsend. Not that I didn’t want to see my brother; I simply didn’t want to see him like that. On days when I had no choice but to see him, I would sit in a little corner bench by the window and watch the static, if Looney Toons wasn’t on. There was a pool table across the green hall where we played during “down time,” and hours were spent hitting balls while my brother still had tubes connected to him. His opened-backed robe was not welcome when he tried his far-reaching shots. Murse, of course, had to be in the room. It wasn’t enough he had to get between me, Drew, and old Foghorn, but he also had to ruin this for us. This slowly became our place to be. It distracted me, and it distracted Drew. We didn’t have to talk; we just hit things into their proper places. It felt good. We got really good at it.
VI.
That morning, my mom drove me to my new therapist. I walked into the brown building, and the person at the reception desk said nothing.
Part of the system now.
We waited in a room filled with magazines and seemingly normal human beings. But these weren’t normal people. Normal humans didn’t struggle with difficulties; it was only those who deserved the punishment who received it.
For me, this has been a long time coming.
The different therapists called a few names; none of them mine. After a time, “Wesley” a deep scratchy voice called over. The vibrations that touched my eardrums came from a short black man who looked to be in his late forties, early fifties. He babied a cane placed on his right side. He gave me a nice smile and called me back. Why did people always smile? Aren’t we all broken? As a Christian, I had accepted my sin a long time ago.
Why don’t these people accept it, too?
The limping black man tried introductions, but I was nervous and unacquainted with the hallway, so I sputtered thoughtless responses to questions he asked: “Yes,” “no,” “fine,” “Yea, my uncle’s a monster.” All that came through to my brain was his thick Southern accent and the bum knee he kept coddling. We reached the end of the hall, walked to the room, and shut the door. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be there, but I supposed Drew didn’t want to be where he was either, especially when that tube hung a foot under his feet, begging him to decline the food. But that wasn’t the same. He did that to himself, right?
Life can be a real jerk sometimes.
VII.
I came out somehow crying. The tissues in my hand were already soaked through and I dared not ask for more. I didn’t want to give the satisfaction to the man who created them.
I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.
I didn’t want to be subjected to some cliché counseling experience that made me feel better. I was not sure how to feel, and I was not sure I really wanted to find out. I was stuck between embarrassment and utter shock of myself. I went to the bathroom and wiped off my face, not wanting to have my mom see the rivers. I looked in the mirror.
Wow, Wes, you’re a real piece of crap.
VIII.
It doesn’t add up.
I had been there for a week, but it felt like it had been a year. My routine had been short, but it was ingrained into my mind. I went to the hospital every day for at least a few hours to watch the static, hear the sound of silence, and catch a glimpse of my brother’s butt as Murse glared from the corner. I went to counseling every other day. It was getting easier strolling past the silent crowd of onlookers in the lobby, all smiling, and waiting for the sound of thumping that came from my companion’s cane. I walked into the room and then an hour later walked out.
High and mighty… I might just injure your other leg.
I went to our temporary apartment situated behind an Outback Steakhouse. The small home where I stayed had the bare essentials: a couch, kitchen, and two bedrooms. The only real channel we got was something featuring Joel Olsteen. I liked the gym at the apartment, though, and went there often, typically when I really just wanted to get away from my parents. But that wasn’t my home; my home was thousands of miles away and not some backwoods Ohio home for the needy. I got bored very easily after working out, so instead I headed toward the Barnes & Noble down the street. I stayed there a few hours before I headed back to Them and went to bed.
IX.
The leather on the books reminded me of school. I missed it sometimes. When we became homeschooled I didn’t miss much about public school, but one thing I did miss was the library of books on the shelves for me to read. The smell of brewing coffee ripped me from my ecstasy, telling me that I sat with my laptop by the Starbucks inside of the bookstore. The Wi-Fi in the apartment was terrible, but gave me an excuse to leave and be by myself, though homework did have to be done from time to time. I liked taking small breaks and looking at the old, classic books. They seemed much nicer than the newer stuff on average.
I am sure now that I had succumbed to escapism (it’s hard being objective in this), but I thought of it, at the time, more as discovery. I liked the lives that live in books. That’s not to say that I didn’t like mine (though it was depressing), but rather I liked that the world seemed much more grand in books. As if something interesting had finally found me and said, “Well done.” When I left the store, I was immersed in a huge world that seemed so small compared to what I could hold in my hand.
Should I have faith in a world I don’t think deserves it?
X.
Questions like: “How would you describe your family?” were followed by: “Is that the way you think a Christian should live?”
I thought this wasn’t supposed to be judgmental.
I became close to the man sitting across from me, and I opened up more and more as he continually grew more familiar. Even describing things that I knew would never leave that room. Things that I had never shared with anyone before. I probably cried every session, but it didn’t feel like an obligation to do so. No “let’s talk about our feelings” sentiments were exchanged, but rather an adult asking another how their walk with Christ was going and being supportive. I actually opened my bible for the first time in about a year after my fifth session.
Halfway there, Wes.
XI.
Wes was situated in the corner of the room.
He likes that spot farthest away from me
Mom and Dad went to their own counseling session today, he wanted to stay. I had to pee, but the nice nurse just left, and it seemed important.
I could wake Wes up maybe.
Even though he is stupid sometimes, he really does try.
My hair felt really weird. I wished there was a mirror around here, so I could have seen myself. I hadn’t really seen myself in weeks. I didn’t think they wanted me to look at myself; anorexics in recovery probably shouldn’t do that. I grabbed the remote and turned on Looney Toons. Foghorn came on, and I smiled, remembering the nurse liked the cartoon, too. Wes groaned in the next seat and woke up when the static comes on.
“Where are Mom and Dad?” he asked.
“They are doing counseling, but will be back,” I said.
Wes got cozy and stared at the ceiling. He then turned over. I knew what he was doing. He was crying. He had done it a lot the last few days. Mom, Dad, and Wes didn’t really talk about what they were going through in front of me, but I knew it was hard. I couldn’t cry anymore, on the other hand. I had done enough of that. My family didn’t want me to cry—I was sure. They needed me to be strong. I was sure Wes felt the same thing.
I’m sorry.
The nurse came in. I liked his shoes. He said we had to go do a scan. I was fine with that, but Wes looked like he was freaking out without Mom and Dad.
Strength.
XII.
Drew was being hooked up to the shiny machine in the center of the room. I wasn’t entirely sure what it was; all I knew was that we needed to do it. Mom and Dad weren’t there, so I had to look like I knew what I was doing.
Basically like everything else I do.
Murse was there. He looked like he was being trained by another nurse who seemed much more clownish. He is asking her tons of questions. She looks annoyed. Drew removed the upper half of his gown and lied down on the table. The female nurse applied a blue gel to his chest while relating why and what she was doing.
Great. Drew is pregnant.
The nurse asked my little brother if he wanted to watch some TV as they do this. He said sure, and they placed a little television screen in front of him. They flipped on the switch, and on came SpongeBob, my brother's favorite show. She grabbed an odd, rounded object and stuck it against the blue gel and probed around his chest. My brother started laughing at something Patrick had just said. I wasn’t really paying attention to the show; instead, I was focused on the other small screen that the white-shoed people are looking at. There was something moving. The nurse sees my expression and asked if I wanted to see. I nodded, still focusing. She tilted the screen toward me, and I saw the movement again. I knew what it was. It was horrifying. It was amazing. It was a heart. My brother’s beating heart. It was amazing that that thing, the object that pumped the veins of my baby brother, was right there for me to behold. It was terrifying because I heard the two others looking at it and saying how the heart was “not right.” I sat there frozen.
Is my little brother dying?
They said he was going to be OK. Is he?
What kind of an older brother am I to let this happen?
What the hell is going on?!
I have failed.
XIII.
I walked into the room with the caned man. I don’t remember much of what we said. I just remember that I cried. I remember him crying. I remember joining our hands together and reciting something that I had recited since I was in diapers, but that time it actually meant something. I remember walking out feeling the same, but somehow new.
Now comes the hard part.