The Happy Treatment

As everyone could have predicted, making it out of the hospital was a frustratingly painful process. As soon as I informed Dr. Goodwin of my change in decision, I was dramatically asked “Why?” and felt as if I were being forced to argue back and forth until Dr. Goodwin finally moved on. I was required to take a surprisingly hard test to prove I’m not suicidal, a test that seemed not even a stable person could pass if all answers were answered completely truthfully. After the test, I was required to go through an evaluation, through which a biased doctor seemed almost hopeful that I might have any signs that could require the procedure. Once the evaluation was through with, we were given an unnecessary amount of paperwork and charged for anything and everything we could possibly and legally be charged for, which came out to be a ridiculous amount.

Please let me get a job after this after all I’ve put you through, I thought towards Mom as she handed the doctors multiple credit cards and a debit.

In the end, after multiple scenes of Mom and sometimes Zophie crying in front of doctors either out of frustration or exhaustion, arguments between me and forceful doctors, and doctors trying to give me the treatment anyway, we all knew they couldn’t keep me here.

We finally exited the hospital, where we were greeted by the late night. It was awkward showing Mom the car. There was an uncomfortable amount of blood soaked into the driver’s seat, and all of my belongings sat out in the open in the passenger seat. Mom pulled the car door to realize I left it unlocked. She turned to me as if she were about to be furious, but after everything that’s happened today, she decided against giving me an angry lecture about leaving valuables, especially the keys, inside an unlocked car.

I hugged Eva and Zophie after they promised to visit me at home tomorrow, and they walked to Eva’s car and drove off. Mom took her jacket off and set it delicately over the driver’s seat to cover up most of the blood and sat down.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay,” she said patiently, though I could tell she was exhausted and just wanted to be home.

:) :) :)

That was all yesterday (or I guess I could say it was early this morning when we finally walked out of the hospital). I sit at the kitchen table with Mom as I look out the window. Mom hasn’t left my side since we left the hospital. My arms are sore and I’ve been given a little pain medicine along with a few antibiotics to take to fight the risk of infection. It hurts doing most things with my arms right now, but I’m able to lift my fork to eat the eggs Mom made me this morning. Dr. Goodwin said once I get my stitches out, I’ll be starting physical therapy for my hands soon after that.

“How’s your wrists feeling?” Mom asks.

“Sore. Better than yesterday though,” I say. We haven’t talked too much since we’ve gotten home, the reason being more because we’re too exhausted than because we don’t want to.

Zophie and Eva said they’d be coming over today, so I look forward to that. For once since the Happy treatment, I look forward to seeing Eva. After her response of saying “no” that surprised us all yesterday, that sparked a new hope for me that she may be more there than I realized.

After Mom and I finish breakfast, I rest on the couch for a while, waiting for school to get out so Zophie and Eva can come over. I spend the time watching TV and falling asleep occasionally, something I usually wouldn’t do if the circumstances were normal. Time passes by slowly, and I fall asleep again.

The doorbell rings, waking me up, and I wonder if I’ve only dozed off for a minute or slept for hours. Mom opens the door and steps aside when she sees it’s Zophie and Eva.

“You think she’s oblivious to her surroundings now,” Zophie starts as she enters, “just wait till you gotta go on a ride with her driving the car.” She spots me on the couch, “Hey,” she says, Eva following behind her.

“Cindy! Hey!” Eva says enthusiastically. She holds up a paper bag, “Went to that place we stop and eat at at the mall sometimes. Got you your usual order if you want it!”

“I told you she’s still there at least a little bit,” Zophie says, “She didn’t decide to do that on her own of course, but when I asked what places you like she remembered where y’all go at the mall and remembered your order, or at least I’m pretty sure she did. I don’t know, she sounded confident, so I went with it.”

I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I’m grateful for receiving one of my go to restaurant foods.

“Thanks, you guys didn’t have to do that,” I say as I stand up and grab the bag from Eva. Mom takes my seat on the couch and changes my show to something she wants to watch, finally enjoying her day of calling out of work and not having to watch me. I set the bag of food on the table and sure enough, it’s my exact order I usually get. I felt moved that Eva remembered, but also felt guilty for putting Zophie through so much yesterday, and then her deciding to bring me food. I feel like I’m the one who owes her food, and a lot more with that.

“Also,” Zophie says. I look up and see she’s holding a small, potted plant in her hand, “this is for you too.”

“Oh, wow,” I say sincerely and unexpectedly, “thank you, Zophie.” I think back to Eva’s letter when she wrote about Zophie and her plants, “You know I’m not Happy though right?”

“Yeah, I know,” she says, “but you got so close yesterday, I figured you need one just to remind you to stay alive like it is. Made me think that maybe I could give more plants to some who are still all here too and not just when they’ve thrown their brains out.” She lets out a small, sad laugh.

I smile at the gesture, knowing how much someone must mean to Zophie when she gives them a plant. It’s her own little way of showing love, since her words usually don’t seem to do that job well to people who don’t know her like Eva and I do.

I place the pot on the center of the kitchen table, feeling happy to receive such a meaningful gift, though it does make the feeling of the need to apologize stronger.

“Anyway,” I start, “about yesterday. I’m so sorry I put you through so much. You really don’t deserve -”

“Cindy,” Zophie says, cutting me off. I was planning a whole paragraph of words to say in my head, but I guess Zophie has heard enough.

“I’ve gotten to know you more in these past few weeks than I have in all the past years I’ve known you,” she says, “I need you in my life, because you’re the only one that has an idea of what I’ve been going through, since you were close with Eva too, probably more than I was, honestly. I accept your apology. It’s okay, ’cause everyone came out alive, but I swear if you ever try that again, I’ll knock your brains out before the doctors can, okay?”

I nod, “Okay,” and I leave it at that.

The three of us sat down and ate together, for once letting Eva actually run the conversation since we could use some light and enjoyable kind of topics rather than the dreadful and deep ones we’ve been having much too often. It’s relieving to have a conversation that doesn’t make anyone cry, depressed, or anxious, just comfortable, as friends should be when they’re eating together.

I missed this, and it’s the first positive memory I’ve had with Eva since her Happy treatment. I know I’ll store this away in my mind and I’ll pull it up whenever I feel the doubt coming that Eva and I can never be what we used to be. It takes a lot of effort to see it, but I know she’s still in her mind somewhere. She has to be.

:) :) :)

It’s summer time now, and after a long, painful school year, school has finally ended, and I’m more than grateful for a break.

My hands have healed well, and the physical therapy has improved my hand movement a great deal, but I’ve been told my right hand will probably never be the same as it was before. I can write well again, but making a fist is more difficult.

Today, I drive to Eva’s house with Mom’s car as usual, but soon, I’ll be driving my own car, since I’ve been working at my summer job that Mom allowed me to get a little before school ended this year, since, afterall, I did cost her a lot that day at the hospital.

I make it to Eva’s house and the yard looks beautiful as usual. When I make it to the front porch, Zophie opens the door and Lavvy greets me excitedly with her poofy tail wagging briskly.

“How’s Leaf?” She asks. I told her she can’t call my plant Cindy, since I’m still here, so she’s started calling it Leaf.

“Leaf is living life,” I say.

“As Leaf should be,” she says, and steps aside to invite me into the house.

Eva sits at the kitchen island eating one of her microwavable foods.

“Cindy! Hi!” She says cheerfully.

“Hi Eva,” I say as I walk in the kitchen.

“She talked about you today,” Zophie says to me. I turn my head, “Really? Did she start the conversation? What’d she say?”

“Yeah she willingly came up to me today and said ’Hey! Cindy’s coming over today. It’s nice when she comes.”

My eyes lit up, “That’s huge!” It may not sound huge, but it was. Most Happy people don’t start conversations unless required to, and Eva started a conversation and gave an opinion about something without having to have a job requiring her to or anything. It’s oftentimes a painful process to watch Eva improve over time so slowly, but every step counts. Every small step she takes only strengthens my hope that maybe one day, she can remember who she is again, and maybe I can have a piece of my old friend back, but until then, I’ve learned to love Eva just the same, because that’s what she needs and that’s what I need.

Zophie grabs a sip of water from the fridge then heads outside, probably to let Lavvy run around or garden.

Eva takes a last bite of her microwavable and we head upstairs to her room. Hanging out with her one on one without Zophie doesn’t bother me like it used to. Some days are worse than others, of course, but no days with Eva are as bad as when she first got her Happy treatment. I won’t ever let it get that bad again. I make sure to find something positive before I leave now, even if it’s a day so rough that the positive aspect I chose is that I simply got through it.

We have our usual conversations. We talk about social media, what’s going on, and cute puppy videos. I throw in a few questions for her to answer and I feel her trying more to answer them each day. She acts as if the answer is always on the tip of her tongue, but her treatment takes a hold of her and forces out something bubbly and empty instead, but I know she’s still in there, trying.

When I leave every night, I tell her to walk out with me, since I’ve learned that’s something I have to tell her now. I’ve learned that when caring people forget something (and Eva is a caring person inside), no matter how upsetting it may make me feel, it’s better to remind them of what they’ve forgotten rather than to stay quiet and upset, because then the forgotten will never be remembered, and feeling of being upset is what will be.

I turn around at the front door once Eva and I have made it down the stairs. She hugs me, something she’s started to remember she used to do and does it occasionally. “Bye, Cindy,” she says, “Thanks for coming as always!”

“No problem,” I say, and I mostly mean it, “Bye, Eva.”

I walk out into the night and drive home.

:) :) :)

When I make it home from Eva’s, I greet Mom and give her the good news of Eva’s short comment she made about me and how it was nice whenever I come over. Mom was happy and excited for me, like she always is at the right times. I grab a drink from the fridge and head to my room. I set down my stuff and toss my phone on the bed. As I plop down on my bed, I open the bottom drawer in my nightstand and pull out a long letter Eva wrote to me so long ago. Like I do after almost every visit with Eva I have, I read through pieces of it, not to dwell in the past anymore, but to remember it, for both me and Eva.

A person who forgets their past is just as lost as the person who dwells in it.

Both eventually forget who they are.

For a while, Eva and I were both of those people. She forgot her past and I dwelled in mine, but now with each visit we have together, we help each other gradually and slowly climb out of the dark holes we’ve dug.

I read the end of Eva’s letter, remembering how broken she must have felt, remembering that she loves me, remembering how her emotions deceived her to stay in her dark abyss and not ask for help.

I remember when we let our emotions take control and destroy us.

Emotions are a wonderful follower, but a dreadful leader.

Our emotions were a beautiful thing when they weren’t controlling us, but the moment they’d take control, everything fell apart.

I remember because I never want that to happen again. I never want us to fall apart again, not after we’ve started repairing ourselves again, little by little each day.

I remember my pain because I know now that I can’t run from it and expect it not to always be chasing me, tormenting me, preventing me from happiness.

I remember my pain to be happy, to be okay.

I want to be okay.

I am okay.