Ophelia Study No. 1

Chapter Twelve

  Emily was back on her saddle within days of having almost died of an overdose. Sufficient damage was done to her liver, but it could be spared. However, they warned her that if something of this nature were to happen again, she would most likely need a transplant.

There was always a lot of 'ifs' when it came to Emily, and things will probably stay this way. One of those ifs popped into my head not long after her suicide attempt, and that was if she was planning on doing it again. Her liver had taken so much of a toll that if she were to overdose again, but fail to tell anyone, it would kill her. If I could figure that out, then I'm sure that thought was in her mind as well.

The hospital, of course, wouldn't just send her back out on the streets without any attempt at rehabilitation. Not only was she subjected to group adolescent therapy, but also to a support group of teens trying to quit smoking. She had kept the nasty little habit to herself; however, it was obvious to just about anyone that she was the heaviest smoker around. I did notice an increase in the anti-smoking ads at school ever since Emily started to attend, and I wondered if she had been any contribution to the cause, whether that be intentional or not.

Emily's overdose was so widely discussed at school that it may as well have been in the announcements. I could picture it; boys' varsity basketball players, please turn in your uniforms. Auditions for the school play will be Thursday afternoon in the auditorium after 8th period. Emily Kimura tried to kill herself. Tell all your friends.

Despite the popularity of her misfortune, it lasted a mere couple of days. It was a strong 48 hours, and by strong, I mean that one kid from her English class texted her and they weren't shy to talk about it. But by hour 49, they shied away from the subject.

Even though she was in the hospital for most of this, Emily noticed as well. I can recall to this day her exact words, and they were, "I wish I had cancer."

I'd given her a sideways glance. "Keep smoking like that and you won't have to wish for it."

Smirking, she'd elaborated, "I wish that all of this funky mental business, unbalanced chemicals and whatnot, would be treated like cancer. Depression and cancer, they are both medical conditions, technically speaking."

That was when she really caught my attention. I played it off like I was amusing her childish wonders, but in reality, I was dying for a deeper explanation. I had reached the point that anything out of Emily's mouth was the best thing I'd ever heard, with only the last thing she'd said as a relative competition. Even in my blind obsession for that girl's way with words, I was able to tell that this thought stood out. For me, it was the star on top of the trees, while others may have labeled it as a diamond in the rough. "And how is cancer treated?"

She had shrugged, biting her lip, almost as if to trying string her thoughts into the sentence that would give them the proper honor. "You know, everyone brings you cards and stuffed animals, and you get ice cream for breakfast because they know you won't last long." She paused to pull her knees to her chest, proceeding, "Your whole family stays and everyone tells you how strong you are and what an inspiration you are just for existing."

"And what happens with depression?" I asked.

She had responded immediately. "You're the talk of the town for one day, and then nothing is said. There are awkward silences, and there's late nights, and not much else."

And no matter what I did, I couldn't get much out of her the rest of the night, spare head nods and one word answers.

I was understandably concerned about Emily. I was doing all that I could to be supportive, but then it struck me that perhaps the best thing that I could do was to go to group therapy with her. Part of me doubted what the use was of being around people in it just as deep as she was. It was like when I was failing math, and so according to the school the best course of action to take was to put me in a study hall filled with other kids failing math. As you could've predicted, when kids who suck at math help kids who suck at math, not much progress is made. I figured group therapy would be the same way, dreamers clinging to each other with the hopes of coming to grips with reality, only to fall deeper into their own worlds. Emily was a dreamer from the start, but I felt that she was losing it. She was starting to see the world for what it really was, and it scared her to death.

I thought it was in her best interest for me to attend group therapy with her.

It was a strange experience, to say the least. Her fellow members were easily the most interesting people I had ever met. Despite this, I wanted to know nothing about them. I knew their names, and that was enough for me. Their personalities taunted me, tempted me to learn more about them, but to look past the surface would be to throw myself into deep waters. They were in group therapy for a reason, and it was a reason that I wasn't entirely willing to find out.

Emily sat quiet throughout the whole session; in fact, I must've spoken more than she did merely by briefly introducing myself. Could her limited participation have been the reason why she wasn't getting better? I don't know, and before that question can be answered, I'd have to determine whether or not she was improving. With Emily, it was always hard to tell.

I drove her to my house, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she mentioned her parents. She'd mumbled, "It's my mom's birthday."

"She aint getting a card," I replied, pulling into my driveway. I smiled at her, my grin being returned with glazed, vacant eyes and taut lips. Her lips were looking real chapped lately, even though it was only getting warmer. I could only suspect that it had been anxiety causing her to bite them to flakes.

I was losing her. I never knew I had her until she was slipping away. It put me in an odd position; on one hand, she needed support, and on the other, she needed her space. She wasn't being at all vocal with me, either, so it was impossible to distinguish when she needed me and when she didn't. She loved me, but not in the same way that she originally had. It wasn't necessarily worse, perhaps it was even better due to my sudden cooperation, but it was out of place and misled. She had given me nothing but affection while I had treated her like dirt. Had she gotten out at the start, she would've had a bad night or two, not this. A big part of me wishes I'd never met her, and not for my benefit, but hers.