Freedom of Sketch

Slavery

After a second and admittedly terrifying shower, staff force me to go to a Crisis Debriefing Group, where I'm surrounded by girls but somehow completely and utterly alone at the same time. A block of ice sits heavily in my stomach, and I blame myself for everything. How did Molly get a razor into the hospital? Why didn't I recognize the warning signs? Were there any warning signs? Why didn't I ask her how she was doing during dinner? She was awfully quiet. But she's always quiet, that's just Molly. It's the way she is.

"I can't stop thinking about how focused she had to have been," says a new girl named Bailey, picking the polish off of her nails. "I mean, it takes a lot of courage to press down."

"Is 'courage' really the right word?" challenges the counselor. She has a long face and hair like a poodle's. I forgot her name and the letters on her badge keep shifting, like they don't know how to stay in one place.

Bailey shrugs one shoulder. "I guess not," she says uncomfortably.

"It takes a lot of stupidity," offers another patient. Half the girls in the room protest to this.

Lizzie clears her throat. "Desperation."

Counselor No-Name nods. "That's the word I think you were looking for. Now, Elizabeth, can you elaborate on that a bit more?"

Lizzie averts her eyes and plays with a hair tie on her wrist. "It feels like there's a monster raging inside of you, clawing its way out. But then it won't leave fast enough, so you feel like you have to do something drastic in order to rid yourself of it. I've come so close to killing myself. When I cut myself, I always wanted to press down. It was so tempting but I guess my survival instincts were too strong."

Tears fill my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I'm too exhausted to wipe them away.

"We're glad you're here with us, Elizabeth," says the therapist. She glances around the room, looking for a fresh victim. She sees my tears and tries to coax me into sharing my feelings.

"I feel responsible," I say, sniffling. Bailey hands me a tissue box. "I should have paid more attention to her." I blow my nose.

Counselor No-Name: "Shiloh, there's only one person you can control. Do you know who that is?"

"Me," I answer. "But if I'd just asked her if she needed help...."

"It is NOT your fault. Molly was in a lot of pain, and what she did was her decision. She would have found a way regardless."

"That's just unacceptable," I murmur. I shut down and refuse to say anymore.

It doesn't take long before our crisis intervention turns into Show-and-Tell: Suicide Version. I rock slightly, back and forth, bent over my knees like someone with cramps. The girls roll up their sleeves and compare scars: long pink keloids, rows of shining white lines, jagged cuts following the network of veins and tendons. Eventually, I excuse myself and slowly make my way back to my room.

The only thing allowing me to sleep is the Ativan, and even then, Molly burns behind my eyelids, flaming and naked, her scars blistering. I want to tell her that everything will be okay, but my lips are stitched shut. I should have acted sooner. I could have talked to her more. How did she get the razor past the nurses?

***

When I wake up I remain frozen, aching. I haven't moved all night. I stare at Molly's empty bed, neatly made as always, everything perfect and orderly. Who keeps their corner clean before they try to complete suicide? How do you find the desire to do anything once you've decided you're going to die? Something catches my eye, and as the world threatens to toss me off my mattress, I fight the medication and sit up. Some of my hair is sticking to the left half of my face like black cobwebs.

I look over at Riley's bed. She's still sleeping, facing the opposite wall. Her hair looks dark crimson in the weak morning light, and I'm reminded of the blood snaking between the shower tiles, running into the trough, pooling around my slides. They wait to be sterilized, but I have a feeling I'll never wear them again.

I scold myself for being a terrible person, touching the eerily cold belongings of someone as desperately ill as Molly, but I find a slip of paper and unfold it anyway. In neat, organized handwriting is:

War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.

I was forced to read 1984 in the tenth grade, by eager, smiley-faced teachers who lived on caffeine and the collective misery of students. It was one of the few books which held my interest, at least enough for me to actually write more than a half-assed report that relied on large font and wide margins to meet the page requirement. Being both stubborn and resistant to authority, I related to the story. Now I relate even more since Big Brother the Security Camera has entered my upside-down life.

I run my fingers over Molly's writing like I'm reading Braille. How empty are her veins; are they as empty as her heart? I shouldn't be messing around with her stuff, but 1984 is sitting right there on her nightstand. It's battered and dog-eared and inviting. I don't know which part I want to read first; it never does me any good to start at the beginning of a story. The pages ripple smoothly under my thumb, sounding like the furious beating wings of a bird. "Freedom is slavery." I dissect the phrase word by word, letter by letter. "Freedom is slavery." I recite it aloud, flinching at the bitterness of it on my tongue.

Officer Shaw was right. I'll never be free.

Even if I surrender myself to Circle Valley Hospital's treatment program, the freedom waiting for me outside the confines of the institution's brick, concrete, and steel womb is a farce. Whether I'm an inmate, a student, or a law-abiding citizen, I'll always be hiding from some authority figure, fighting oppression, censoring myself to guarantee my continued freedom. Multiple responsibilities come with the freedom I've been so desperately craving. Freedom means standardized tests. Homework. College applications. Eventually, the free me will have to bend to the inevitable student loans. Car payments. Rent. Electric bills. Social norms. And if I dare step out of line, I'll end up a slave to the streets, or prison, or adult psychiatric wards. No matter where I go or what I do, I'll always be someone's slave, pacing the perimeters of their invisible fence.

I slam the book shut, hug it to my chest, and weep. Freedom is slavery. I am scratching at the corners of my own mind. My skull is a jail. It all makes sense now - why people like Molly and Lizzie deface their own bodies. They feel so trapped within their flesh that they'll do anything to break free. Molly, seeking an escape route through her skin, cuts and burns graffiti upon the walls of her prison cell. And Lizzie, my beautiful friend, remains unsatisfied with her body no matter how much fat and flesh she whittles away because there will always be an impenetrable fortress of bone underneath.

There is no way out.

Now I understand why people kill themselves.