Clear Thoughts
Jaclyn Feezor
Eng 214
April 14, 2008
Clear Thoughts
I am happy. I don’t need help. I’m fine. I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time. I don’t need your help.
What do I see? “Well, the big blotch of ink to the left looks like a hand that’s reaching out and about to smother the blotch on the right.” The blotch on the right? “That’s a face.” Who does the face represent? “Obviously me, and the hand, that’s yours. Quit smothering me.”
I don’t know why the psychiatrist keeps seeing me. I’ve done as much as I can to nicely tell her I’m fine. I am fine. I’m happy. She gave me another piece of paper with yet another box checked and her scribbled signature. I gave the paper to the pharmacist; they looked at it, looked at me, and then looked at the paper again. Then they called their supervisor and he asked for my ID. I show him, yes, I know I’m too young to be on this medication and yes I am a freak, quit looking at me and fill my damn prescription. He raises his eyebrows then goes to the back and fills an orange container with huge green and yellow pills. Yum, Prozac.
“How did it go?”
“It was great mom, it was the freaking’ highlight of my day.”
“Don’t be sarcastic Pru.”
“I have some new pills to take with the others, ‘we’re working hard and the treatment will start working.’ Until then I’ll be in my room,” figuring out who will buy these new pills, “studying,” Ross will, he’ll try anything to get fucked up.
“Okay honey, I love you.”
“Yeah mom”, I’m sure you love me, that’s why I feel like shit all the time, “when’s dinner?”
“6.”
How I dread dinnertime. Honestly, everyone dreads it. Dad comes home at 5:45pm. He doesn’t even change clothes, he will walk through the door, kiss mom on the cheek while she’s busily setting the table. He will walk into the living room, set down his brief case and loosen his tie. He’ll pour half a glass of scotch, drink it like a shot then return to the kitchen and sit at his place at the head of the table. Every night it’s the same, unless he had a bad day at work, then he pours a full glass of scotch.
Mom will attempt to carry on a conversation with dad and I. though neither of us have much to say. She’ll ask him how his day was; his answer is usually similar to mine. Then she will yack about the church and how wonderful it is and how bad she feels for everyone who doesn’t have God and how blessed we are as a family to have God. I, of course, will make a remark that she feels is negative, and if a person has God they will not have negativity, then she will question my spirituality and ultimately tell me I’m depressed. One thing is for sure, every argument my mom and I have ever had has involved God.
It’s too early to think about dinner now though. I have an hour until she calls up to me in a singsong voice “Dinner time!” Until then I can enjoy one of my favorite past times, listening to music loudly (to piss off my mom) and checking “Face book”. What to listen to today? Nirvana? She threatened to throw away the CD last time I played it. When I listened to Tool last week she about had a cow, now I cant find my CD, maybe Alien Ant Farm? I gently slide out Alien Ant Farm’s red CD from my Notebook CD holder.
- Eject
- Place CD gently into the old boom box
- Play
Sanity fills my room. It moves through me, rips through me, pulling at everything that is tearing me apart. Write. My mind forces me to forget about face book. Write down everything. I obey.
The twisted words of a demented mind hold the hearts and souls desires
What was old now has a new beginning
Riddles, that’s what my words have become
But it’s all written out, it’s all right in front of you
What one chooses to believe becomes the truth
My body doesn’t feel, my eyes can’t see
Only my ears are left to torture me
To remind me of what I cannot rather than what I can
Bang, Bang, Bang! The door sounds like it’s about to be knocked in.
“Turn off that music Prudence!”
Fuck. Here we go...”What the heck mom! Quit banging on my door!”
“Prudence Simmons! Open this door now!”
I slowly close my notebook, God kill me now, “Yes mom? How may I help you?” I am here to serve.
“It’s dinnertime. Loose the attitude before you come to the table.”
Slam the door in her face. I slowly close the door and turn off my music.
I hear the screams loud and clear damnit
But that’s it; I only hear and sometimes not even that
All is written out for you, all is true if you choose to believe.
The hall from my room to the kitchen seems impossibly long. Dad is pouring his drink, I hear mom opening the oven. Smells like meatloaf. I take my time getting to the kitchen. It’s unbearably bright in here. White tile floor, white gleaming refrigerator, light brown wood table and matching chairs, we could be in a “Welcome to Suburbia!” magazine. Dad walks past me with his loose tie and scotch smelling breath. Mom places a mound of meatloaf in the middle of the table and sits down.
“Ah. God’s blessed us with another beautiful day!” Dad and I just stare at our plates; she continues to talk to herself. Please mom, let’s for once just eat.
“How was your day dear?”
Dad looks up from his plate and mumbles “fine”.
“Prudence went to the psychiatrist again today, aren’t you going to ask her about it?”
I stare in horror as mom talks. Mom, no, oh God no!
Dad looks at me and sighs, before he can ask me anything mom chirps in.
“The doctor gave her a new prescription. This time they want to try Prozac.” Thanks mom, I can tell him my damn self, I don’t need your help. Hell, he doesn’t need your fucking help either. He can talk. Dad looks up from his plate again, this time with a stern look in his eyes. He looks from mom to me then back to mom. Then he looks back down at his plate and asks “how much?” Fuck. Dad, you could have said anything, anything at all, but you choose the two worst words in the world to say. Thanks a lot, now we get to listen together as she blows up.
“How much? That’s all you want to know? It doesn’t matter how much it is as long as our Prudence gets better.”
“I’m fine mom. I’ve told you a million times I’m fine. I’m happy, see. Look at this smile. You can’t get much” fucking “happier than this.”
What do I see? Nothing. I must see something. It can be a person, animal, or something you make up. Fine, “I see a” fucking “Rorschach Inkblot test.” Keep sighing; I’m not going to cooperate. You want to know how the medication is working? “I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. I fee l angry.” The cuts on my arms? “No, I don’t want to kill myself. It’s how I get rid of the anger. I don’t want to talk about it.” The blood leaving my body, it’s like the anger is in my blood. Feeling it flow free from the tight vessels, its how I don’t go completely insane. Since I’m not responding verbally you want me to exercise physically writing out my thoughts. “O.K.”
The pen is top heavy, it’s easy to hold. The ink flows beautifully as I begin to scribble my thoughts.
Dearest Mom,
Stop it. Stop yelling, stop telling me to think positively, stop telling me I have no reason to be unhappy. Either way, I’m not happy.
Dearest Dad,
Speak up! Stop cowering from mom. Defend me! Come home earlier. Give me a sign, any sign that you hear me.
The God-awful timer on the psychiatrist’s desk buzzes. It’s time for her next appointment. She apologizes multiple times, telling me to continue writing when I get home. She extends her hand towards me, wanting the paper I wrote on. No. If you don’t have time now I don’t have time for you at all. I snatch the paper, shove it in my pocket and run out the door, slamming it behind me.
I hate that fucking place. Now I have to walk home. My feet slam against the frozen concrete. Hot tears are welling up in my eyes. God! Stupid tears. I shove my fingers into my eye sockets. I feel my face turning red. I’m not going back. I take a left on Main St. I see my house 5 houses down. It should have a white picket fence around it. Mom will make me go back. Dad won’t say a word. Nothing I say matters. NO ONE LISTENS! I slam the back door and walk through the kitchen with my eyes to the ground.
“Prudence? Honey what’s wrong?”
“Not now mom.” Why do you care anyway? I bound up the stairs, two at a time.
“Prudence! Come down here now!”
“Fuck you mom.” I mumble a little too loudly.
“What was that young lady?”
Oh God, here she comes, pounding up the stairs. I barely have time to slam the door, before I can lock it she throws it open.
“Prudence! What the heck is wrong with you?”
“I just had a bad day mom.” Leave! This is my God damn room, get the fuck out!
“I don’t care how bad of a day you had you do not speak to your mother that way.”
And how should I speak to you oh great one? I stare at her blankly. Just apologize and get this over with. “I’m sorry mom.” Here come the tears. It’s a never ending cycle, first she’s angry, then demands an apology, as soon as I apologize she cries then says she loves me, then to top it off she gives me a stern lecture with tears still in her eyes and leaves.
“Oh Pru. I don’t like yelling. I’m just (sob) so worried about you! I don’t under(sob)stand why you’re so unhappy. You have no reason to be. (Sniff) I don’t want you acting like that Prudence. I want a cheerful little girl.” She wipes her eyes with her sleeve.
“Now give me a hug.”
She kisses the top of my head; I try not to cringe. Let me go, I’m suffocating in your strong perfume and huge arms. She gets up to leave and pauses in the doorway.
“Dinner will be at 7 tonight; your father has to work late.”
With that she gently closed the door. All my anger drained away. Why is dad working late? He never works late. He always comes home at 5:45. At that moment I knew. Mom knew too, but she still busied herself in the kitchen. I went downstairs when she called at 7:15. I sat at my place at the table. He’s coming. He has to come. Mom placed the leftover meatloaf in the center of the table. We look at each other; then I quickly look down at my plate. She doesn’t ask me about my day, she doesn’t even talk about how beautiful the day was. She just chews on her food.
I can’t escape fast enough from the dinner table. I bound up the stairs, two and three at a time. When I get to my room I don’t slam the door, I quietly close it behind me. I pick up my journal and pen. What do I say? I have no words. Think harder. I don’t care, I’m happy. I’m fine.
"When all is said and done and dead
Does he love you the way I do
Breathing in lightening tonight’s worth fighting
I feel the hurt so physical"
-Eve 6
To have the wind care, like it once did
Wrap around, giving comfort with in
Making leaves dance and twirl about
I wish the wind still cared about me
Silly child, do you not understand
The wind cannot love when its not really there
No sight, taste, smell nor touch
Maybe it has a whisper, but maybe not
Feel the wind? Only it can reach out and touch?
How does one know it is not just emotion welling up
That one wants so badly to believe
That the wind is real
And its love a relief
No my friend, its all in your mind,
But maybe, just maybe
You’ll convince me next time.
I think mom and I have a truce. I scribbled thoughts into my notebook. For some reason dad’s leaving kind of feels like relief. That’s stupid. I should be upset. Why aren’t you crying Prudence? I can’t even force a tear. I don’t feel anything. For once I take my medicine. An hour later, I still feel the same. Mom still hasn’t said a word. She cleaned the dishes after we ate, then went to her room. The television is on and I hear the shower water running. I can picture her though, trying to hide her sobs. She’s sitting on the bed, with her head in her hands, wondering what she did wrong. Or maybe I’m wrong; maybe she is in the shower. Maybe she is catching up on the news. Maybe, I’ve been wrong.
We’re not doing the inkblot tests today? Oh I see why, you want to talk about my dad. “He’s fine.” You hear he left? Wonder who told you that. “Yeah, but I’m sure he’s fine, if he didn’t want to stay around…” Am I holding in my anger? “No.” Seriously? You’re asking me if I’m “holding in my anger”? Of course I’m holding it in, I hold everything in and no medicine can fix that.
The psychiatrist scribbled on yet another slip of paper, this time shading in the last box. Lithium. Great. I went from being hyper active to having anxiety to being depressed and now I have manic depression.
“Prudence?”
I hear her but I don’t respond. She’s waiting in the car outside the psychiatrist’s office.
I open the car door and sit down. How did it go? I hand her the piece of paper. She reads it then looks at me. Breathes Prudence, just tell her.
“Mom, I don’t want to take it.”
“Why honey? It will make you better.”
“None of these medicines have made me better! Why will this ne be any different?”
She keeps driving. We pull into the pharmacy. She gets out and has the prescription filled then returns to the car. I hate you. She drives us home. Before I get out of the car she hands me the pill bottle. I slam the car door, enter the kitchen and slam that door too. Then I pour a glass of water. Mom slowly comes in behind me, she watches from the door. I pinch the pill between my fingers, put it in my mouth, and swallow. Without taking a drink of water I set the glass beside the sink and walk upstairs.
I don’t write.
I don’t feel.
I’m not me.
Eng 214
April 14, 2008
Clear Thoughts
I am happy. I don’t need help. I’m fine. I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time. I don’t need your help.
What do I see? “Well, the big blotch of ink to the left looks like a hand that’s reaching out and about to smother the blotch on the right.” The blotch on the right? “That’s a face.” Who does the face represent? “Obviously me, and the hand, that’s yours. Quit smothering me.”
I don’t know why the psychiatrist keeps seeing me. I’ve done as much as I can to nicely tell her I’m fine. I am fine. I’m happy. She gave me another piece of paper with yet another box checked and her scribbled signature. I gave the paper to the pharmacist; they looked at it, looked at me, and then looked at the paper again. Then they called their supervisor and he asked for my ID. I show him, yes, I know I’m too young to be on this medication and yes I am a freak, quit looking at me and fill my damn prescription. He raises his eyebrows then goes to the back and fills an orange container with huge green and yellow pills. Yum, Prozac.
“How did it go?”
“It was great mom, it was the freaking’ highlight of my day.”
“Don’t be sarcastic Pru.”
“I have some new pills to take with the others, ‘we’re working hard and the treatment will start working.’ Until then I’ll be in my room,” figuring out who will buy these new pills, “studying,” Ross will, he’ll try anything to get fucked up.
“Okay honey, I love you.”
“Yeah mom”, I’m sure you love me, that’s why I feel like shit all the time, “when’s dinner?”
“6.”
How I dread dinnertime. Honestly, everyone dreads it. Dad comes home at 5:45pm. He doesn’t even change clothes, he will walk through the door, kiss mom on the cheek while she’s busily setting the table. He will walk into the living room, set down his brief case and loosen his tie. He’ll pour half a glass of scotch, drink it like a shot then return to the kitchen and sit at his place at the head of the table. Every night it’s the same, unless he had a bad day at work, then he pours a full glass of scotch.
Mom will attempt to carry on a conversation with dad and I. though neither of us have much to say. She’ll ask him how his day was; his answer is usually similar to mine. Then she will yack about the church and how wonderful it is and how bad she feels for everyone who doesn’t have God and how blessed we are as a family to have God. I, of course, will make a remark that she feels is negative, and if a person has God they will not have negativity, then she will question my spirituality and ultimately tell me I’m depressed. One thing is for sure, every argument my mom and I have ever had has involved God.
It’s too early to think about dinner now though. I have an hour until she calls up to me in a singsong voice “Dinner time!” Until then I can enjoy one of my favorite past times, listening to music loudly (to piss off my mom) and checking “Face book”. What to listen to today? Nirvana? She threatened to throw away the CD last time I played it. When I listened to Tool last week she about had a cow, now I cant find my CD, maybe Alien Ant Farm? I gently slide out Alien Ant Farm’s red CD from my Notebook CD holder.
- Eject
- Place CD gently into the old boom box
- Play
Sanity fills my room. It moves through me, rips through me, pulling at everything that is tearing me apart. Write. My mind forces me to forget about face book. Write down everything. I obey.
The twisted words of a demented mind hold the hearts and souls desires
What was old now has a new beginning
Riddles, that’s what my words have become
But it’s all written out, it’s all right in front of you
What one chooses to believe becomes the truth
My body doesn’t feel, my eyes can’t see
Only my ears are left to torture me
To remind me of what I cannot rather than what I can
Bang, Bang, Bang! The door sounds like it’s about to be knocked in.
“Turn off that music Prudence!”
Fuck. Here we go...”What the heck mom! Quit banging on my door!”
“Prudence Simmons! Open this door now!”
I slowly close my notebook, God kill me now, “Yes mom? How may I help you?” I am here to serve.
“It’s dinnertime. Loose the attitude before you come to the table.”
Slam the door in her face. I slowly close the door and turn off my music.
I hear the screams loud and clear damnit
But that’s it; I only hear and sometimes not even that
All is written out for you, all is true if you choose to believe.
The hall from my room to the kitchen seems impossibly long. Dad is pouring his drink, I hear mom opening the oven. Smells like meatloaf. I take my time getting to the kitchen. It’s unbearably bright in here. White tile floor, white gleaming refrigerator, light brown wood table and matching chairs, we could be in a “Welcome to Suburbia!” magazine. Dad walks past me with his loose tie and scotch smelling breath. Mom places a mound of meatloaf in the middle of the table and sits down.
“Ah. God’s blessed us with another beautiful day!” Dad and I just stare at our plates; she continues to talk to herself. Please mom, let’s for once just eat.
“How was your day dear?”
Dad looks up from his plate and mumbles “fine”.
“Prudence went to the psychiatrist again today, aren’t you going to ask her about it?”
I stare in horror as mom talks. Mom, no, oh God no!
Dad looks at me and sighs, before he can ask me anything mom chirps in.
“The doctor gave her a new prescription. This time they want to try Prozac.” Thanks mom, I can tell him my damn self, I don’t need your help. Hell, he doesn’t need your fucking help either. He can talk. Dad looks up from his plate again, this time with a stern look in his eyes. He looks from mom to me then back to mom. Then he looks back down at his plate and asks “how much?” Fuck. Dad, you could have said anything, anything at all, but you choose the two worst words in the world to say. Thanks a lot, now we get to listen together as she blows up.
“How much? That’s all you want to know? It doesn’t matter how much it is as long as our Prudence gets better.”
“I’m fine mom. I’ve told you a million times I’m fine. I’m happy, see. Look at this smile. You can’t get much” fucking “happier than this.”
What do I see? Nothing. I must see something. It can be a person, animal, or something you make up. Fine, “I see a” fucking “Rorschach Inkblot test.” Keep sighing; I’m not going to cooperate. You want to know how the medication is working? “I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. I fee l angry.” The cuts on my arms? “No, I don’t want to kill myself. It’s how I get rid of the anger. I don’t want to talk about it.” The blood leaving my body, it’s like the anger is in my blood. Feeling it flow free from the tight vessels, its how I don’t go completely insane. Since I’m not responding verbally you want me to exercise physically writing out my thoughts. “O.K.”
The pen is top heavy, it’s easy to hold. The ink flows beautifully as I begin to scribble my thoughts.
Dearest Mom,
Stop it. Stop yelling, stop telling me to think positively, stop telling me I have no reason to be unhappy. Either way, I’m not happy.
Dearest Dad,
Speak up! Stop cowering from mom. Defend me! Come home earlier. Give me a sign, any sign that you hear me.
The God-awful timer on the psychiatrist’s desk buzzes. It’s time for her next appointment. She apologizes multiple times, telling me to continue writing when I get home. She extends her hand towards me, wanting the paper I wrote on. No. If you don’t have time now I don’t have time for you at all. I snatch the paper, shove it in my pocket and run out the door, slamming it behind me.
I hate that fucking place. Now I have to walk home. My feet slam against the frozen concrete. Hot tears are welling up in my eyes. God! Stupid tears. I shove my fingers into my eye sockets. I feel my face turning red. I’m not going back. I take a left on Main St. I see my house 5 houses down. It should have a white picket fence around it. Mom will make me go back. Dad won’t say a word. Nothing I say matters. NO ONE LISTENS! I slam the back door and walk through the kitchen with my eyes to the ground.
“Prudence? Honey what’s wrong?”
“Not now mom.” Why do you care anyway? I bound up the stairs, two at a time.
“Prudence! Come down here now!”
“Fuck you mom.” I mumble a little too loudly.
“What was that young lady?”
Oh God, here she comes, pounding up the stairs. I barely have time to slam the door, before I can lock it she throws it open.
“Prudence! What the heck is wrong with you?”
“I just had a bad day mom.” Leave! This is my God damn room, get the fuck out!
“I don’t care how bad of a day you had you do not speak to your mother that way.”
And how should I speak to you oh great one? I stare at her blankly. Just apologize and get this over with. “I’m sorry mom.” Here come the tears. It’s a never ending cycle, first she’s angry, then demands an apology, as soon as I apologize she cries then says she loves me, then to top it off she gives me a stern lecture with tears still in her eyes and leaves.
“Oh Pru. I don’t like yelling. I’m just (sob) so worried about you! I don’t under(sob)stand why you’re so unhappy. You have no reason to be. (Sniff) I don’t want you acting like that Prudence. I want a cheerful little girl.” She wipes her eyes with her sleeve.
“Now give me a hug.”
She kisses the top of my head; I try not to cringe. Let me go, I’m suffocating in your strong perfume and huge arms. She gets up to leave and pauses in the doorway.
“Dinner will be at 7 tonight; your father has to work late.”
With that she gently closed the door. All my anger drained away. Why is dad working late? He never works late. He always comes home at 5:45. At that moment I knew. Mom knew too, but she still busied herself in the kitchen. I went downstairs when she called at 7:15. I sat at my place at the table. He’s coming. He has to come. Mom placed the leftover meatloaf in the center of the table. We look at each other; then I quickly look down at my plate. She doesn’t ask me about my day, she doesn’t even talk about how beautiful the day was. She just chews on her food.
I can’t escape fast enough from the dinner table. I bound up the stairs, two and three at a time. When I get to my room I don’t slam the door, I quietly close it behind me. I pick up my journal and pen. What do I say? I have no words. Think harder. I don’t care, I’m happy. I’m fine.
"When all is said and done and dead
Does he love you the way I do
Breathing in lightening tonight’s worth fighting
I feel the hurt so physical"
-Eve 6
To have the wind care, like it once did
Wrap around, giving comfort with in
Making leaves dance and twirl about
I wish the wind still cared about me
Silly child, do you not understand
The wind cannot love when its not really there
No sight, taste, smell nor touch
Maybe it has a whisper, but maybe not
Feel the wind? Only it can reach out and touch?
How does one know it is not just emotion welling up
That one wants so badly to believe
That the wind is real
And its love a relief
No my friend, its all in your mind,
But maybe, just maybe
You’ll convince me next time.
I think mom and I have a truce. I scribbled thoughts into my notebook. For some reason dad’s leaving kind of feels like relief. That’s stupid. I should be upset. Why aren’t you crying Prudence? I can’t even force a tear. I don’t feel anything. For once I take my medicine. An hour later, I still feel the same. Mom still hasn’t said a word. She cleaned the dishes after we ate, then went to her room. The television is on and I hear the shower water running. I can picture her though, trying to hide her sobs. She’s sitting on the bed, with her head in her hands, wondering what she did wrong. Or maybe I’m wrong; maybe she is in the shower. Maybe she is catching up on the news. Maybe, I’ve been wrong.
We’re not doing the inkblot tests today? Oh I see why, you want to talk about my dad. “He’s fine.” You hear he left? Wonder who told you that. “Yeah, but I’m sure he’s fine, if he didn’t want to stay around…” Am I holding in my anger? “No.” Seriously? You’re asking me if I’m “holding in my anger”? Of course I’m holding it in, I hold everything in and no medicine can fix that.
The psychiatrist scribbled on yet another slip of paper, this time shading in the last box. Lithium. Great. I went from being hyper active to having anxiety to being depressed and now I have manic depression.
“Prudence?”
I hear her but I don’t respond. She’s waiting in the car outside the psychiatrist’s office.
I open the car door and sit down. How did it go? I hand her the piece of paper. She reads it then looks at me. Breathes Prudence, just tell her.
“Mom, I don’t want to take it.”
“Why honey? It will make you better.”
“None of these medicines have made me better! Why will this ne be any different?”
She keeps driving. We pull into the pharmacy. She gets out and has the prescription filled then returns to the car. I hate you. She drives us home. Before I get out of the car she hands me the pill bottle. I slam the car door, enter the kitchen and slam that door too. Then I pour a glass of water. Mom slowly comes in behind me, she watches from the door. I pinch the pill between my fingers, put it in my mouth, and swallow. Without taking a drink of water I set the glass beside the sink and walk upstairs.
I don’t write.
I don’t feel.
I’m not me.