Halfway into my treatment I looked at myself in the mirror and looked great. Andy proved to be the best friend a guy could have. I didn't think I could get this far in the treatment if it weren't for him--for him and Mimi. It turned out Mimi was a huge fan, and once she got over the initial shock of me being around, she ended up being one of the best friends I'd ever had.
Andy showed up at the door while I was on the bed, my guitar on my lap and a notebook lying on the bed next to me. I'd been writing a lot lately; the counselors told me it was a good outlet and I had a lot to write about. I had a ton of songs about my experience in the clinic, and one or two about Mimi, although I never let anybody see those.
"Tay, lunch time. You know Rich will be in here to whoop your ass in no time flat if you're late," Andy said, hanging from the doorframe. "And I don't want to get the third degree either. Come on, you can finish that later."
"Okay, okay. I'm going." I closed the notebook and put my guitar down. I hadn't written on a guitar in a long time but there was no room for a piano in my room and I was sure Andy wouldn't care for it either. He told me quite a few times that he didn't like my music and we joked about it often. I didn't care; I knew our fan base consisted mostly of teenage girls, so I didn't mind that he didn't like it. Not many people did.
Andy and I walked through the dormitory toward the dining room. I didn't like walking down that hall, especially by the one room near the door to the main center of the clinic. I subconsciously glanced at the door and saw a flower lying by it. My head snapped back in front of me. The kid who was rooming there just died a few days previous. It was horrible. Andy had seen another one die but this was my first time and it came as a big shock. It was hard to get to know someone, realize they weren't getting better, and then see them die.
"So what's on the menu today?" I asked, taking a seat at my usual table. I tried to take my mind off that door. The food was already laid out when we got there. I looked down at the other side of the table. The seat at the end, which was usually empty, was occupied by a small kid, dark brown hair and tanned skin. He looked like he wanted to disappear inside of himself. He reminded me of Zac.
"Hi! I'm Taylor, who are you?" I asked. The boy looked up.
"You're gay," he spat at me, then looked back down at his food.
"Wow," I said. "People don't usually get that about me." Playing along with it, I looked next to me at Andy. "God, Andy, you're so damn sexy. I just can't take my eyes off you." While Andy pushed me away, the new boy looked back up at me, horrified. I flashed him a smile.
"Are you really gay?" he asked.
"No, I'm just playing around. Liven up, the food isn't as bad as you think and once you get past today, tomorrow's even better."
"I don't want to be here," he muttered, poking at the food with his fork.
"Nobody wants to be here, kid, but we're stuck here anyway and they won't let you leave the room until all that food is gone and it stays gone," I said. I liked to talk to the new kids. All of my life I was meeting new people, thousands of them, so I had no problem talking to someone to make them feel included. These kids were teenagers. Every single teenager that watched TV in the past four years knew who I was, and whether they hated my music or loved it, it was comforting to see a face they'd seen before in a place like this. Also, the more people I reached and showed that I was not the snooty Taylor Hanson they saw on television, the more fans I might get in the long run. Something like "Hey, he's really a nice guy, why don't we watch him on TV? Hey, he sounds pretty good in person, let's get a ticket to the show, let's buy the CD, let me tell all my friends that he's a cool guy." I wasn't doing it purely for fans, but it never hurt to reap the benefits of being an outgoing, friendly guy. "So what's your name?"
"Eric."
"Well, Eric, welcome home."
After lunch I stopped off in my room to get my guitar before settling in the recreation room. I'd spent all morning in my room and Mimi had complained about it to me at lunch. She just wanted to see more of me, and I did not mind at all. Since she was worried about me, I decided to give her a treat by playing her a song.
Mimi and Andy were sitting on the floor on the far side of the room playing cards. There weren't many people around, which made the room seem like it was much bigger than it actually was. The room was huge to begin with and it looked twice as big because there only were about ten people in it. Four people were playing ping-pong, three girls were chatting around the pinball machine and Samantha, one of the staffers, kept a careful watch on everyone.
Mimi looked up as I approached the two of them and her eyes widened as she noticed the guitar in my hands. I hadn't done anything musical around anybody (minus Andy) the entire time that I'd been there. "What are you going to do with that?" Mimi asked. I sat down in between her and Andy, who seemed less than enthused to the idea of me playing.
"Well, I thought I'd set it down right here," I said, putting the acoustic on the floor next to me, "and stare at it for the next few hours." She gave me a look.
"I don't appreciate your sarcasm, Taylor."
"Well I think sitting and staring at it is a wonderful idea," Andy said. He picked up a card from the deck then laid them down on the floor. "Gin."
"Screw you," Mimi said, throwing her cards at him. "I can't win with this guy. I think he has cards up his sleeve." She looked at me. "So are you going to play?"
"Sure," I said, smiling. "Deal me in."
"No, I mean the guitar."
"Well, I mean cards," I said, picking up the deck from the floor. "Who wants to play strip poker?"
"No, Taylor," Samantha said. I turned around and looked at her.
"Why not?"
"Because there are kids running around here and I don't want to see you without your clothes on, thank you," she said. "Play something else." I huffed and turned around.
"Fine. I guess I'll have to play my guitar." Andy groaned and spread out on the floor as I picked up the guitar and set it in my lap. Mimi put the cards back in the pack and tossed them aside to give me her full attention. I hadn't performed in a long time, and I never played in front of just two people that weren't my family. It was really weird. I got over it quickly. "What's your favorite song?" I asked Mimi.
"My favorite one of your songs or my favorite song?" she asked.
"Your favorite song out of anything, as long as it isn't one of those crap boy bands."
"Aren't you one of those crap boy bands?" Andy asked, looking over at me.
"No. I can actually sing," I said. I looked back at Mimi. "Anything. I might know it." She thought about it, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on top of them. Her face suddenly lit up.
"Nights in White Satin by the Moody Blues."
"You like the Moody Blues?" I asked. She nodded. "Wow. You look like the type who'd like Nsync and the Backstreet Boys and not even know who the Moody Blues are."
"My dad has their stuff on all the time. Do you know it?"
"Of course I know it," I said. "Okay, for the lovely Mimi." I gave her a smile and played her song for her. She sat in awe the entire time, staring at me with this admiration in her eyes that I usually didn't get to see when I was on stage. Even Andy seemed interested by the end of the song, but he was trying very hard not to let on that he actually was enjoying it. When I finished the song Mimi clapped excitingly.
"Yeah, yeah," Andy said. "It wasn't half bad." Just to spite him I played one of my songs.
Four songs later I'd gathered a crowd that included Samantha. I looked up when I finished a song one of the other girls wanted me to play and I saw Eric walk in. He didn't join the group; instead he stood next to the door and watched. "Hey Eric," I called out, causing everybody to look over at him. "Why don't you join us?"
"No..."
"Come on, there's plenty of room. I'll play a song for you." He shook his head. "What? Don't you like music? What kid doesn't like music?"
"No, that's not it."
"Then come over here and join us!" He hesitantly walked over to the group. I looked up at him and he wasn't looking at me, but at my guitar. "What do you want to hear? I know pretty much everything." He sighed. "What's bugging you?"
"Can I play your guitar?" he boldly asked and shied away, expecting me to refuse. He was a little boy, probably barely a teenager, and he was in a clinic for an eating disorder. I doubt he could do any damage to my guitar. I assumed if he asked, he knew how to play.
"Sure." His eyes lit up.
"Really?"
"Oh yeah! Go ahead." He took in an excited breath and walked up to me, sitting down beside me. I handed him my guitar. "How about you pick a song and you can play while I sing? Does that sound okay?" He nodded.
"How about Tonic?" he asked. "If You Could Only See?" The kid was all right.
"Sure." I was surprised how well he played guitar as I sang the song. What surprised me even more was that during the chorus he harmonized with me perfectly. He was smiling the entire time. I couldn't believe how different he was when he had a guitar in his arms. He was so shy at lunch and before he came over here, but now he was just as outgoing as I was during the song. That was me when I was his age. It made me happy.
This is torture in the lowest form, I thought as I looked at the man sitting in front of me. My first session with my new psychiatrist, Dr. Adrian Russo, was terrible. He was an old man who wore bifocals and wrote notes on every word that came out of my mouth. Halfway through the session I stopped talking to him. He began to plea bargain with me in every way he knew how and with every attempt I grew more and more irritable.
His fifth attempt at communication was to try to hypnotize me. I ignored his watch and stared straight at him, not blinking. It'd been five minutes. He hadn't given up and neither had I. Finally he stopped swinging the watch in front of my face and sat back down on his chair.
"What is the matter, Zac? Why won't you talk to me?" I didn't say anything. "All I'm trying to do is help you. Your family is very concerned and--" Having enough, I spit on him. "That's it. I can't handle this anymore. Leave. Leave and never come back!" Smiling, I got up and walked out of the musty office into the waiting room. There were a few other people there and many of them looked up to see who was coming out of the room. My mother looked up and was surprised to see me walking out of the office so quickly. "Why are you out here so early?"
"He said I should go home. He wasn't feeling well," I said, smiling.
"Corinne," Dr. Russo's voice said over the speaker at the assistant's desk. "Please escort Mr. Hanson off the premises and make sure he does not come back!" My mother gave me a look. I kept my smile. We were politely escorted out of the building. I walked to the car, pleased with my doings, but my mother had other thoughts in mind. She waited until we were in the car until she said anything.
"Zachary, you will never make me look bad in front of other people like that again! I don't know what the hell you did in there to make a very distinguished psychiatrist ban you from his office but you will not be doing it again. I don't know what is going through your mind right now but all I'm trying to do is help you. You are not making it easy for me."
"He just doesn't like me, that's all," I said.
"I'm sure you've given him plenty reasons not to. I know you're upset because I wouldn't let you go see Joy anymore, but trust me, it's for your own good." I huffed. "It is for your own good, Zachary. Now I'm going to try you with one other person, and if it doesn't work with him, when Taylor comes home the three of you are just going to have to go back on tour without you getting the help you need. It's your decision." It's your heartbreak when I kill myself, I thought.
When we arrived home I immediately ran upstairs and went into my room. I plopped on my bed, sighing. I wasn't there five minutes when I heard a soft knock at the door. "Yes?" I asked, slightly annoyed. The door opened and my four-year-old sister Zoe poked her head in.
"Zac? Will you play with me?" she asked, her little voice breaking me in two.
"Not now, Zo. I'm too tired," I said, turning my head away from her. I closed my eyes, feeling hot tears well in them. I didn't even feel up to playing with my little sister.
"You're always tired, Zac. When are you going to stop being tired and play with me again?"
"Later, Zoe. Later." I heard a soft sigh and the door closed. I opened my eyes and let the tears fall once I was alone. I didn't want to have Zoe know that I was crying. I didn't want anybody to know that I was crying. I just wanted to be left alone, stay in my room forever and let the rest of the world get on without me. I didn't care about my family. I didn't care about my music. I just want to be left alone.
"He's just tired, Zoe, leave him be," I heard my mother say outside.
"But Mommy he's always tired."
"Honey, just leave him be. He'll be better soon."
"When? I want to show him my new dolly."
"I don't know, honey. He'll be better when he feels like getting better." I put my pillow over my head and went into my comfort position. I didn't want to hear them talking about me. It was upsetting to hear my mother talk to my sister like that; like I was sick or something and I shouldn't be bothered until I was better, or better yet when I chose to be better! I couldn't choose to get better. There was only one way that I would get better and that was if I had Joy back to help me get better. Otherwise I was wasting away right in front of their eyes.
I locked myself in the bathroom not long after my little sister left the room. Nobody else was upstairs so I had the quiet pleasure of the bathroom floor to myself for the time being. My bare feet were cold against the tiles and it was welcomed; any kind of emotion was welcomed as of late. It'd just been so much darkness and depression and I still didn't know exactly where it was all coming from, but it was always around me. I knew I hit a low point when on the way to the bathroom I started crying so hard that I found myself actually on the floor with my hands over my face, sobbing uncontrollably. I'd never actually made it to the floor before. The expression was used so much to describe the utmost bottom of the cycle of depression, but I'd never actually experienced it before. Now I had--the carpet against my skin, my face to the coarse ground, tears streaming out of my eyes and drenching my hands, my cheeks, my lips--and I had absolutely no idea why.
Checking again to make sure the door was locked, I opened the cabinet and pulled out a makeup mirror I stole from my mother, and a small box that I kept my self-mutilating razor in. I was in a slightly better mood after my episode on the floor, surprisingly not five minutes before I sat myself down in the bathroom, and I found myself singing under my breath as I pulled my white cocaine powder out of my pocket. I poured a bit on the mirror and as I created a line for myself with my bloodstained razor, I began to listen to what I was singing. I didn't sing much anymore and it was very upsetting because music was once my life. There I was causing so much pain in myself because of that music. It was the whole reason I had scars on my wrists that I was constantly reopening. It was the reason I sat there on the cold tile floor of the dirty bathroom, doing cocaine and making myself bleed.
I set the mirror on the counter. "Did you see the man with the cocaine load?" I found myself singing, and in a moment I'd taken in a line and sat back, sniffing, to let it get into my system. "It's on sale for the price of your soul." I nearly laughed. Considering how much I paid for this batch of forbidden goodness, my soul came pretty damn cheap. It wasn't much value to me lately anyway.
While I was on the floor, waiting for my high to kick in, I rolled up my sleeve, took my razor and slid it over the scar on my right wrist. It opened and I winced as it began to bleed. My razor dropping to the floor with a deafeningly soft clink, I watched myself bleed a moment before I grabbed a stream of toilet paper to stop the flow. The deep red fluid trickled up my arm and disappeared into my sleeve. I caught it before it stained, because if anyone saw me it would be a dead giveaway. Once the cut had clotted, I flushed the tissue and slid my sleeve down again.
"Zac, are you in there?" My mother was outside. She either heard me crying or she was there to scold me about how I treated my sister earlier. It seemed like ages ago. It didn't matter much any longer. My drugs were working and I felt better. I cleaned up quickly, making sure to get every grain of powder back into the bag before I stuffed it back into one of my pockets and then opened the door with a smile on my face. It wasn't me. It was the drugs working. The only time I felt like talking to anybody anymore was when I was high and at the moment I had some pretty pure narcotics working its way through my system.
"Hi," I said.
"Are you okay?" she asked, a concerned look in her eyes.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I told her. "Just a little under the weather, but what else is new? They said it'll take a while for me to get all that blood back." Her eyes subconsciously grazed my wrists but my long sleeves covered them.
"I know it didn't go well at the doctor's office today but I just want you to know that I love you and I want you to get better."
"Mom, I'm fine. I told you that," I repeated. She didn't believe me at all and she had every reason not to. The only reason I was even talking to her, which was a mistake by itself, was because of the cocaine. I didn't know if she was aware of my drug use, but I was sniffing like crazy and I could only blame it on allergies for so long. She grabbed my left wrist. "What the fuck are you doing?" She gave me a stern look and lifted up my sleeve.
"What is this?" she asked. She gestured to my not-so-recent cut. Luckily she didn't pick the wrist I'd just sliced, because otherwise I wouldn't have been able to lie so easy.
"Mom, the doctor did say it would take time to heal," I explained.
"Zac, it's been over a month. You got your stitches out three weeks ago. Three weeks does not look like this!" She was so worried about me. I wanted to believe it, but if she were really so worried about me she wouldn't have sent me to a new psychiatrist. She would have let me stay with Joy. Joy was good for me. Maybe I had a little crush on her, but if anything that made me want to get better even more. Since Joy was no longer a part of my life, I just want to kill myself. The thought constantly rolled through my mind, immediately followed by my promise to Joy that I wouldn't.
"Listen, you don't know what you're talking about," I told my mother. "You don't understand, and you will never understand, and don't pull that parental 'I was there' bullshit because you know nothing. Don't pretend that you're doing the right thing or that you think you're right all the time, because you're not. You're more wrong than you've ever been in your life. And this," I said, yanking my wrist away, "is none of your concern. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to my room."
"Zac, do not go back in there!" she yelled after me as I started back down the hallway to my room. "Zachary, come back here this instant! Do not go back into your room!" I went into my room, slamming and locking the door behind me. She did not come after me.