That’s it. “I’m not Edith!” I sit straight up and the hot words I’ve been holding back erupt in a rageful torrent. “Edith’s a mean psycho and I hate her. My name is Brittany Lynn Snider. I’m twenty-five years old and I live in Marfa with my momma, Carla Jean Snider. I love cold beer and fish tacos, and you better trust and believe that I’m wearin’ my space panties to Boogie’s Tex-Mex three-for-one taco night.” They look like they’re witnessing an alien abduction, but bubba, hold my beer, I’m not finished yet. “I believe in God and baby Jesus and that Texas is heaven on earth. If y’all think I’m going anywhere but home to my own momma today, all y’all are crazy as sprayed roaches.”
Wow, that felt good.
11
Ingrid was right. There are worse things than being called Edie. One of them is sitting next to a girl named Carol who eats her own hair. I’m told that it’s called trichophagia and it’s really gross to watch. Even worse when she coughs up a hair ball.
“What do you think, Edie?” Another is being locked up in a psychiatric hospital somewhere in Michigan.
I look at therapist Rhonda and squeeze the stress ball in my left hand. I hear a collective groan from the others in the group and say, “I think I don’t belong here.”
“Not again.”
“She says that every morning.”
“Twelve times since she’s been in group. Of course, we only meet three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. We definitely don’t meet on weekends.”
“Make her stop saying that.”
“God, you people are boring.”
There are six of us in this cognitive therapy group. There’s bipolar Ellen, impulse-disordered Anna, obsessive-compulsive Liz, trichophagia Carol, psycho Katrina, and me. I’m the only sane one around here, but they’re all looking at me like I’m crazy. Ingrid warned me. She told me n
ot to blow it. I wish I’d listened.
“We’re supposed to be talking about how Katrina’s a bitch.”
“You’re the bitch, Helen.”
“It’s Ellen, and quit smiling at me! Make her stop staring at me!”
Morning sunlight falls on Katrina’s demented smile. Her hazel eyes are a freakish blue and green and aren’t quite focused, but that could be the medication they’ve put her on. The good Lord knows I’ve been dosed up on some heavy shit since I arrived three months ago. I guess that’s what happens when you lash out at people who already think you’re a lunatic. They believe you’re going to try to kill yourself again all because you yell, “Edith’s a mean psycho and I hate her.” They say you’re having a psychotic break and blame it on you hiding your psychotropic medication. Before you know it, you’re shipped off to a goddamn mental institution and forced to take a cocktail of medications that turns you into a drooling mess. Then they keep adding days to your treatment because you’re a drooling mess who can’t remember a goddamn thing about yourself.
Oh, and another thing that’s happened to me since that day in El Paso when I was packed up and shipped out against my will: I’ve been swearing like a certified sinner.
I blame Edie.
“I’m not staring at you, Helen.”
“My name is Ellen!”
“Ladies, use the problem-solving strategies we’ve talked about,” the therapist says loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “What should Ellen and Katrina have done differently?”
Liz raises her hand. “Ellen shouldn’t have called Katrina a bitch. Katrina shouldn’t have called Ellen Helen. Edie shouldn’t say she doesn’t belong here all the time. Anna should stop stealing everyone’s pencils and glue and Carol should stop eating her hair.”
The therapist nods. “How should they resolve their feelings?”
Anna jumps to her feet. “Role-play!”
“No,” I beg. “Not role-play.”
Katrina stands and does a few stretches like she’s preparing for a street fight. “I’ll play Helen,” she says, and I try not to smile.
Carol pulls out a strand of her hair. “This won’t end well.”
“Don’t eat that!” Liz tells her. Carol gives Liz the side-eye and puts it in her pocket.
“You can’t play me.” Ellen turns to therapist Rhonda. “She can’t play me. It’s against the rules.”