Running With Scissors_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [47]
“Thanks,” I said, looking down at the hole in the knee of my jeans.
“Would you like to hear a poem I’ve been working on? It’s only a first draft—very rough—but it’s about my own journey inward, becoming truly connected with my creative unconscious. I think you might really find it helpful as you begin your own journey as a free and very wise young man.”
Maybe my mother and Dr. F were the only people I’d told so far, but I thought there might be some suspicions. Recently, Agnes had come into the TV room.
My head was on Neil’s lap.
She screamed, “What’s going on in here?” and Neil told her to mind her own business. “Not a goddamn thing,” he told her. He was so angry he was shaking. And when she left, we both stood up and he pressed against me. He pressed so hard, I came in my pants.
I was in the hospital for two weeks. When I left, Dr. Finch contacted the Amherst school board and explained that I’d attempted suicide and that I would be out of school for six months, under his intensive care.
It seemed to work because they stopped calling.
Three days after my return, my mother came into the kitchen where I was smoking and cooking a package of bacon in her cast-iron skillet.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time at the Finches’ house,” she said.
“Mmm hmm,” I said, not feeling the need to remind her that she was the reason I was spending so much time at the Finch house.
“I think it’s good for you to be around a lot of people like that.”
This was true, I supposed. I did like that there was always someone awake at that house; there was always somebody hanging around who was ready for fun.
“And I’m just so emotionally drained right now. Struggling in my own battle to truly find myself, once and for all.”
“Yeah,” I said, flipping the bacon strips with a fork.
“And of course, my relationship with Fern is very stressful and consuming.”
“Can you hand me some paper towels?”
“It’s just very difficult for me to be the parent you need,” she said, handing me a wad of paper towels.
“Mmm hmm.”
“So after discussing this with the doctor, we both feel that this is really the best option.” She flashed a document in front of my face.
“What’s that?”
“It’s good news. The doctor has agreed to become your legal guardian.”
I froze. Then I looked at her. “My what?”
“It’s really the best option right now. He and his family can give you the attention that you need. And he really wants to do this.” She placed her hand on my arm. “Augusten, the doctor is very fond of you. He thinks you have a tremendous passion for life. When we were discussing this he told me, Augusten has a very strong sense of self. He can be anything in life that he chooses.’ ”
“So basically, you’re giving me away to your shrink,” I said.
“No,” she said lovingly. “I’m doing what I think is best for you, best for us. I love you very, very much. And I will always be your parent. And you will always be my son.”
A couple of signatures later and Dr. Finch was no longer just my mother’s psychiatrist.
He was my father.
THE SEVEN-AND-A-HALF-INCH DISASTER
T
HE KITCHEN CEILING WAS TOO LOW. IT WAS CRUSHING US. It was the source of our misery in life. “I hate it,” said Natalie.
“What?” I said, wondering if she meant the ceiling, if she was feeling it too.
“My life,” she said flatly. Not the way teenagers say they hate their lives, their lives suck, they want different lives. She said this with flatness far beyond her fifteen years. The kind of flatness that happens when people, usually much older, shut down. The palm of a hand, open, pills pouring into it. That kind of flat.
I exhaled, blowing Marlboro Light smoke into the air, an opaque cloud that was the only moving thing in the room. It seemed to drift toward the ceiling, moth to bulb. We sat perfectly still, like we were listening for something.
Outside it was dark. Because I was sitting at an angle to the window, I couldn’t see my reflection, just the rest of the kitchen, and this made me feel like a vampire. I was invisible, I was riding in Wonder Woman’s plane.