E. Montes - Perfectly Damaged

“Do you think of anything else?” She’s clearly delusional. I swear Charlie should’ve been a guy. No one would ever think this tiny blonde woman would come up with half the crap that comes out her mouth. Ever.

Charlie starts the engine, snaps on her seat belt, then turns to look at me before leaving the driveway. “What do you mean?”

“Well, sex. Do you ever think of anything other than sex?”

Her facial expression says it all. It’s as if I’ve offended her. I bite back a laugh. Charlie shakes her head, presses her foot on the gas, and takes off. “Jenna, we discussed this before. Some women read for entertainment. I prefer sex.”

“You know, there are smut novels,” I say.

“Yes, but I tried reading that stuff. I just get hornier, and then I’m all over the next guy. I need to calm my whoring down to a certain extent. If not, I’ll be known as ‘the One Who Sleeps With All.’”

She doesn’t make sense half the time. I take a peek at her profile. “You do realize you’re already known as ‘the One Who Sleeps With All,’ right?”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “That was so last year. I’ve changed a lot since then.” I can’t help it. This time I burst into a hard laugh. “What?” she asks. I can’t answer through my laughing. “Oh whatever, Jenna. I can’t help it. It’s the RPD.”

RPD—also known as Rapid Pussy Disorder. The term was made up by Charlie herself. She claims that even simple things like the fine scent of a man cause her pussy to twerk in a rapid motion. Rapid Pussy Disorder. Yeah, I know. It’s stupid, but she swears it’s true.

Finally calm, I ask, “So what did he mean by ‘think about it?’”

“Who? Santino?” She makes a left and then a right at the next corner. “Oh, he gave me this.” She reaches into her purse and hands me an orange flyer.

“It’s a party,” I respond, looking over the bold letters.

YOU’RE INVITED TO THE ANNUAL

REEDS’ LAKE HOUSE SUMMER WEEKEND BASH

June 14-16

Beer. Beer. And more Beer.

Let’s Party!

“Yep. And we’re going.”

My head jerks in her direction. “What! No, we’re not going.”

“Oh, come on!” she pleads. “It’ll be fun. We’ll be together.”

“No. And don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“You deserve a double eye roll! You need to get out more.”

This is ridiculous. We don’t know any of these guys, but she wants to go to a lake house and party with them—for an entire weekend? “I get out, Charlie.”

“Oh, yeah? When?”

“I’m out now, aren’t I?”

She groans. “This doesn’t count and you know it.”

With my arms crossed, I lean back in the seat and stare out the window. “Sorry, but I’m not budging on this one. No.”

She huffs one last time and pulls into the parking lot of our favorite local restaurant.

And that’s the end of that conversation.

Jenna

The one person my mother tried to keep Brooke and me away from was my grandmother. She felt it was the only way we wouldn’t find out the truth—the truth of her past. But after I received my schizoaffective diagnosis, she had no choice. Ultimately, coming clean about all of the mental health history in the family was her only option.

Born and raised in Philadelphia as an only child, my mother came from nothing. She loved her father dearly. He used to work endless hours as a mechanic to support his mentally ill wife. When my mother was only ten, her mother was admitted to a psych ward and diagnosed with schizophrenia after stabbing her husband—yes, my grandmother attempted to murder my grandfather because the voices in her head told her to. After Mom was left with no mother of her own, she fought to make sure she’d never have to go through the turmoil of her childhood ever again. She vowed to stay away from anything that remotely reminded her of her mother’s illness.

Until me, that is. Until I inherited the fucking crazy gene. Mom didn’t have to say it; the expression on her face every time she looked at me explained it all. Her every glance was filled with disgust, hurt, and disapproval. She tried to change after Brooke was gone, desperate to build a relationship with me, but by that time it was too late. I didn’t need her. I needed Brooke.

Three months before Brooke’s death, we went in search of our grandmother. Mom refused to give us any information as to which facility she was housed in. Brooke researched endless hours until we found her. She did it more for me than for herself. Brooke knew how difficult it was for me to go through this alone. Yes, I had her by my side every step of the way, but no one truly understood the demons that I fought in my head: Every . Single . Day . I needed answers. The only way we felt we could find them was by finding her.

But even after my first visit with my grandmother over ten months ago, I didn’t find answers. I still haven’t. Every time I come here, I hope to leave with some type of reason as to why I am the way I am, but I leave just as confused as I entered. My grandmother lives at The Brandy Mental Health Facility. It houses people with mental disorders who are incapable of taking care of themselves, or are a threat to themselves or those around them. Instead of stopping my visits after Brooke passed, something compelled me to keep coming on my own. Knowing that I’m no different than her, facing the harsh reality that she is, in fact, all alone in here frightens me.

It could be me sitting in that chair with my head bowed low and my body slumped from all the mind-numbing drugs. Her eyes may be the most disconcerting thing about her. They’re empty, lost in the world inside of her. Soft music plays in the background of the visiting room. Anxiously, my eyes leave my grandmother and roam the area. There are only ten patients in the room—all different ages and genders—and my eyes zoom in on one in particular. She looks so young, maybe late teens. Long, dark locks of her hair spill over her shoulders. She’s curled up in a ball on the chair, legs pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her face is buried in her legs, but her eyes peek out above her knees.

The girl rocks in place, humming along with the soft tune. A woman sits in front of her, chatting away. I assume this is her mother. I wonder what’s going through the young girl’s mind. Is she terrified that this may always be her life? At such a young age, does she feel nonexistent, even though she’s clearly here? Does she see how everyone around her looks at her as if she’s crazy, even when they claim they don’t? Is she watching everyone else live a normal life while she’s stuck in a world she sees and hears differently? I feel for her immensely. I remember being her age and having these thoughts. I still have these thoughts.

“W-well, h-hello, Jenna. How are you?” I hear from behind me. Turning in my seat, I spot Thomas.

I smile at him. “I’m doing well, Thomas. How are you?”

He grins brightly. Blinking rapidly, he responds, “I-I’m d-doing well. My son is v-visiting me today.” Thomas has been a patient here for a few years. When I first came to see my grandmother, he was in the visiting room. Every day he waits patiently for his son to come, but it never happens. “W-want to play a game with me?” he stutters.

“I wish I could, but I’ll be leaving soon. I have an appointment.”

The sad expression on his face breaks my heart. “O-okay. M-maybe next time?”

For some reason, I have a soft spot for Thomas. I take a quick look at my grandmother, who’s still out of it due to the medication they gave her. It’s either sit here and watch her sleep for the last fifteen minutes of my visit or put it to good use and spend it with Thomas. “Cards?” I suggest to Thomas. His face lights up, nodding in excitement like a kid instead of a fifty-year-old man. He grabs a deck of cards from the table beside him and begins to shuffle.