Awakenings

by poetheather

How does a soul awaken to itself? To what limits would they pursue this? What boundaries would they cross just to hear the voice inside. Albert Buchanan takes that step and he and his family have to deal with the results.

This is a short series that has been running through my mind. Enjoy...

Awakenings

With hands outstretched, face to the sky I whirled. They sky revolved around me and I laughed, deep full body laughs that had tears streaming down my face. I don’t know how long it had been since I had allowed my self the simple pleasure of twirling. My hair spun out like the bottom of my skirt and I turned my spins into a dance, freely moving on the grass.

Other people stared at me, the weird bohemian girl with flowers in her hair, weeping while she laughed. I felt sorry for them. Perhaps they would never know the innocent and freeing joy that this movement gave me. Perhaps they had never known that soul cleansing moment of movement. It was sad, almost enough to be depressing. So I threw myself into my dance even more, desperate to dance for those who had lost that capacity for movement and true joy.

I was also a little jealous, truth be told. Perhaps they had been spared the pain and suffering that was needed to let one simply dance their joy. Or perhaps they had never needed to suffer to feel that joy. Maybe they were already free and I, too busy trying to dance out of my prison, never noticed the joy in a simple gesture or a curious smile. Perhaps I was the one who was out of step here. Perhaps there was reason to stare as they did. But never the less, I danced.

Dizzy and exhausted I fell, tripping and rolling down the slight rise in the field. The park had several of those and they were lovely for just lying about with the clouds in your eyes, watching fluff turn into castles. I lay there and felt the world turn as I clutched onto the grass, trying to keep myself of falling into the sky, to be lost forever amongst the accumulation of potential rain. Perhaps they could help me weep to cleanliness. Maybe that would help me get close to God.

I closed my eyes, no longer laughing, but still weeping, sobbing out all that had turned and roiled within me for so long, that had kept me from the truth of a mirror that gagged me with myself. I had escaped that, or at least sidestepped that particular moment. I never wanted to return to that darkness, so I danced in the light.

Help me! Help Me!

The words were screamed out to the sky, as the spinning world stopped making me earth-sick, the turning no longer pulling me from my now. I wanted an answer but who could answer that plea? Perhaps there was some truth to the statement that God was dead. I didn’t know. All I needed and wanted was something, some way for this joy and release, this relief at standing in the sun and dancing the truth of who I was before the whole park. Something to help me shrug off the heavy mantle of manhood and to dance in the light of the girl within, to let the sun shine on her face rather than bake the skin of his. I wanted to let this self, this projection to become true. I wanted these pads, this foam and plastic to become flesh, to be my in truth instead of truth revealed by putting on another mask.

Help me!

The words were sobbed out this time and I curled up, tight and tightening. I wanted to hold this joy inside, this moment in the sun, free of all that stood between myself and the self I had to be. What was so wrong with that?

But there was no answer, no God, no joy, nothing but the sorrow that those other people had been right, had been able to see from the outside that which I could not see on the inside. Why couldn’t mirrors show what I felt inside? Why did they lie and show this lie, this mockery of the glory that burned within my skin? Why couldn’t I simply be this who I saw as opposed to the lie my mother bore squalling into the world? Why? Why did this have to happen to me? Why? Why did this chalice have to pass to me? Why?

All I remember is the sobbing and the soul draining pain. Then nothing else.

********

The ER was busy as usual. The injured, sick, and dying filled the lobby and rooms. Mrs. Buchanan bustled in frantically, still clutching the cell phone that had told her of this latest disaster. She looked around, eyes wide, almost a look of fear, for what had happened, what others might think, that she might be seen by someone who mattered. She made it to the desk, clutching her lifeline to a more real world.

“Yes, can I help you?” The voice was bored and polite, obvious in the fact that they really didn’t care for her problems.

“Yes, my name is Elizabeth Buchanan and I was told that my son is here. His name is Albert Buchanan and I don’t know where he is. Can I see him?” There was a slight nod, as if recognizing her problem and perhaps the person behind the desk would be able to help them get past this thing.

“Albert Buchanan? He is currently in room 22. You can’t go back and see him right now. The Doctor will be with you shortly to explain what is going on. Please have a seat.” With that she was dismissed.

Mrs. Buchanan turned and surveyed the seats. They were that industrial plastic that could be sprayed off if they had to. Squalling children, people holding their heads, bloody towels, and more were all she saw. There were aged magazines scattered about like the detritus after a storm. She gingerly made her way to a corner that seemed isolated. Wishing she had gloves and a wet wipes she brushed aside an old Women’s Day magazine to perch nervously at the edge, watching the electric doors for any sign that the Doctor would come and let her know what was going on, what was wrong with her son.

The requisite televisions droned on with afternoon programming that was mindless noise to her. She wanted her son, or to be able to get back to work. She needed to be there for those clients who needed their paperwork done and done right in the way only she could do it. She took pride in her ability to produce nicely typed and arranged text. But that did nothing for her at this moment, trapped in a place she didn’t want to be.
After what certainly felt like an eternity she heard her name and blinked out of the doze she had slipped into. “Mrs. Buchanan?”

She raised her head and stood, stumbling towards a man in a white coat, a man she could trust to tell her the truth. When her name was called again it was by a woman younger than her with blond hair, dressed in casual clothes, badge clipped to her belt. “Mrs. Buchanan, my name is Dr. Sarathi. I am the on call Psych doctor. From what we can tell, your son was high on some sort of substance that we are still trying to determine and suffered a major psychological crash during that. He is currently sedated and we are hoping that what ever he took will work its way out of his system in a few hours. I am recommending that he be hospitalized for observation so we can figure out what is going on with him.”

Mrs. Buchanan blinked slowly at this news. “He what? He would never do anything like that. He doesn’t take drugs. What are you insinuating? I want to see my son and take him home.”

Dr. Sarathi took a deep breath and sighed. “Mrs. Buchanan I can understand what you are feeling. This is not easy. He was found at the park dressed like a girl, in a skirt and wearing a wig. A number of people saw him spinning and laughing. He tumbled down a small slope and screamed for help. People got to him and he was fetal and sobbing. We don’t know why yet.”

Mrs. Buchanan shook her head this time. “That doesn’t sound like my boy. Are you sure it was him?” There was a need in her voice for this to be untrue, to be some sort of simple mistake that dragged her to this less than savory spot. She wanted it to be wrong.

The doctor nodded in a slow and sure way. “Yes, it is your son. He was wearing his medical identification bracelet. When the Paramedics got there they saw the tag and thought it could have been another seizure. But it wasn’t. Did you want to come see him?”

His mother nodded and followed the doctor back into the ER, into a place she had really only seen on television. Thankfully she did not have to see anything too real for her to bear.

The room was small and had very little inside. She noticed that Albert was strapped to the bed, with one of those IV things draining into him drip by drip. He was pale, eyes closed, hair wild and desperately needing a comb. The skirt and wig were in a bag, lying open like a wound. Neither thing were hers and even if they were she would deny their relation to her.

He wasn’t moving, just laying there, face slack, head turned slightly to the right and away from her. Mrs. Buchanan wanted to get him home, to get him safe and away from all these things that had obviously corrupted him, to make him a broken thing, laying there lifeless. “When can I take him home?”

“Ma’am, I recommend at least seventy-two hours of observation on the psych ward. We want to determine if his action were leading him to become a threat to himself and others.” The Doctor seemed confused as to why the mother was unable to understand the process.

“Will he be fine?” The simple question hung with potential and dread. There was the fear that her child had become a broken thing.

“We hope so, but it is too soon to tell. That is something we will have to discover.”
“Let me know when he has woken up. I’ll come in then to talk to him. I’ve got to go and take care of some other things. Call me.”

With that she walked from the room, cell phone still clutched in her hand, already planning the next set of calls she had to make. This had really lost her time.

*****

There was no light when I opened my eyes, just a greyness, brought into clarity by a radiance from somewhere that I couldn’t see. I could not move and there was a lack of the joy and warmth that had been my last memory. I didn’t know where I was or why I had a tube in my arm or if it really mattered because to be apart from the sun was to be trapped into the life I had laid out before me as if the guiding star was mine. I sighed and let the mattress and pillow take me into their embrace. I wanted to die and here was as good as any. But God had long since stopped listening to me.

The shaking in my chest and the trickles of wetness down my face alerted me to the tears I was shedding. I didn’t know why they were there but they were something, something other than the sterile walls and the slow drip of the plastic tube that violated my already violated flesh. There was a need for something and I didn’t want to know what. There were too many needs already that went starving into the cold. I couldn’t bear to think of another need.

The door opened into the light and I wept for the sight. But it was the false light of bulbs. A man in greens walked in. He smiled at me and I didn’t know what to do. I tried to smile and only a little of my mouth twitched. I don’t know how he took it and I hoped this wouldn’t mean that his opinion of me had shifted. “How are you?”

I stared at him, trying to figure out what he meant. How was I? “I don’t know. I…I just want to be free.”

“Well, the doctor will decide when you get out of those. Do you need anything before I go get her?” He misconstrued my words and I felt as if I had failed again. There were things I could never get right and talking to people and letting them know what was churning inside was definitely in that category. But then there was that need. What need could he help with? Was there something that he could actually do for me?
I shook my head. He wasn’t listening but I shouldn’t be too surprised at the failings of others in this case. My own life served to remind me that there was too much to possibly stick onto words before they fell to pieces under the burden of meaning. Perhaps it was safer to be mute, to let gestures and the others interpretations serve as language. Perhaps then I might be able to get things right. I started to cry.
What was trapping me? What was holding me into this meat cage that I knew I could never escape? What the hell was wrong with me and why was this my life? Whose fault was it that I had to endure this whole charade, this masque, this masquerade ball to charm a prince and reveal a princess? What role was I to play in this absurd pantomime? I felt the tears continue to etch their salt trails into my face. Perhaps they would remain and show the world I had suffered, then perhaps I would have endured my sentence and I could finally go free. I just wish I knew what it would take short of a sharp knife and a hot tub.

The door opened again. She was beautiful. She was everything I loved and hated. Her hair was like whipped sunshine and it was long, strands curled behind her ear. She was dressed like someone from the real world and not this place I had found myself. I longed for her eyes.

“Hello Albert, my name is Doctor Sarathi. First question, what was it that you took?”
I cocked my head at her. “I don’t remember. I just know that it cost the fifty dollars I had and that it made me feel free.”

“Did you smoke it, snort it, swallow it?”

“I let it savor along my tongue, feeling like the molten joy of the night poured along me.” Perhaps she might be able to hear me? To hear my souls anguish and notice the betrayal of flesh.

She nodded, as if she knew what I was saying. “When did you take this?”

“I took this after another day in that nursery box that passes for my education. I burst free and found and paid for my taste of molten night, of liquid light filling me with stars. I wanted it to burn away, to strip the chaff from the meat, to peel back the layers to the burdened me.”

I could see the translation of my words shape themselves in her head. I felt joy start to pour more tears down my face. Was this someone who could finally hear the girl screaming in the dark?

“What was it that was so bad that you had to hide?” Her eyes were intense, like the ice blue that nothing ever obtained, like the orbs of ghosts blinking at me. Her cold tried to melt the sun of my darkened pain.

“I am not who I am, I am another and she cannot stand the charade any more. She wants to dance this body and she is tired of the pain. I want to let her dance lest I fall.” I spoke the secret things into the air, not just to myself but to another. I began to curl but couldn’t, held in place like a butterfly pinned under glass, fluttering feebly to fly free. I rolled my head back and forth, trying to make the truth of the words go away. It closed my eyes to shut out the cold.

Something burned and then tingled my veins, itching my head with a bone deep inability to scratch, bringing the long blinks that barely glimpsed the withdrawing glint of metal, the red box devouring and the door closing into darkness.

********

Doctor Sarathi wasn’t sure what to do with this latest guest to her work. She could feel his pain through the rambling. It obviously meant something and she had a feeling what it was driving him into this state. When the LSD finally worked its way through his system she might be able to get better answers. There was another good stretch of time before it faded enough to make her questions hold any value. This was something she had to follow up on, up on the floor, up where others were locked away until she could follow the treasure maps they presented and lead them from their mazes.

Albert’s maze seemed to be tangled up with grief, pain, depression and crossdressing. She did have recordings of what he had been babbling since he got here, as the drug ravings often held keys out to her. The answers were all there, she just had to be patient enough to get inside. If this was some sort of response of Gender Dysphoria, then maybe the pieces would fall into place.

She chided herself slightly. Her snap appraisal got him in here. Now she had to take the time to figure him out. It could be several things, the least of which could have arisen from the LSD. She could get answers from Albert in the morning.