American Outlaw (44 page)

Fay handed me off to the woman at the reception desk, who took me in pleasantly. If either of them had recognized who I was, they didn’t let on.

“Jesse,” she said, “now that you’re here, we ask that you make a commitment to stay with us for thirty days. Can you do that?”

I nodded. “Yes. I want to be here.”

As I said it, I realized it was the truth. I had only been inside the building for fifteen minutes, but already, my pulse had slowed.
It was quiet here. Slowly, the realization that no paparazzi were allowed inside these doors came to me. I smiled, tentatively, feeling the importance of the victory.

“Here’s your bedding, and some towels,” another staff member said. “There’s already soap in your bathroom.” I was shown to a room of my own. It was nothing special at all: bare white walls and a bunk bed. It reminded me of a college dorm more than anything else.

“If you need anything else, just come up to the front desk. You’ll have a meeting with Dr. Thomas at one o’clock. She’ll acquaint you further with our program. Lunch is at noon. Until then, feel free to relax and enjoy yourself.”

She waved good-bye, closing the door behind her. I dropped my bag on the floor, tossing my bedding onto the desk in the corner of the room. I lay back on top of the bare mattress, my feet still on the floor, and studied the ceiling of my room, as if there were some answer there. Soon my eyelids grew heavy, and then closed. Minutes later, I was asleep.

——

“I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Well, you made it,” said Dr. Thomas, a friendly, middle-aged woman. She smiled at me, as we conducted my intake interview, a clipboard with my paperwork in her hand. “That’s the first step.”

“But, I mean . . . aren’t I supposed to know, like, what’s wrong with me?”

“You’ll figure that out,” she said. “Over time. Everything takes time. We have people here who are dealing with chemical addiction, eating disorders, anxiety, depression . . .”

“But I don’t
have
any of that,” I said. “I’ve been sober for almost ten years. I eat just fine. I’m not a depressed person.”

Dr. Thomas smiled at me patiently. “But still, you felt the need to be here.”

“Yeah,” I admitted.

“Be patient,” she advised. “Do our program. It’s pretty rigorous, that much I can tell you. You’ll have individual therapy, group therapy, EMDR, if you want it, not to mention all sorts of meetings. You’ll find yourself pretty busy, I guarantee that much.”

I gritted my teeth. “So, there’s lots of talking here, huh?”

“Yes, that’s true. You can gain a lot, in fact, just by listening to what other people are going through. Think you’re up for it?”

“I guess so,” I said. “I don’t really know if I’ll be any good at it, but I can try.”

“That’s all we ask of you, Jesse,” she said, patting me on the hand. “So come on. You’ve got your first group session this afternoon. Step lively.”

Half an hour later, I walked downstairs to a large meeting room, where about fifteen residents gathered.

“How’s everyone doing?” asked a male therapist, a young man named Ben. “We have a new member of our group joining us today. Everyone, this is Jesse.”

Most of the members of the group waved to me. “Hi, Jesse.”

I waved back tentatively. “Hi.”

“Does anyone want to start us off today?” Ben asked. “What’s on everyone’s mind?”

After a few seconds, an older woman raised her hand.

“Hi. I’m Jill. Most of you know me already. For those who don’t, I’ve been battling with addiction to alcohol and drugs for more than ten years. I’ve been here for a couple of weeks, and each day, it seems like I’m getting a little bit better. I mean, it’s still hard . . .”

Her voice broke off.

“What’s the hard part, Jill?”

“I just don’t know if things will change when I leave here . . . I mean, it’s pretty easy to be sober here, but I’m scared that when I leave, I’ll just go back to my old ways.”

Jeez,
I thought.
How about just trying to be tougher? I mean, if you don’t want to drink, then just don’t drink.

A young girl, not much older than Chandler, raised her hand.

“I’d like to share.”

“Go right ahead.”

“I’m Catherina. The reason I’m here is, I’ve been struggling with an eating disorder. I’m anorexic, and it makes me so unhappy . . . every day, I wake up with this feeling like I can’t do it, I can’t get better. I don’t want to be like this, you know, but I feel trapped.”

Holy shit,
I thought.
These people really have issues.

“How’s everyone else doing? Can we hear from our new member, maybe? Jesse, would you like to share?”

“I don’t know,” I said uneasily. “I mean, sure, I’m open to sharing, but I don’t exactly know why I’m here.”

“Well, that’s fine, Jesse. Tell you what, how are you feeling right now?”

“I’m feeling okay, I guess. I’m glad that I’m here . . . I think I just need some time to figure some things out. I need some time to be alone, I think.”

“That’s a good start,” Ben said. “There’s no hurry. Ease into it.”

I sat in my seat, fidgeting, but at the same time trying to listen as the other members of the group listed a staggering catalog of psychological conditions: anxiety, PTSD, cocaine addictions, and abusive relationships.

Hell,
I thought wearily.
Compared to these folks, I’m practically normal.

My first private session came later that afternoon, with Dr. Thomas. I sat on a chair directly across from her in a small, cozy little office.

“I thought people had to lie down when they did this sort of thing,” I joked.

“No room for a couch in here,” Dr. Thomas said, smiling.
“Although, if you want to lie on the floor, we can probably accommodate you.”

“That’s okay.” I laughed. “I’m good just like this.”

“So, Jesse,” she said. “What brings you to my office? What do you want to discuss? This is your time.”

“Well,” I said. “I guess . . . my marriage ended. I’d kind of like to figure out if I can save it.”

“All right,” she said. “Tell me about it.”

“Oh, man,” I said. I paused for a while, letting the silence fill the room. “I just . . . don’t know if I’m ready to go into all of that. It’s been pretty painful.”

“Is it recent?”

“Real recent,” I admitted.

“Do you need some time to settle in here, first?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I said. “I mean, I don’t want to be a dick. I mean . . . sorry.” I blushed.

“That’s okay. You can say whatever you want to here, Jesse. Everything’s allowed.”

“Well,” I said, haltingly. “I just . . . I’ve never done anything like this before. Like, talk about my feelings. Any of that. I’m more of a take-action type of person. I never saw the point in therapy, to be honest.”

“You might be surprised what happens when you open up,” Dr. Thomas said patiently. “Tell you what, let’s just meet again, tomorrow, and go from there—how does that sound?”

“Good,” I said gratefully. “Thanks. I’ll do better next time. I promise.”

“It’s all at your speed,” Dr. Thomas said. “There’s no need to rush it.”

I wandered around the grounds, outside of the building, killing time before dinner. A guy with a receding hairline, a few years younger than me, approached me carefully.

“Hey, man,” he said. “How are you doing? I’m Tim.”

“What’s up, Tim. I’m Jesse.”

“Dude! I figured that was you. You’re the guy from
Monster Garage.
”

“Yup,” I said.

“Well, welcome. This is a pretty cool place.”

“What are you here for?” I asked.

“Oh, depression, you know, anxiety . . . my whole life being kind of fucked up . . . that kind of thing.” He laughed. “It’s not so bad, I guess. I swear, some days, I actually feel like I’m getting better. What about you?”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“I just mean . . . why are you here?” he said. “That is, if you want to talk about it. No pressure.”

“You mean, you don’t know?” I said.

“How would I know?” Tim asked, confused.

“I thought you knew who I was.”

“I do,” he said. “You’re that
Monster Garage
guy. But that’s all I got, man.” He grinned. “Look, we’ll talk about it in group. I just wanted to say what’s up and welcome you.”

“Well, thank you, Tim,” I said, after a second. “I appreciate it. See you around.”

We separated, and I continued to wander around on the grounds, in the shadow of the mountains.

Of course,
I thought.
Most everyone’s been here longer than me; they weren’t on the outside when the story broke.

There were no newspapers, magazines, TV, or Internet at Sierra Tucson. I realized, with incredible relief, that this place really was an escape for me. No one knew about me and Sandy. And, I decided, I was going to keep it that way.

That evening, all of the residents gathered together after dinner for a large group meeting, about two hundred people in all. It felt more laid-back than the smaller group session, almost like a social gathering, and the room buzzed with discussion as a few patients
halfheartedly tried to read the minutes from previous meetings, amid the conversations going on in every corner of the room. I kept mostly to myself, but couldn’t help observe the friendship and camaraderie evident in the room.

The next morning, we had another group session.

“This is pretty embarrassing for me to admit,” said one young man. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties. “I . . . hadn’t left my apartment more than a handful of times in the past few years.”

“Really?” I asked. It just slipped out. This was a normal-looking kid. I couldn’t imagine what could have kept him so alone.

“Yeah,” he said, looking at the ground. “Pretty fucking loony-sounding, I know . . .”

Ben, the therapist in charge of the group, talked with the young man for a few minutes, teasing out the details of his story: he had been enrolled in the armed forces, then had been discharged for an anxiety disorder. I listened to him with real sympathy.

“Anyone else? Who’d like to share?”

Slowly, I raised my hand.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m Jesse. I just came in yesterday, so I’m sort of new to this. But sitting here listening to you guys, I’m really impressed by how honest and open everyone is. I wanted to try to open up a little bit.”

“That’s great, Jesse. What’s on your mind?”

“Well, I think . . . I came from a pretty violent family. That’s my . . . I think that’s my issue.”

“Is there anything in particular that stands out to you?”

“Man.” I laughed. “There’s so much to choose from.” The other residents laughed, and I felt a bit more comfortable talking.

“One of my first memories,” I continued, “is of this girl with freckles and red hair. She used to live around the corner from me when I was a kid.”

“What do you remember?” Ben asked.

“She was a Jehovah’s Witness,” I said, laughing. “But I don’t
know why I remember
that.
Anyway, I always used to ride my bicycle by her house. One day, she was lying down on the sidewalk, with her little skirt on, just staring up at the sky without blinking, like she was dead. And I remember it made me cry. I was like four or five years old.”

“Go on,” Ben encouraged me.

“So I went and told my dad,” I said. “He was in the backyard, refinishing some furniture, and I went up to him, crying, all, ‘Dad, Laurie’s lying on the sidewalk! I can’t ride my bike!’ And my dad, he looked up and yelled, ‘Well, then fuckin’ run her over!’ Well now I know he was kidding, but I was just a kid so I did what he said. I went and got my bike and ran her over with it. I remember my front wheel hitting her square in the ribs, and I fucked her up really bad.”

I looked at the group, a little apprehensively. “He was a pretty gnarly dad,” I added. “I have all kinds of stories.”

“How did it make you feel to grow up in that kind of household?”

“Not too good,” I said, remembering. It felt kind of odd to be talking about my family; I had only ever done it with a very few people in my life. Sandy and Karla, that was about it. But for some reason, this felt right. “My folks split when I was about six. I didn’t see my mom much when I was growing up. I just had a whole bunch of stepmoms—and my dad.”

“It sounds like you have a lot of unresolved feelings toward your father, does that sound right?”

“No, I think they’re pretty much resolved.” I laughed, kind of bitterly. “He hit me. He doesn’t know his grandkids, and I haven’t spoken to him in about ten years. That’s how I feel.”

Soon we moved on to other residents, but a curious feeling of release and tentative happiness stayed with me for the rest of the hour. It felt like I’d dislodged something.

After the meeting broke up, I kind of mingled around the room a little bit, feeling more open than I had been previously. Meeting the eyes of the other people in the room, part of me wondered if they’d
judge me, now that they knew I’d grown up in a weird, violent type of life. But oddly enough, no one seemed to bat an eyelash.

They’re all dealing with their own shit,
I realized.
I have problems, but so do they.

“How are things developing for you, Jesse?” Dr. Thomas asked, during our private session later that day.

“Not that bad,” I said. “I’m starting to feel a little bit more at home here, I think.”

“And what do you think of the group meetings?”

“I was a little resistant at first,” I admitted. “But today, I kind of opened up and talked.”

“How’d that feel?”

“Not too bad. In fact, it was sort of amazing.” I laughed. “So that’s what therapy is, huh? You unload all your baggage, get it out into the air?”

“I think that’s probably part of it,” Dr. Thomas said, smiling. “Actually, it’s a big part. Our theory is that it’s helpful for you to tell your story. Your job is to put it all together into some kind of narrative that makes sense to you and the people around you.”

I nodded, absorbing that. “I talked about my dad today,” I said, after a moment.

“What’d you get into?”

“Oh, I just talked about what a loser he was.”