Pica

Why is it that the most edible looking things are a hazard? I don’t blame kids for sticking the bright red Play-Doh in their mouth. I bet it tastes like strawberry. Or the candle wax on a scentsy, right before reaching melting point. It looks so bendy and stretchy, and I just want to chew it like gum. But those round, shiny blue glass marbles in the empty vase. They have to be my favorite. Looking at the tall clear vase in front of me, I just couldn’t help myself. The first one went down smoothly.

I remember the first time I had an “inedible” meal. I was 6 years old, running away from home to the castle park. There was a bright red swing, with a seat that looked like a chair. It was the only one, and I always had to wait to get my turn on it. There was also an old jumbo-size tire hanging horizontally on a chain. I loved spinning on that thing. But that wasn’t where I was headed. I couldn’t reach either of those without a lift from Dad. No, I wanted to climb to the top of the playground, and hide in the room under the castle-shaped roof. There I could curl up and forget the noise.

Mom and Dad were fighting again. Dad never liked when Mom would spend time withUncle Jeff. And he was at the house every other day while Dad was at work, so they fought a lot. I could handle the screams, I didn’t mind the loudness. It was hearing glass shatter or thuds on the floor that would startle me. This time it was Mom’s gut-wrenching scream followed by a slam in the wall. I ran from the inside of my closet out the front door. I was sprinting, tears streaming down my face, rough asphalt scratching my bare feet until I reached the park. I rushed to the steps up the castle, but my legs gave out. I wonder how much I ran that day. 

On the dirt floor I laid, staring up at the bright orange sky. I dug my bruised feet under the rocky sand and curled my fingers on it to grab fistfuls. At some point, I started doing sand angels, letting my limbs feel the freshness of it. When I found the will to sit back up, I looked down, staring at the sand residue on my hands. The tiny specs looked at peace; with them keeping each other company, allowing the formation of so much sand in this little area, I wouldn’t  have any worries either. I wonder what it would feel like to disintegrate into smithereens, and join the family of specs. Would I be at peace too? Intrigued, I licked grains off my fingers. The raspy texture of it on my tongue excited me, making me grab a fistful more to bite. The satisfaction I felt deep in my chest after the sand glided down my throat was exhilarating. I wanted more. And suddenly, I stopped hearing the screams, and missed the sirens passing by. 

As years went by my diet progressed. During class, I would find myself tasting the slimy Elmer’s glue, the colorful chewy crayons, and even crumpled assignment papers with failing grades marked on them. For some reason, that bloody-red F didn’t feel as disappointing once it was in my stomach. I enjoyed my diet - I explored flavors and textures beyond what anyone else would. It made me feel like I had some sort of power no one else could have, or know about. At least until I was 15 in Ms. McCarthy’s US History classroom.

That classroom had to be the most stereotypically decorated of all time. A history class with posters of Presidents and historical figures? I’ll admit I did find myself dozing off at those unfamiliar faces we never got to in the textbook a couple of times. But it doesn’t make them any less cliché. I will give McCarthy credit where it’s due though; I suppose it was somewhat original to add thumbtacks to the maps on the boards. They each pinpoint places she’d traveled to throughout the years. Granted, there were only about 5 pins and all within the United States, but the concept was cool. I often looked at those points on the map. I still remember every color thumbtack. She tried her best to match them to the color of that state’s flag. My favorite had to be the bright yellow pin on New Mexico. I could just feel that it’d taste like ripe bananas, right before they started spotting, when the sweetness is at its peak. At least that particular shade of yellow matched the bananas on my home’s dining table. I found myself staring at those when my parents summoned me for a family meeting a couple of months ago. They were getting divorced. Dad was moving out and traveling to Vermont to go with Grams for a while. Everything will be okay Magpie, he said, I’ll call every day and you can visit anytime you want. I wonder if he remembered saying that or if “forgetting” to call became a choice. He left that night, two suitcases in hand that were not nearly big enough to fit all of his things. I don’t think he ever came back for the rest; at least not when I was home to see. 

Coincidentally, right after Dad drove off and his car disappeared from the horizon, a truck pulled up in the driveaway. It was Uncle Jeff, with luggage of his own. He was moving in. Come on Magpie, Mom said, Don’t just stand there help Uncle Jeff take his bags to the room. Is that the phone call my mom was making while Dad packed? Alerting the mistress that the hubby is gone I see. And not just any mistress, his own brother. It’s a good thing I’m an only child – I will never feel this betrayal. I can’t blame Dad for not wanting to call and risk him picking up.

Removing Jeff’s face from my mind, I kept my gaze aimed at the thumbtacks. Right under the map was the small container of vibrant thumbtacks. The scattered colors painted a beautiful picture in my mind of the cosmos. Empty, endless space full of color - so freeing. Would I be free floating there? The thought drove me to get off my seat mid-textbook discussion and go to the container. Standing there, I sense myself looking suspicious. Why am I just standing here? What’s my excuse? The pencil laying on the floor beside my foot became my ticket in. I bent down to grab it, trying to keep my breath still. My hands were shaking, and my body was trembling. Is this adrenaline? Quickly I grabbed the pencil and placed it in the electric sharpener that was very conveniently placed next to the container. The loud buzzing made it so that no one heard the rattling of me taking a pinch of thumbtacks. Hurriedly placing them in my front left-side pocket, I made my way to the back of the class toward my desk, attempting to hide the grin building across my face. I had gone unnoticed. 

As McCarthy continued with the lecture about The Gilded Age, I reached for a thumbtack, hoping for a good color. Yellow! I knew it called for me just like I did for it. I couldn’t wait any longer to try it, and so I placed it lightly on my tongue, letting it sit there for a minute. I felt the sharp point against the roof of my mouth. It lightly grazed, but not hard enough to poke. It made me salivate even more. With my tongue I guided it to glissando against my teeth, savoring every light tap. Then I swallowed. The scratch on my throat wasn’t too bad. Uncomfortable, sure. Painful, I’ve felt worse. But taste, I’ve had better. This had to be wrong. Surely, if I had more to taste, the flavor would be richer. Feeling confident in my hypothesis, I reached for the entire stack in my pocket and placed them all in my mouth. The pinches I felt on the sides of my cheeks were immediate, and surely one punctured my tongue, but that didn’t stop

me. This time I didn’t let the thumbtacks linger. I forced myself to swallow. Then it happened. 

The girl seated in front of me must have heard my poor attempt at taking a breath. She had turned abruptly to look at me before screaming for help. It was a bit melodramatic for my liking, but the guttural screech got McCarthy’s attention. She rushed toward me, and carefully laid me down on the ground. Maggie, Maggie, everything will be okay, McCarthy stated, Okay honey, everything will be okay. I’m not sure if she was trying to comfort me, or herself. 

Everything became blurry, and all noise was distorted. But there was a buzzing in my ears. Did I leave the pencil sharpening back there? The buzz grew louder, silencing all the voices around me. And the bright ceiling light above me shined away all the concerned faces of my classmates surrounding me. I started feeling lighter, almost as if I was floating. Is this it? Did I make it to the cosmos?

The next thing I knew I was in a hospital bed, a bandage wrapped around my throat, and an irritating soreness in my abdomen. I looked around, and there my parents were. No Uncle Jeff, no Ms. McCarthy, no classmates. Just Mom and Dad. They were seated next to each other, holding hands. Am I dreaming? It looks like they haven’t noticed I’ve woken up. Using all of my strength, I force my arms to reach for them. But I was pulled down. Restraints. I had restraints on my wrists attached to the bed. I tried to scream but only a weak wheeze left me. My parents hurried to each side of me, attempting to calm me while calling for a nurse. Magpie, you’re okay, you’re safe Dad said. Maggie’s awake, she’s awake! Mom screamed out, Someone hurry!

According to the doctors, the thumbtacks had punctured my esophagus, and if it hadn’t been for McCarthy’s speed in dialing for an ambulance, I wouldn’t have made it. With all the buzzing, I didn’t even notice her dialing. They had also done a full body MRI post-esophagus repair-surgery, and that’s where they found my meals. Thumbtacks, marbles, small erasers, rings. Everything I had digested that week was all there. Damn my weak digestive system! Such a tattle-tale. It wasn’t long before they sent me to the crazy place.

It took me almost a year to recover from the surgery. I guess those thumbtacks really did damage my throat, but, it hasn’t been proven that it wasn’t the doctors who screwed me up. Who's to say it wasn’t their fault that I still don’t have my voice back! Here I am, an 18 year old with the voice of an infant. Yes, 18. It’s already been 3 years since the accident in McCarthy’s classroom. After my surgery, I was kept in the hospital for observation for about 4 weeks. I was never alone, always being watched either by family or hospital staff. My restraints would only be removed during my supervised walks. Given the fact that I didn’t have my voice, the awkward silent exercise was my least favorite part of the day. After the second surgery where they removed all the inedible items in my stomach, I had a lot of strength to rebuild, so those dreaded walks were promoted to 2-3 times a day. After reaching my goal of walking without the need of a cane, the hospital was quick to give me the boot.

I was transferred to Corvidae Psychiatric Hospital, the place I’ve called home until today. There I was given a room, clothes, and any essentials the therapists saw fit. I wasn’t allowed to bring anything from home, and wasn’t approved for visitations. According to Linda the therapist, Visitations are only for those who earn them with efforts to get better. Such a stuck-up snob, what do I need to get better from anyway? It wasn’t until I said what she wanted to hear that Dad was allowed to come. Mom didn’t want to. She was probably too caught up with Jeff anyway, seeing that they had a home to themselves now. 

During my 3 year stay at Corvidae, I was diagnosed with Pica and some other mental disorders that are too hard to remember. Overall, I had 4 therapists. The first 3 quit after giving up when none of their recommendations worked in “controlling my urges”. Whatever that means. It wasn’t until Dr. Reyes that I noticed I stopped thinking about sand, and glue, and thumbtacks. She was easy to talk to, and coordinated weekly dinners with both Mom and Dad. It was nice. Ultimately, it was her that decided I was ready to be discharged. And that’s why I’m here today.

I’m sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Reyes’ office, anxiously waiting for my exit consultation. Dad is sitting next to me on his phone. Ever since he discovered the beauty of the internet, he can’t get off those YouTube shorts. I know technology is off limits until I’m discharged, but I can’t help myself. It’s not like I will be entirely breaking the rules, I will be getting discharged in just a few minutes! I look over to Dad’s phone to see what funny video he’s on this time, but see a text from Mom. Don’t tell Margaret yet, I want it to come from me. The text was followed by a wedding invite. She was marrying Jeff. Mom was marrying Jeff.

The door opened to Dr. Reyes’ bright smile, and my file in hand. Go ahead and take a seat inside Maggie, she instructed, I’m just going to go over a few things with your dad. 

I absentmindedly walked toward the white velvet sofa in front of the wooden desk. Sitting there, my mind is blank. Stop it Maggie! I try telling myself, You’re getting out today! Be happy! I shake my head in an attempt to clear my mind, and then I see it. The tall clear vase sitting perfectly on the desk, filled with shiny blue marbles. They almost look like water, flowing serenely. I want them. I need them. I crave them. 

I look back at the door, still hearing Dr. Reyes talking with Dad. She won’t be coming in yet. Without a second thought I reach for the vase and grab a single marble. I hesitate before bringing it to my mouth, but then a picture of Mom in a white gown floods my vision. I swallowed it. And it felt good. I hurry to grab more before she comes back in. A second, a third, a fourth. They all went down smoothly. As I reach for another I hear the door knob rattle and quickly shove it in my mouth before returning to a nonchalant pose.

Dr. Reyes walks in with discharge papers. Okay, are you ready Maggie?