Chapter Eleven - The Rebellion
2003 - Mom is 54, Scott is 29, I am 26
I am at the hospital, waiting to see Scott. They won't let me back there until they've had time to "evaluate" him. It's been over an hour and I don't understand what's going on. Scott has just been "camping" with some new friends of his. And when he got home, he was nearly dead. I swear he has gained at least 50 pounds in the last 3 days, while camping. He can't breathe, his heart is beating out of his chest, and I'm scared he's gonna die. I have nothing to do in the waiting room but think, pace and think. And so I'm thinking about the last 2 years of our lives, and how utterly horrible they've been. Scott has decided to rebel, now that he's too old to do such a thing. I had my rebellious phase when I was a teenager, when most people decide to rebel. Scott never did. He was responsible, always working or taking care of Gramps and the fish farm. Always going to school, always being good. He said he never understood why I had to act like I did, doing drugs, and hanging out with unsavory people, stealing, and cussing, and sleeping around. I guess now he knows.
For the past two years, every low-life, creepy, felon and homeless person in Newport, Oregon has been through our house. People have lived in our garage - in-between stints in jail, have stolen things from us, have taken advantage of my brother, and my Mom and I. They say he's an easy mark. They say we're bitches. They don't know the half of it. Scott's "camping" trip consisted of he and a few of his "friends" taking an old beat-up camper to some campground out in Siletz, about 20 miles away, and deep in the woods. It's obvious these people don't care a whit about my brother. They brought a ton of food, all things bad-for-you, and just let him eat, eat, eat. They make fun of him, they feed his desire to "screw the man". They fill his mind with horrible thoughts about me and my mother. They try to turn him against us, and it works. Lately, he hates us. He yells at us, he tells us we're bad people, and he tells his friends we do horrible things to him. It breaks my heart. I want these people out of his life, out of our lives, forever. I am tired. I am hopeless. I am scared. And I think Scott has really gone crazy. I think something has switched off, or on, in his brain, and I don't think he's ever coming back.
I used to think people that were depressed or crazy could, if they really wanted to, just turn it off and be normal. I didn't believe in a chemical imbalance, or antidepressants. I thought it was a CHOICE. I thought people could choose exactly which way they acted, if they tried hard enough. Scott proved me wrong. Scott changed my mind. Some people need medication to function normally. Some people never do, with or without medication. Some people don't have a choice, or can't make it on their own. I don't know how to fix Scott. I'm not a professional. And sometimes I get so angry at him for what he's doing to us, that I just wish he'd have a heart attack and die, so that we all could get some rest. But, today, we're very near that possibility, and now I regret ever thinking it. Now, my stomach is churning with those words I've eaten, and I feel like I'm gonna be sick. If my brother were to die, I could not handle it. If I had no more Scott to talk to, laugh with, be with, I would crumble. Though we have had many disagreements over our lives, Scott has always been the one I turned to for support. Scott has always listened and been there for me, in whatever capacity he was capable of.
I interrupt my own reverie to check in with the registration lady again, ask if I can see Scott yet. She'll check, she says. And she does, I guess. A few minutes pass and she comes back to the front to tell me he's still being evaluated, so I'll just have to wait. I look at the clock, it's been over two hours since we got here. I'm not going to wait any longer, I tell her, and demand she opens the door to the emergency room so I can see my brother, NOW. I tell her to get whatever doctor or nurse or whoever to let me see my brother, NOW. She glares at me something horrible, then goes in the back again, after throwing her pen down on the counter, and shooting me a "YOU BITCH" look. She comes back out, sees me standing at the emergency room door with my hand on the knob already, and pushes the buzzer. She is telling me something that I don't care to hear, something about visiting, and evaluation, but I'm not paying her one bit of attention. I can finally see Scott. I am nervous, scared, and exhausted, but adrenalin is moving my legs and brain quite fast until I see him. He's crying. He's all red. His eyes are darting around the room like he's on drugs. My heart explodes with fear, with compassion, with anger, then with pain. His pain. Our pain. And then I understand what is happening, as Scott tells me why he's crying, what's been happening in here for two hours.