Brain-Eating Amoebas

"I've been researching brain eating amoebas and I'm convinced I have a high likelihood of catching one. And all I can think about are brain eating amoebas and they're not curable. You need a spinal tap to find out if you have one-

"Whoa Cyrus, dude, calm down. That's such a random fear," Jared interrupted, laughing and shaking his head. Denise sharply turned her head to glare at Jared. The first time Jared shared in the group, he had gained everyone’s sympathy.

"I'm not an addict. I just love to live life without having to think about it," he had told the group. Jared spoke slowly as if he was permanently high. He had a friendly, childish face. His comment made most of the group members smile.

"We all said that the first time we got here," Denise had replied, flashing Jared one of her insincere smiles. Yet this was coming from a woman who refused to acknowledge her own problems. When Denise was asked to share personal goals after treatment, she had replied, “I’ve already completed all my life goals. I’ve accomplished everything I needed to accomplish.”

Denise was thirty-eight years old.

“Except for treatment,” the therapist had replied. The therapist and Denise had exchanged seething eye contact for a few seconds before Lana, a feisty woman with beach blonde hair and drunken tattoos, croaked in a raspy voice, “Heck, I’m twenty years older than you and I haven’t accomplished anything in my entire life.” Lana was a rough woman in her fifties who gave her entire soul to the program. Lana was trying to win back her teenage daughter whom she had drunkenly driven to her high school basketball game. Lana had crashed into the principal’s car and instead of calling for help, continued to drink while her daughter lay unconscious in the passenger seat. Every single morning, Lana prayed to be a better mother and she worked those twelve steps as hard as she had revved that engine.

Lana was praised for her honesty. Denise received silence.

A few group members stared at Jared, clearly upset. He slept through groups, complained about how seeking a higher power was for “nutjobs”, and laughed at inappropriate times. Whenever he spoke, the group tensed up as if they were ready to yank the addict out of him. He lived in blissful denial.

"What are the chances of getting a brain eating amoeba?" Dylan asked. He vigorously doodled during groups which frustrated many group members. They accused him of not paying attention. They accused him of escaping his feelings. When the therapist asked him to put away the doodles, Dylan shook so hard that he fell out of his chair. The group requested that he start doodling again.

“Hell, if I could doodle like you, I’d be making big bucks,” Denise told Dylan while she eyed his sketch of a mongoose swallowing a snake.

“Thanks, Denise. But I regretfully owe my parents one-hundred and fifty thousand dollars so I don’t think art will ever pay off my debt,” Dylan replied. He took what people said literally. Dylan had hacked into his parent’s bank accounts, stolen their money, and bought porn and video games.

Nineteen-year-old Dylan was brought to the center a week ago after the police busted through his door and found him playing video games, surrounded by maggot-filled pizza boxes. The parents did not call the police on him for stealing. He had been locked in his apartment for four months without speaking to anyone. Dylan loved facts and anything to do with problem-solving but suffered from consistent panic attacks. One minute the group would be trading war stories on the couch, the next minute Dylan would be hyperventilating, drooling, and shouting for his Xanax.

"The chances are very low," Cyrus said. "There have only been 150 cases discovered since 1962. You can get brain-eating amoebas from swimming in fresh, warm water. It can come from sediment at the bottom of a lake. They're incurable. Completely incurable."

"The possibility of you getting one is incredibly low," Dylan pointed out.

"Reassuring him won't help," Dara told Dylan. "I've already tried. It just makes it worse."

Dara was only eighteen and had more emotional intelligence than that entire center combined. She was sharp, an active listener, a boundary setter. She just loved heroin too much. She mostly kept to herself, writing poetry and dying her hair different colors every week.

"Well, how are you going to help Cyrus with his fear of getting his brain munched on?" Zander asked the lead therapist. He sat spread eagle and smiled at the therapist with his dark eyes. Zander had already been to the center four times. He had carefully crafted his cult-like personality by pretending to be interested in the lonely group members, filling them with false hope, and then subtly taking them under his wing. He had most of the group on his side. The therapist despised him and thought she had disguised her feelings by maintaining neutrality, yet her face would quiver with rage when he spoke.

"Dara is onto something," the therapist replied without looking at Zander.

"Reassurance can sometimes make anxiety more intense. Exposure to the fear is what helps,” the therapist said.

Dylan's leg began to bounce. “You could never make me shake hands with a clown.”

Lana nudged Dylan gently. “Sweetie, we’re focusing on Cyrus. Focus.” Dylan always listened to Lana. She mothered him in an attempt to feel better about her lack of mothering.

"Oh damn, are we gonna have to find a brain eating meeba and make him touch it?" Jared asked incredulously.

Denise shot up from her seat and her thin neck bursted with delirious, purple veins. Her skinny arms tensed into twiggy rage.

"Ms. Stein, can you please do something about Jared. He's completely inappropriate and he's disrupting the group!" Denise exclaimed, her squeaky voice reaching horrifying crescendos. Jared covered his ears. Dylan paused, midway through coloring the snake with bright red and green stripes. Zander grinned. Lana raised her heavily waxed eyebrows. Dara sighed.

Ms. Stein, who hated being called Ms. Stein, looked at Denise plainly and said, "Denise, I think this would be a good opportunity to practice your distress tolerance skills. You said the first week you were here that you needed to work on your rage.” That was before she had already accomplished all of her life goals.

Denise became so enraged that she remained silent. She folded her tense arms and looked away.

“Jared,” Ms. Stein began, turning to face him, “Your tone is not really matching the situation. Cyrus seems upset so we should take this seriously.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Cyrus immediately responded. Cyrus was very fond of Ms. Stein after he witnessed her talking back to his mother over the phone.

“That was rad, Ms. Stein,” Cyrus had said. “My mother is going to kill you.”

“Ms. Stein, this conversation is making me more anxious,” Cyrus said, biting his lip and tapping his feet.

“Oh sweetie,” Lana began, “It’s like the therapist said. You need exposure, kid. You’re so young and you’re already worried about something that nobody else gives a shit about. Meanwhile, I’ll be damn lucky if I ever get my daughter back.” Lana’s eyes watered when she talked about her daughter.

“I don’t think I belong here,” Cyrus spoke in a croaky voice. “I’m not addicted to any drugs. I’ve never done any drugs!”

The entire group stared at him.

“How did you get in here then?” Dylan asked. “Did you somehow avoid an intake assessment? Did you fake a drug of choice? Did you manipulate the admissions team? That can’t be possible.” Ms. Stein almost wanted to smile when Dylan used clinician talk. Dylan heard everything and remembered everything. He never looked like he was listening but oh, did he listen.

“Are you an undercover reporter?” Dara asked, grimacing at Cyrus underneath her thick eyelashes and purple hair.

“What kind of treatment center is this?” Denise spat.

Zander finally closed his legs and leaned his bony arms onto his knees. “Oh, I can finally use one of Ms. Stein’s favorite words. He’s in denial!”

“No!” Dylan replied, his voice becoming increasingly frailer. “No! None of the above. I never lied. My mother couldn’t get me into any treatment centers and this one said yes. I-I don’t know why.”

Ms. Stein wanted to groan and scream. The treatment center threw around the idea of opening their doors to anyone for extra money. The other therapists threw a fit, including Ms. Stein. They knew opening up the doors to anyone meant admitting people who needed psychiatric treatment, people with recent assault records, people who would be unsafe in a program that did not have twenty-four hours of supervision.

“Well, I think you deserve help too,” Lana rasped. “Don’t we all?”

Dara shrugged. “Treatment is a scam anyways. What does it matter.”

Zander guffawed. “So we’re all going to be talking about shooting up or drinking or swallowing pills while poor Cyrus here is shitting his pants over fake brain monsters?”

Cyrus threw himself out of his chair. “Brain eating amoebas travel up your nose and eat all the tissue in your brain. You die a slow and painful death. Everyone dies from it. It could be you! It could be me!” Cyrus was screaming on top of his lungs. He went from weak croaks to unearthly bellowing. Ms. Stein was surprised by his lung capacity, considering he used it mostly to breathe very heavily.

Zander burst out laughing. “Jesus Christ! I think you may need drugs more than us,” he said. Dylan let a loud, abrupt snort escape his throat. Dara looked so shocked that she began to laugh.

“Oh hell. I’m gonna repent for this later,” Lana mumbled under her breath, stifling her own laughter. Jared, who had been quiet for some time, woke up from his slumber.

“Whoa, did I miss the party?” Jared asked, his eyes half open.

Ms. Stein felt her heart rate become dangerously fast. She could barely breathe herself. She was not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry or punch a hole in the wall.

A recovery specialist walked into the room and saw the group unfolding before his eyes.

“What the hell is going on in here!” he shouted. The room gradually went silent. Everyone listened to Ted, the most respected recovery specialist. He was tough and full of reason but his years in the marines made him a bit daunting in stature.

“Ms. Stein, are they disrespecting you?” he asked. Ms. Stein noticed that Ted looked triggered himself. His nostrils were flaring.

“No, no, it’s okay. We were just wrapping up. Um, it’s a great time to end group. Okay, everyone. Follow Ted to lunch. We’re ending early!”

The group slowly stood up, allowing a few giggles to escape. Dylan snorted again which caused another wave of laughter. As the group left the room, Ted whispered to Ms. Stein, “So everything’s good then? I thought they were disrespecting you again. I was ready to let them have it.”

Ms. Stein felt embarrassed. Since starting work here a month ago, Ms. Stein had difficulties maintaining a functional group without disruptions. She felt like a failure in this job. Somehow the clients had more power over her. During her first group, Ted had to bail her out due to a group member accusing the center of robbing him of his money and dignity. Ms. Stein did not stop him and let him vent. She was trying to be validating but forgot all her boundaries in the process. The next thing she knew, the entire group was finding faults in the center and she was unable to stop them. The negativity was contagious. Ted had stormed into the group and yelled at everyone.

“You all have the privilege of being in treatment while some people are dying from fentanyl overdoses on the street and have no insurance, no family, nothing! Ungrateful. You’re all ungrateful. You’ve all emotionally relapsed in my eyes. I’m disappointed.”

Ms. Stein was impressed with his ability to silence the group and make them listen. She wondered why all her clinical skills went down the drain at this center. The center was a different beast. She thought she knew about addiction. Oh, she was very wrong. It was as if she had been shaken and suspended in air, all her tools escaping her pockets, leaving her empty and exposed. She had to detox on all the clinical skills she learned from previous jobs, sadly.

Ms. Stein thanked Ted and encouraged him to follow the group out of the building. Ms. Stein felt relief overcome her body but paused when she saw Cyrus was still in the room.

“Cyrus!” Ms. Stein exclaimed. “I didn’t realize you were still here. How are you doing?”

Cyrus had his head in his hands and was crying heavily. He whispered “brain-eating amoeba will destroy me” over and over again. Ms. Stein became angry, realizing the boy needed psychiatric treatment. The center decided to take his money over getting him proper care. And now he was suffering, alone, with his absurd thoughts.

Ms. Stein sat down next to him. Her coworker, Lisa, another therapist on staff, walked by the room and then halted. Ms. Stein secretly envied Lisa for her strong clinical skills and boundaries. Lisa had the successful groups. Ms. Stein created chaos.

“Everything okay?” Lisa asked. Ms. Stein shook her head and mouthed “Help me.”

“Cyrus, Cyrus. Look at me for a second, please. Just breathe with me for a second.” Cyrus responded well to Lisa’s calm voice and looked at her briefly. His eyes darted from side to side.

“I don’t want to breathe,” he told Lisa. “The brain-eating amoebas are real! A man died from it last year. He was swimming in a lake and it killed him!”

Lisa looked at Ms. Stein. Ms. Stein looked at Lisa with hopeless eyes.

“Why don’t we take a walk outside. Ms. Stein can go get the psychiatrist and see if you can get an appointment today,” Lisa said.

Cyrus stood up, shaking his head. “I don’t want medication. I just don’t want to die.”

“Cyrus,” Ms. Stein said, “there’s a possibility it could happen or a possibility it won’t. But right now, you need a healthy distraction because sitting and worrying is making you more upset. Don’t you want some fresh air?”

Cyrus wiped away his tears and nodded. Lisa guided him out the door, then turned her head to mouth to Ms. Stein, “Go take a break!”

Ms. Stein went into her office, shut the door and collapsed onto the couch. She wanted to feel something but experienced numbness throughout her body. Maybe I’m the one with a brain-eating amoeba, she thought. She laughed, then felt morbid for laughing, and stared out the window, watching the group head to the van. Ted and Zander were cracking jokes as Dara intently wrote in her journal, twirling her purple hair. Lana was chain-smoking while helping Dylan button his pants properly. She stuffed his boxers into his pants so they weren’t exposed. Jared was aimlessly walking down the street, ready to escape, until Ted yelled at him to return. Denise stared at the center from afar, shaking her head, arms folded.

Ms. Stein turned away. She needed a break from this group. She decided to google brain-eating amoebas. Cyrus certainly had done his research. Ms. Stein went down a rabbit hole, scanning through various research papers and old new stories. She began to feel better. Reading about brain-eating amoebas brought her back to life. Anything to escape the insanity of the job. Suddenly, a news article that was posted an hour ago caught her eye.

Brain eating amoeba kills sixteen year old girl in Florida after swimming-

Ms. Stein stopped reading the article and moved away from the computer.

“Oh hell,” she rasped, realizing she sounded exactly like Lana. Cyrus could not find out. The irony, oh the terrible coincidence! After all the consoling, the attempts at distracting him, the endless conversations and tears. Thankfully he did not have access to his phone or any electronics. Ms. Stein looked at the computer, tapping her foot, feeling anxiety creep back into her bones.

To her surprise, Ms. Stein began to laugh. And she could not stop herself. Ms. Stein did not laugh because she found the situation funny. She laughed because this job had become a nightmare. This was the moment she came to terms with her own career, her own self-worth, her own failure. This was the moment when she realized nightmares were actual awakenings.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” she said out loud. She packed up all her things without hesitating. She barely had any possessions in that office. Ms. Stein waited until the van drove away and then rushed to her car. She jumped in with the box in her lap, shaking with terror and absolute thrill. As she drove down the street, Ms. Stein realized she had left her framed diploma hanging on the wall and about twenty tabs of brain-eating amoeba articles on the computer.