Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk

The New Testament

Apr 02, 2025

Photography: Pixabay

“Let us pray,” begins Nurse Jessica. The group reaches around Amelia to hold hands and the flat, shameless chords of ‘Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for a Sunbeam’ stumble into her head. The standard grunge chords. Doesn’t get much easier than that. Her soft palate lifts – Middle school. Kurt Cobain escaped his bondage and they turned on the TVs like he was the president. He starts to sing. This makes her wonder why people would not suspect that someone who wrote a song called ‘I Hate Myself and Want to Die’ was in danger of suicide. I talked about it all the time. Maybe too much; trying to prepare them for the inevitable.

“Amen,” choruses the group.

“I thought today might be a good day to address how spirituality can help you recover from your disorders,” says the nurse. “Is that okay with you, Amelia? Seeing as you’re a nonbeliever.” Amelia pauses. She’s trying to convert me.

“Yes. If you don’t mind, I’d like to share my favorite Bible verse before you start,” she tells the nurse.

“Well that sounds lovely. Do you need to borrow my Bible?”

“Actually, could you read it out loud for me? I get nervous.” Nurse Jessica pulls the book off the shelf with a smug look. “It’s Matthew 6:5–6,” says Amelia.

The nurse flips to the Gospels, finds the page, then begins to read. “Whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others.” She pauses, casts a wary eye to Amelia, then continues. “But whenever you pray, go into your closet and shut the door and pray to your Father in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” The nurse snaps the Bible shut. She composes herself, then addresses the rest of the group as if nothing was said. “Who wants to start?”

Pedro raises his hand. Nurse Jessica gives him an award-winning smile and he begins meekly. “Going to church is the closest I get to like I was before, you know, the medicine and stuff. I get that feeling of having someone there for me, and it’s like, good, I think. And when they lay their hands on me, I know that if I just believed enough, I would be healed. And that gives me hope.” Nurse Jessica beams.

“Thank you, Pedro. Would anyone like to comment?” It’s clear that the nurse has an agenda, so Amelia pipes up again.

“I’m sorry, Pedro, but that is just lies. Jesus doesn’t ‘want you for a sunbeam.’ We will never be good enough to deserve healing. WE,” she gestures around the circle, “will never be worthy of His affection. Only one hundred and forty-four thousand people are getting into Heaven anyway, and they all have to be descendants of the twelve tribes of Israel. What makes you think we’re so special?”

“By their fruit they shall be known,” Rosemary regurgitates at random. “Maybe you should read the WHOLE Bible before you say nasty things about your creator.”

“I’ve read the entire Bible twice,” Amelia retorts. “Your loving god destroyed me and left me clutching ashes.” The crow bobs its head in agreement. “That god has forsaken me. And you. Betrayed you.” She looks at Pedro. “You know people who have been healed, right? Why them and not you? How could God relieve them of their pain and ignore you? ‘Ask and you shall receive?’ Haven’t you asked? I asked. Begged – They want you to beg, and He refused.” This isn’t about you; it’s about him, thinks the (usually quiet) man from Picasso’s Blue Period. You’re right. You’re right. Sorry.

“Did they tell you, ‘Give it to God, He’ll take anything?’” she asks him, as the out-of-tune instruments continue in their simple pattern.

Pedro nods.

“And did you give it to Him?”

“I tried.”

“When?”

“Every Sunday.”

“For how long?”

“My whole life.”

Amelia shakes her head. “That is not the fair and just god that I’ve been told about.” She leans toward him. “God doesn’t save anyone. Tell me that Christ did not realize this when he cried out his last words into the empty sky: ‘Why have You forsaken me?’ And there was nothing. Just like there was always nothing.”

“So, what, you don’t believe in God but you’re mad at Him?” asks Marvin.

“I don’t know if God is real or not, but it makes me sad that this man, this good man, WASTED his life. For nothing. That’s what’s so humiliating about Jesus: he believed with his whole being, and he was wrong. He was abandoned.” Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? “You people cannot bear the thought of insignificance, so you inflate yourself with words and pictures of love after death and it is all refuse. You’re standing in piles of shit, piles upon piles of shit, as I stand in and am a part of it. Only, I am looking AT it, and you are looking away. And I want to be swallowed up by it.”

Maxwell looks up from picking at a hangnail to say, “This bitch is crazy.” Amelia can feel the frequencies change as fingers drag across warped strings. Pedro looks concerned.

“What if you died and went to Hell?” he asks. I DENY THE HOLY SPIRIT!

“Then I’ll deserve it, won’t I? At least I’ll be responsible for my own actions.” She widens her focus to the entire room. “You don’t think that accepting the blood of a scapegoat is morally reprehensible?”

“Amelia,” Nurse Jessica steps in. “Try to look beyond your own anger. What good can come of thinking like that? That negativity is bad for us all. What will you tell your children?”

“If I stay alive long enough to have children, I will use the simple words of Epicurus: ‘Is God willing to prevent evil but not able? Then he is not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Then he is responsible for evil. Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?’”

“But what happens when you die if there’s no Heaven or Hell?” asks Marvin.

“The end of consciousness. We go out like a flame. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The song changes into applause. Must have been the MTV Unplugged version. Amazing grace / Not this again.

“But what about the second law of thermodynamics?” Marvin asks, adjusting his glasses. “It says you can’t create or destroy energy.” Energy from the sun means that Earth isn’t a closed system, she thinks. How sweet the sound / Marvin continues, “Here’s a fact for you: the body weighs approximately three grams less immediately after death. The soul has worth. And weight.” That saved a wretch like me / I used to give that exact same argument. You should ask him if he can name any OTHER laws of thermodynamics. Be nice.

“Energy transfers.” I once was lost / “When you die, your energy obviously shifts from fuel into heat when you’re cremated or into the digestive processes of the bacteria consuming you.” But now am found / “Your energy observably transfers in a non-conscious manner to other forms.” Was blind / “As for your ‘scientific fact:’ the body eliminates all waste in the bowel and bladder after death. It’s not a ‘soul,’ it’s shit.” But now I see.

“So, like, not even a soul?” asks Henry, surprised.

“No, not even that. Thankfully not that.” Twas grace that taught my heart to fear / Henry looks at her quizzically. “Thankfully, because I want to die so completely that the thought of any part of me still existing is intolerable.” And grace my fears relieved / “If God existed, He would have cared enough to strike me down.” How precious did that grace appear / Pedro raises his hand, which gets a nod from Nurse Jessica.

“Maybe she doesn’t have a soul. Maybe there are other types of spirits. I don’t know whether or not animals have souls, but they definitely have little spirits— little personalities.” The hour I first believed. “So there are puppy spirits, and human spirits, and spirits for people like her. And God just hates it.”

Maxwell clacks his chair legs on the linoleum and attacks without warning, “What would you know, you pussy ass faggot? Can’t even sleep without the lights on. Have you seen this guy? Strapped to a gurney in the hallway under the emergency lights all night?” Through many dangers, toils, and snares /

“Fuck off, asshole,” replies Pedro.

“Why do you sleep in the hall?” Amelia asks the young man. I have already come /

“When the lights are out, I see little green creatures everywhere, and I can feel them crawling into my ears and nose.” Tis grace has brought me safe thus far / His eyes are filled with fear. “I can see them marching up and down my body.” And grace will lead us home. See? FUCK that god! she wants to scream, but his pain distracts her.

“Can’t they just leave on the light?” The Lord has promised good to me / Nurse Jessica gives a response straight from the book.

“Policy is that lights in individual rooms go off at ten o’clock. No exceptions.” His word my hope secures /

“But that’s stupid!” bursts out Amelia. “Why can’t they just leave the lights on?” He will my shield and portion be / She questions Jessica directly. “If it helps him, why can’t you just leave the lights on?” The voices in the room and in her head are murmuring assent. As long as life endures. The nurse snaps her fingers and the song stops.

“We are not here to discuss Pedro’s sleeping issues. We are here to witness to someone in need of… support.” She means ‘Salvation.’ I can almost hear those words coming out of my mouth five years ago. “Now, if there are no further direct questions for Amelia, we will continue around the circle and each tell a story of how faith got us through a hard time. Uninterrupted.”

Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk

Photography: Geri Tech

Amelia squints in the haze of the smoking lounge, accompanied by a Rufus Wainwright song. “I can’t believe you dragged me in here, Henry.”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” He takes a deep breath and smiles. “Take it all in.”

“No. I think I already have emphysema,” she says with a wrinkled nose. “And I definitely reek like an ashtray. Gross, man.” The tar rabbit perks up its ears. Henry produces a pack of cigarettes and the lighter he checked out at the desk in the hall.

“You know, it’s the funniest thing to me that you say you’re so committed to death but then you won’t even try a cigarette because of the health complications. Too funny.” The song turns minor.

“Sorry if I don’t want my hair to fall out from chemo or hack up black tar from my lungs every fifteen minutes. It’s just one of the ugliest deaths available.” The Lenox figurine takes off her scarf to reveal a bald head. Now can you love me? she asks. “I guess every cigarette is a death threat, which has a kind of drama to it, if you’re into that.”

Henry lights the tip and puffs. “You still want to die, don’t you?”

“Of course I do; cigarettes would just take too long. I don’t know if I can stay alive for years before the effects kill me,” she says. Henry takes a drag and performs a French inhale. The tar rabbit approves. “How can you stand that horrible shit? It’s fucking disgusting. You smell like a bowling alley.”

“Keeps me thin,” he smacks his lips. “Lower chance of bingeing.”

“I’m willing to go to great lengths to be thin, but not subject myself to this noxious shit.” Jack-in-the-box. She crosses her arms. “Why do you binge and purge? That’s cheating. You deserve to get fat from those calories. You need to own your choices and let the scale be the judge.”

“Fuck you; I like eating, I just don’t like being fat,” he exhales on a long stream of smoke. Amelia judges him straight to his face.

“Well it’s like you don’t have any self-control.”

“That’s the problem: I don’t. This food thing… I’ve completely lost control. It’s taken over my life, and now I’m having heart problems… One of my teeth came out…” He ashes on the floor, embarrassed. “That’s why my parents put me in here. I can’t even function. My life has come to a complete stop.” His clown hides deeper than mine. She wonders how cavernous that box is.

“That’s crazy. Your tooth came out?” He nods but doesn’t look at her. “And you’re at Northwestern?” Henry takes another drag.

“I just took a leave of absence. I’m on the wrestling team and this kind of thing is common in that sport. Definitely not the first to go into treatment so my coach was pretty understanding.”

“I have a full academic scholarship and failed every class this semester. I was supposed to graduate in May.” Don’t throw the desk at the teacher. He can look at her again. “They have this new attendance policy where you get an F if you miss four classes. Sometimes I can’t even brush my teeth, much less take a train downtown for a lecture about statistics. They made it impossible.”

“You just have to talk to them. They were very accommodating.” Don’t throw the desk at the teacher.

“Have you chosen a major?” she pries.

“Still undecided. You?”

“Psychology, if you can believe it.” STEREOTYPE. “It’s part of the reason I don’t give a shit about graduating: my degree was not earned in good faith. I don’t care about helping others— I did it for myelf. I was in such agony, I thought that if I studied it, I could find out how to fix myself. I pored through journals and read all kinds of research, but none of it fits me quite right.” Amelia’s brain flips through hundreds of pages of books while the bridge trips along her consciousness, until she finds the DSM-IV diagnostic criteria for Major Depressive Episode. “I just want to die ALL the time and I don’t know if I can be fixed. It’s beyond the reach of my coping skills.” The tar rabbit sniffs the air, its snout black and wet. “So I burn myself to make the numbness go away. I can’t control my emotional pain so I manifest it into something I can treat. Only on the right side of my stomach— the evil side. Always hidden, not like those idiots who hack up their arms and thighs where everyone can see their flaws.” The piano peals.

“Why would you hurt yourself without trying to die?”

If you eye causeth you to sin, pluck it out. If your hand causeth you to sin, cut it off.

“At first, I wanted to show God that I was willing to sacrifice my flesh as His son did. That I TRULY repented of my sins, so He would heal me of this affliction. They were my burnt offerings.” The piano solo builds, full of imperfections from a sound check before a concert she went to see with her friends in 2003. “Like I said, hidden. Secret. A contract between me and God.”

“And you weren’t healed,” he says in a cloud.

“No.”

“But you kept doing it when you lost your faith?”

“Yes,” she admits.

“Why?”

“Because I became addicted to it. Addicted to the ritual – Addicted to the relief.” He considers her response while ashing his cigarette.

“So you’re angry at God, or you don’t believe in Him?”

“Both.” Amelia bites the inside of her cheek for comfort. “The god I was taught about was loving and forgiving and merciful. But the god I knew… The god I knew was so vicious and unjust that I decided, fuck that god. Fuck Him for Ebola, and stillbirth and rape and starvation, and Pedro sleeping in the hall, and me. That god is a torturer. I wouldn’t worship that god.” SINNER! Kill the apostate! ::the smell of holy water:: “But I mourned Him all the same.”

Henry shrugs. “I don’t agree with you, but I can see from your point of view how it might look that way.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to deconvert you or insult you.”

“No way, I know. It’s not important to me; I’m not a religious person. I believe in God and Jesus and stuff, but I don’t go to church or anything. My parents raised me Catholic, so I guess I just believe what my they taught me.”

“You know, fasting is considered a sign of holiness in the Bible. Gluttony is a sin.”

“Yeah? Well maybe I’ll become a priest so I can be skinny in peace.”

Amelia smears a smile across her face. “You could be a wrestling priest. There’s a Christian wrestling center off the Brown Line. You could work there and have the best of both worlds.” Henry laughs.

“That is not real.” He is smiling now. He is losing his teeth but, right now, he is smiling.

“Is so. It’s for at-risk youth; I read about it in StreetWise.”

“Bullshit,” he says, taking one last drag off his smoke. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“But not seriously dead,” he says, reaching for the ashtray.

“Not yet,” she concedes. “Hilariously alive. I slit my wrists but miscalculated the timing of something I’ve been planning for over a year. That’s farce.”

“Please tell me you didn’t do it in the bathtub,” he says. “It’s so cliché.”

“I didn’t want there to be a mess, so I did it in a dry tub that could simply be rinsed out without all that theatrical bloody water you see in movies. People have to reach their hand in there to unplug it! Seems rude to me.”

“At least you’re considerate, if nothing else.” Henry puts out his cigarette.

“I am nothing else,” Amelia assures him. “Pure altruism. That’s why I’m here with you breathing in toxins instead of playing Solitaire and inhaling oxygen.”

“Oh this is for my sake?” he chuckles.

“Purely,” she says without a smile. Henry help me Henry save me Henry rescue me – Sew the mouth shut! “Definitely not because I’m bored senseless.”

“So you’re not disappointed that I’m gonna light another cigarette instead of going back to the common room.”

“Not at all,” Amelia verifies. “I like you, Henry, and I’m willing to tolerate this poison to discuss the merits of eating disorders and dry bathtubs with someone I connect with.” She pauses as he lights a second cigarette— Sew the mouth shut! —and exhales the scent of a burning lounge chair. “No offense. I don’t mean to treat you like entertainment.” Save me. Help me, please. Burn me – Set me on fire, LIGHT HER ON FIRE!

“That’s not offensive, Amelia. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me in the psych ward. Are you sure you don’t want one?” Amelia grimaces with a gag. “Suit yourself. It’s probably better that you don’t smoke since your sense of taste is already fucked up, but if you ever change your mind, the weight loss is significant. Just for the record.”

“Duly noted,” she says, then leans into the sticky stench of the smoking lounge wall while Henry finishes his cigarette, the embodiment of comedy.

The Remote (incident two)

Photography: Kaboompics.com

Amelia, Henry, Maxwell, and Pedro sit at a table in the psych ward common room, playing cards. Commercial jingles have been running through Amelia’s head for half an hour. Her energy is frazzled as she says, “I would give anything to smoke a joint with you guys right now.” In her mind, she sets out a bag that smells like the inside of a Fruity Pebbles box and grinds up some choice bud. A cone would be better than a blunt, I think. Pedro shakes his head.

“That shit makes me paranoid. Wish I had some Xanax.”

“Not me, I hate benzos,” brags Maxwell. “They slow me down— I lose my edge.” There are red ‘hairs’ on the soft, green mind-flowers. Red – Orange – Red – Big – and suddenly the Big Red gum song begins.

“I would DIE without Xanax,” Henry rolls his eyes dramatically. “It’s the only thing that calms me down. But it gives me the munchies. I take one: fifteen minutes goes by and I’m stuffing my face,” yes, yes, we all know that our fresh breath will go on and on, “then four hours after that I’m puking it all up.” Amelia wonders if Henry counts calories in gum, like she does. “But those four hours are so worth it.”

Maxwell turns nasty. “You. Are. A. Faggot. Only girls do shit like that. Xanax is for pussies who can’t deal with reality.” He puts down his cards. “I’m fucking straightedge, man, no additives necessary, no drugs, no alcohol, no cigarettes. Just my mind.” The tune finally comes to an end.

“You were literally smoking a cigarette ten minutes ago in the lounge,” says Henry in exasperation.

“And you told me you were here for drugs,” Amelia challenges. He jumps up.

“Fuck you faggots. I’m going to watch Judge Judy.”

“How are you doing, Pedro?” Amelia lays down a pair to the sound of another jingle: the 1989 Gillette razors riff. “Are they letting you sleep with the lights on?”

“No, I asked. I kind of freaked out over it and got taken down.”

Looks go around the table. ::sound of a dial-up modem connecting:: Henry speaks first. “That sucks, dude.”

“Yeah, well… I should've controlled myself.” He lays out a hand. “It’s just such an easy solution. I don’t know why they won’t just let me sleep with the lights on.”

“Maybe because you don’t seem as sick at first glance. One conversation with Maxwell and you know he’s crazy. One look at my arms, or at any of the freaks in here, and we’re immediately recognized as mentally ill. But you and Henry, and that guy Marvin,” she gestures to Marvin, who is sitting on the couch reading a newspaper with his back to the television, “you seem like perfectly reasonable people. At least you have clothes.” For fuck’s sake – Now I gotta listen to Burger King commercials? Can I at least have something after 1995? she begs her brain.

“The hallucinations mostly happen in the dark. During the day I am pretty normal. I mean, when I take my meds, but they pulled me off of everything to start over and now…” His voice trails off.

“What kind of things do you see?” asks Henry, impersonally. ‘The Hamster Dance’ song.

“It mostly has to do with things crawling into my ears and mouth and nose and eyes. I can feel the worms eating my brain… squirming. Parasites in my eyelashes, and bugs crawling all over, all over me.”

“And green monsters, right?” asks Amelia. Beedeebee bop bow dee-do do /

“Well, that’s the best way I could describe it at the time, but the monsters are really giant bacteria.” The song continues on fast-forward.

“Oh, sorry,” she says. Why don’t you just kill yourself? That’s never getting better. “How did you end up in here?

“I live with my parents and they Baker-Acted me. Seriously, it’s a relief. At least I’ll get some help.”

THE CHANNEL SUDDENLY CHANGES.

The room erupts into chaos. Orderlies frantically search for the remote and break up fights, while Amelia thinks that there is no good part of waking up, even with Folgers in your cup.

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