The Hill

That overwhelming urge to panic and intolerable stickiness of discomfort in my skin shot up in me. I quickly placed the black plastic on my lips, pressed the button, and sucked on it. Sigh, that familiar feeling of Nicotine and the apple gummy bear that reminded me of childhood filled my mouth. I had been craving this, but it wasn't doing anything anymore. I still couldn't breathe. My chest barely nudged forward and back to keep my vitals going. I tried to push the air more out for a deeper inhale like my therapist had told me. It wouldn't work. I simply couldn't control my body.

"You can't vape in here, Miss!" said the guy in the front seat apologetically with a Uruguay accent.

"Relax, fucker!" I hissed back at him in anger.

It let the smoke float over my wet-glossed red lips to see the drifts of fingers stretching into the space of the black SUV. For a split second, I was mesmerized - recalling the days of being a little kid, lying back in a wildflower meadow and watching the clouds chase for hours. That split second was gone. I saw the black leather upholstery - elegant and worn by a thousand passengers - and the pocket in the seat in front of me. I had used every cranny, cupholder, and pocket in UberX SUVs like this one - my defacto office as we cross the city. A strange sense of feeling home came up in me, even though the guy was impatiently waiting for me to get out.

This was like one of those moments where you wake up and realize what's happening in your life. What was I doing a minute before? I couldn't remember anything about the drive. We were three hours north of the city. I knew that. Around 11 am, my last meeting must have finished. I only remembered one moment from that meeting. The guy with black, slicked-back Italian hair, a bright grin, reached-out arm, and an extremely black suit with tiny gray stripes. He was the epitome of business cliche deal handshake, something he had probably practiced countless times. His whole appearance was a solid acting skill. Still, I doubted that he noticed the section in the contract about adding a cafeteria bumping up the terms. I had given him a sweetheart deal on the building lease, but I knew his client wanted to add a cafeteria. The hospitality option was going to fuck him up the butt royally. He probably assumed that his client would have free use of the building without restraint. I shouldn't feel sorry for the guy. He looked like the job-hopping kind that would be gone before the shit hit the fan.

I couldn't recall anymore what happened yesterday. The whole last week was a black hole in my memory. The memory buffer of my mind was full. I couldn't record anymore what I did. I acted on automatic, often not even realizing what I did. I kept careful notes of my agreements, tasks, and calendar in writing. If I was sitting outside the Hill, I must have triggered some kind of red line that I had set for my own safety. I've done bad things in my life, destroyed everything in the blink of a child throwing the toys across the room. I swore to myself to never let it get that far anymore. And I couldn't trust myself to know when I had gone too far in the moment. So I set myself up a list of things that I always checked about myself. And if any of them were out of whack, I'd check myself into the monastery. The monastery had a big, smooth, light gray facade, a massive building that didn't even allow its full vehemence be felt because giant trees covered and hid the size. They were a drawn-back crowd, avoiding attention. Yet, the massive stairway that stretched the entire length of the building made clear that the Taoist order had every means.

"Hey, buddy, here is a twenty. Get yourself an ice cream to console your crybaby feelings," I tapped the guy in front of me on the shoulder with a folded-up twenty. "Shit! That came out the wrong way, but you know what I mean!"

"Apichonarse," he hissed at me and took my money. I felt he captured the theme of my life.

I kicked the Italian lamb leather toes of my leg resting on my other knee into the air. It was a nervous habit. I didn't quite want to leave the UberX. Leaving would mean that the driver would take off with screaming tires and send me some curse words. Then I'd be stranded in this remote part of Catskills nature without reception. I'd have no choice but go in. I looked at my foot kicking in the air. The lamb skin leather was so soft and smooth that it contoured around my foot. The boot felt more like a sock than a shoe. The heel was smooth, long, and came to a sharp point. Luxury gave me comfort. It told me that I was someone, that I deserved respect, and that I had made it somewhere. It made me unassailable by the likes of the guy sitting in front of me. I needed to feel like I was dangerous because the world was scary and unpredictable. My outfit gave me that power. A white, starched blouse with fabric so fine and white so radiant that everyone paused when they came upon me. The center cleavage, pushed up by the bra, gave me control over the men. They were in a constant state of semi-arousal around me, which I nourished with my eye-lash framed eyes that shot looks or bright red lips that played around when I pretended to be thinking to keep them on their toes, mesmerized to what I might be thinking about. I'd have to say goodbye to all of that when I walked into the Hill.

"Come on, lady! The meter stopped running a long time ago," complained the driver.

Sometimes, I can't tell the passage of time anymore when my mind is worn down to a husk. I simply zone out and get lost in a thought like a needle on an old record player when the battery runs out. He jolted me back to reality. Maybe, I've been sitting here for ten or twenty minutes already. The driver's demeanor seemed different from the last time that I had noticed him. That was my only clue that time must have passed.

My phone vibrated softly. I picked it out of the purse. There was a little Pokemon charm dangling from it, a gift from my niece. The lock screen told me of a timed reminder that flashed up on the screen: "You've probably been a raging bitch to the driver on the way up. Give him a fifty as a tip!" Oh, I knew myself so well. I tapped the driver on the shoulder again to hand him the fifty.

"I don't even know what I did, but I should probably be sorry," I told him.

"What's wrong with you lady? You keep sitting there and handing me money every few minutes," the driver threw his arms up, evidently tortured, annoyed, and confused by me.

I knew it was time to go. I pushed the big SUV door open. I slipped onto the cobblestone street that gave the monastery a bucolic feel. My heels played the stone like a musical instrument that sounded like a horse running down a village in a medieval opera. The SUV sped off behind me. The big trees with giant branches loading a wide, bright green canopy felt peaceful, not even a rustling in the leafs.

I climbed up the stairs. The stairs had been carefully sized to make it difficult to bridge them with a single step but uncomfortable to do with two steps. Agony, discomfort, and labor were to be induced in the pilgrim. The entrance door is far up. The lungs tiring. The thighs feel dull and lifeless. You were to be soaked in the feeling of being the beggar and the petitioner and the monastery above you. The giant wood door with reinforcements running diagonally across it had a giant metal ring that I pounded to get the attention of the reception. They would let you wait an uncertain amount of time. There were no chairs. I let myself slide to the floor so that I could rest my back against the wedge of the wall and a pillar. I hugged my knees clothes, partly to make sure that my underwear wasn't revealed by the skirt sitting so low and partially for comfort. I looked at the lowland, a mixture of farms, roads, and tree patches. Somewhere in the far distance, I could see a line carved into the landscape. That's the drop into the valley with the Hudson River. I could see the nearest village, a good fifteen miles out. I was stranded here. I couldn't walk that far in high heels. The dice had been cast. I sat there, feeling the coldness of the stone creep out of it, into my buttocks, and up my spine.

The door opened after a surprisingly short few minutes. The movement was memorable because it was slow and without a rush. That heavy, giant piece of wood moved slowly. The person didn't reach out or say anything. I stood up. I saw the gap and the blackness beyond. I cast my eyes to the ground for eye contact was forbidden. I stepped through the gap into the black. I could feel the coldness inside preserved by the walls of a foot-thick stone.

Her feet were bare. That meant that she wasn't a monk. She was a guest doing service like I would. The skin on her feet was plumb and succulent. Her toes still had a French manicure with liquid-looking lip gloss. She had been here at most a week for her pedicure to look that fresh. It's rare to see a guest that new to do door service. Most of the guests were released after a week. Staying longer meant a deeper affliction of the guest, but the door service was a place of honor that usually required long devoted service. All these questions racing through my mind was what the stay always felt like here. Speaking and eye contact were forbidden. You only got to see the floor and guess at what it all meant.

Her feet turned around to walk away from me. I followed her. The hallway was undecorated. The ceiling was probably twenty feet tall. I could feel the air was fresh even though it had been standing still in the darkness of the stone womb of the building. There were no sounds except our footsteps. Her bare soles spoke flap-flap. I still sounded like a trotting horse. Our sounds were a kind of communion, like two prisoners who are forbidden contact but the knocking on a pipe is the only way to feel some human contact. The flap of her bare soles spoke to me to what kind of person she was. I could feel gentleness, clumsiness, and also something homely in her sound. My heel sounds spoke of the city, of excitement, and of being upper crust echelon. We had some kind of psychic connection. I could sense that she enjoyed the excitement that I signified. I could feel her attention leaning into me with a hunger to feel what I represented. It's so strange when your senses get deprived, you start to feel odd otherworldly connections. I wouldn't say that I was simply imagining things. That's what I told myself on my first visit. I think we notice the subtle energetic shifts and ties when we shut down our eyes.

She walked me into a room. I could see more light in the room. There was work done in the room that required seeing. She stopped. When I stopped, she walked away. A minute later, she came back and placed a bundle of clothes in front of me on the ground. She knew that my eyes were cast down so that I wouldn't notice her handing me something. So we passed items by placing it on the meticulously cleaned floor in front of me. I recognized the hem pants and shirt. Of course, there were no shoes for me. The underwear was plain cotton in a beige color with ample coverage. There was a silver foil bag for me to place my phone into and a knapsack for my belongings. She walked away and closed the door behind her.

I looked up and around myself. I was in a store room. Shelves were storing the same outfits in different sizes. The room was plain and functional. The wood was beautifully treated. There was no excess or beautification in anything, but everything was carefully created to perfection to create its own kind of awe. I turned off my phone. I slipped it into the foil bag. I took off my clothes. I hesitated to take off my underwear for a moment. I felt being stripped of my underwear was being stripped of the last bit of my control. I put on the plain clothes. I felt like a different person. I went from power broker to blond plain Jane. One could mistake me for a soccer mom at a Walmart, except for the expensive balayage in my hair that went down to my lower back.

A knock on the door sounded firm yet gentle, giving the wood rich resonance. A monk with thin sandals walked in. He quickly waved under my eyes for me to look at him. He was wearing spectacles and had a very unlike demeanor in his eyes for a monk. I knew who he was. He was the psychiatrist who granted the monastery its state license. He handed me a clipboard with OMH 472 form and a pen. The government form with its boxes and small print brought back memories and familiarity.

"This is not your first visit. You know what this is. I need you to understand what you sign. And if you have any questions or doubts, you must speak now," he looked firmly into my eyes. He had blue eyes. Such clarity! The hours of meditation must have purified his iris to an astonishing degree.

I knew the form. I couldn't help but stare at the last sentences before the signature line. "I release all rights and all control to my person, including my body and mind to The Hill Monastery and healing center. I understand that I cannot undo the voluntary admission. The release is up to the sole discretion of the monastery or a judge."

From there, my eyes wandered up to find all the clauses that I had to initialize to indicate my understanding and acceptance.

"(1) I submit myself to all treatment and punishment decided by the Hill Monastery."

"(2) Treatments may include traditional practices outside of recognized medicine."

"(3) Complete adherence to guidance is required at all times. Having surrendered free will, I agree to any punishment deemed necessary to induce myself to compliance. Punishment may be for direct compliance or to create a state of mind that induces future compliance."

"(4) I shall disclose nothing that happened here or that I observed here. Failure to do so shall have specified damages of all my estate to transfer to the property of the Hill Monastery."

With every initial that I put down, my heart pounded a little more. The finality of what I was agreeing to was terrifying. The lack of control, the exposure to the whims of my soon-to-be superiors, and the unknown frightened me. The terror pumped adrenaline out of my adrenals. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I was waking up from the fog of running around, closing deals, and not getting rest. The room, the benevolent eyes of the psychiatrist, and the utter cleanness of everything in the room became so vivid. I sensed the walls around me like a fortress keeping me in. I started shaking a bit. I hadn't eaten since the croissant and coffee for breakfast. I was alone in this world. I longed for the care that I felt as a child when I knew that my parents would make everything alright. Shaking, shaking, and more shaking. I kept scrawling initials onto one term after the next sealing myself into this prison. Somewhere the thought crossed my mind that the restraint of the psychiatrist to not comfort or talk to me was so that there was no appearance of influence that could have caused me to sign the contract. They thought of everything. They would have me for real for however long they decided.

I struggled to put down the last initial because I knew that I'd be done for. The psychiatrist had such restraint. There wasn't a hint of urgency or empathy on his face. He was simply radiantly glowing benevolence. That sent a signal to me. They were in complete control. They were strictly organized. There would be no leeway. There would be daily discipline in all things to the most minute degree. I felt like a petulant child for delaying the take-in. My whims no longer mattered. So I signed.

The psychiatrist's face broke into a warm smile. I felt release. The terror that the form had instilled me with its mental asylum wording had all been a bad dream. These were loving people. I'd have a pleasant week to calm down with gardening and I'd be sent home. I felt like in another setting, he would have given me a warm bear hug.

With a warm, humming voice, he told me, "The inner hurricane struggle to come to the conclusion to do the work can be very hard. You've done very well, Madeline." The way how he pronounced my name was with all the right touches. On "Ma," he suspended for a moment like a trout jumping out of a creek. On "line," his voice went down so deep and raspy. It was his gift. It made be the last time that I'd hear my name until I left. He was trying to make it a memorable one for me.

"It is time," he said and lowered his eyes to indicate me to look at the floor again. The Western-style psychiatric consult had ended. The monastery time had begun. I lowered my gaze to his feet. I watched his feet turn around and walk out of the room. I followed. We walked through corridor after corridor. I started feeling lost like I was falling into a fairytale maze. The world outside seized existence. My feet were bare now. I was a short 5' 1" woman without heels. My feet were dry. The sound they made was quiet and a bit sandy. There was a bit of a caress of the dry skin against the stone before my weight went fully on. The psychiatrist in front of me seemingly walked in complete peace like walking the monastery maze was a contemplative meditation for him.

The current corridor opened into what seemed like a giant space because the echoes of our feet came from far away and a broad echo. I guessed that we were in the main meditation room. We walked to the front. I could see the light on the floor becoming brighter as we must be walking towards windows. The psychiatrist stopped. There was a human-sized rug on the floor. He handed me the knapsack of my things and the voluntary admission form. I sensed that I was supposed to kneel on the rug. I kneeled on the rug. I placed my chest on my knees and my forehead on the rug with my hands reached out offering my knapsack and the form.

I heard someone big and heavy getting up from in front of me. I heard the steps coming closer. The person was very out of shape, laboring with each step. I could feel the presence so strongly, almost overbearing. When I knew that he was bending down to take my things, I could barely tolerate his presence. I simply wanted him to take my things and release me to the gardens to be among the plants. However, he took his slow time because he seemed physically unwell to bend. Finally, my things lifted out of my hand. The two men silently seemed to interact over my body. My ears sharpened to figure out the gestures that they were giving each other. A sense of submission overcame me to allow them to decide my faith.

I felt a tap from a stick on the backside near my belly. It wasn't entirely unpleasant but it lacked any feeling of pleasance. It was more like an alert to be ready. And I knew what would happen next. The head of the monastery would accept me by meting out my first punishment. By taking the care to punish me once, he'd take responsibility on himself for me. I was to not make a sound or flinch to show my complete obedience. This was an ancient ceremony. The sticks in modern days were pre-perforated so that they would break really easily. Still, it could startle one. I pressed my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth. I had learned on previous visits little tricks like that which an outsider could not see to restrain myself. I pressed hard. I was scared. It had been a long time. I wasn't sure if it would hurt.

"Whack!" the stick snapped down on my back. "Crrrk!" the stick split in two. "Tk-tk-tk," the broken-off stick piece skitted over the stone floor. I could feel the sting already subside.

Both men walked away without giving me an indication. I remained in my pose of a deep bow on the floor. They tested your patience often. They'd leave you with no indication of when the next step would happen. And the next step could happen a minute, an hour, or a day later. I had learned that you could never tell if you were being watched from past visits. Once I had itched my nose after two hours only to hear a staff stomp on the ground to warn me that someone had been watching me all this time. That creates a kind of paranoia and a constant drawing in.