Group Therapy: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
Based on the novel by Ken Kesey (1962). Directed by Miloš Forman (1975).
One of my favorite writing exercises is to pick a scene from a movie (or book) and expand it. In this exercise, I took my favorite scene from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” I expanded by picking a character (Charles Cheswick) and taking a glimpse into his thought process during a group therapy session.
Group therapy is supposed to help us feel like someone understands. Like we're part of a community or somethin'. But it never seems like it helps to me.
Charles Cheswick, a squat, balding middle-aged man, observes as Nurse Ratched starts the group session with Dale Harding. No one looks like they want to be here, except maybe Ratched. She seems to enjoy watching everyone squirm.
"All right, Mr. Harding, you've stated on more than one occasion that you suspected your wife was seeing other men," says Ratched.
Cheswick thinks, No, nope. It's more like accusations. Nobody understands. Nobody ever gets it. Uh, I feel bad for Mr. Harding. He's like me. Yeah, we're a lot alike, just, I don't have that kind of education-type learning he has. Ratched is so cold. She's like a popsicle. No, no, not, not a popsicle. That's sweet. She's cold and icy like a, uh…
It's hard for Cheswick to maintain a train of thought, and his attention drifts back to the conversation.
"The only thing I can really speculate on Nurse Ratched," says Harding, "is the very existence of my life with or without my wife in terms of the human relationships, that juxtaposition of…"
When he talks, it sounds so smart, thinks Cheswick. I could learn so much from him. Like I'm in school. I need a, uh, a dictionary.
Taber's annoyed voice pulls Cheswick from his philosophizing. The man reminds him of his stepdad. "Big bully," he whispers.
"Harding, why don't you knock off the bullshit and get to the point," Taber demands.
Oh boy, here we go. I coulda bet on it. Huh! McMurphy WOULDA bet on it. He sneaks an admiring glance at his new hero, who looks like he can't quite believe what's happening to Harding. Nobody ever messes with McMurphy. He's a special kinda guy. He's what they call a man's man. Me and Harding, that's not us.
Cheswick hears Harding from somewhere in the distance.
"I'm not just talking about one person. I'm talking about everybody. I'm talking about form. I'm talking about content. I'm talking about God, the devil," Harding preaches.
Cheswick blinks. God and the devil. Big, scary things. He was raised on that. Sunday school, the preacher's warnings, the pictures in those little books with fire and angels. He never quite got it, but he knew it was serious, knew it was something to be afraid of.
Fear.
Fear everywhere.
Always.
Cheswick’s heart speeds up. His muscles tighten like strings on a guitar.
Careful, too much more, and they're gonna SNAP.
"Peculiar, peculiar, peculiar." They sound like a pack of parrots.
Cheswick pulls it together enough to give them a piece of what's left of his mind.
"I'll tell you guys something," says Cheswick, "you just don't want to learn anything. You just don't want to listen to anybody. But with him, he's got intelligence!"
Proud of himself and relieved too, Cheswick takes a breath and waits for Harding to finish telling the others off. He feels a kinship with Harding.
The brotherhood of the misunderstood. Yeah, that has a nice ring to it, thinks Cheswick. It sounds like something Harding would say.
"They're all crowding in on you, Mr. Harding. They all ganging up on you," says Cheswick.
"Is that news?" asks Harding.
"No, they think… they sometimes want to gang up on me too, but, but I…"
Harding cuts Cheswick off. "Chez, do me a favor, huh? Take it easy. And stay off my side."
"I. I just wanna help! Just. Just listen, okay? I mean, don’t you want, don’t you need…"
"Please." Harding’s voice is sharper now.
"But I always. Always wanted to…"
"Please, Cheswick." This time his voice is a warning.
Cheswick’s breathing is short. "But. But I only want to…"
Exasperated, Harding raises his voice. "Chez! Just. STOP. Take it easy. Stay off my side."
Cheswick visibly crumbles. "I. I don’t understand. I just. I just wanna…"
"Please!" Harding snaps.
"…help," says Cheswick, barely audible.
Distraught, he feels as if his spirit is leaving his body. The scene below looks far away. And worse yet, it's as if he's trying to see what's happening through a thick fog. He hears more beautiful words from Harding, something about illusions, or is it aaaallusions? But it doesn't matter much now. Nothing does. Harding doesn't know that it's okay to be peculiar. Maybe it's not okay.
Taber starts yelling. His voice is overwhelming. It fills Cheswick's body the way fear used to when he was a kid. It's not from the bottom up. Fear comes from all sides and inside and out. The memories slap him upside the head as hard as his stepdad ever did.
The cacophony builds to the point that it breaks through the fog with a blast of fresh despair
"You been talking about your wife ever since I can remember. You know she's on your mind and blah blah blahhhh. GOD! On and on about my wife!" Taber's voice boom, boom, BOOMING like heavy steel-toed work boots pounding down the hall.
Uh, ohhh. Ohhhh. Ohhhh! Cheswick's voice screams inside his head. He covers his ears, but it's loud inside and outside too. The guitar strings are too tight. You can't turn them tighter.
They're not going to stop.
It's never going to stop.
No one is ever going to understand.
I'll always be alone.
There is no heaven.
This is hell.
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