Hospitalization #2

I have been lucky enough that I have only been hospitalized (thus far) twice in my life. The second, being the most recent, was longer than the first and I had impeccable timing...

It is quarter to seven on Mother's Day. Instead of making my mom feel special - she'll be visiting me in the hospital. I have been a major source of stress for the majority of the people in my life - but especially my mother. With the various ups and downs - and down doesn't even qualify where I've been - she has been standing by me. When I have been unable to help myself, unable to do things for myself, unable to go on - there she is.

She is the rock and heart of our family. She is the carbon that holds the bonds together.

I have at various points called her Super Woman, but even Super Man had kryptonite. My mom had a lot on her shoulders. She was a part-time single mom, because as my dad did his "fatherly" and "husbandly" "duty to provide" (his words not mine) - she not only "provided," but also took care of my sister and I. She drove us off to day care, went to work, went to the gym, picked us up, mowed the law, cleaned the house, paid the bills, all with time to tuck me in at night and read me a bed time story. The fondest childhood memories that I have of my mom is her reading me stories. She didn't do funny voices or all that crap you see parents in movies doing. She just read, but she explained every picture. Taking the time to capture every detail. One of my favourite books was a Disney version of The Little Train that Could. Goofy was the conductor and he was driving this train up the hill. She would explain: "There's goofy in his train. he's the conductor" or "There's goofy trying to make it up the hill."

I think I can, I think I can...

Goofy made it up the hill - slow and steady. Now I feel that this is a mantra of my life. "I think I can." Sometimes I'm very slow and not so steady, but I always try and think that I can achieve something even with this bizzare thing hanging over me.

When I was a little older, maybe 9 or 10, my dad was gone a lot. My mom made my sister and I listen to Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding - all the motown greats. At 9, I knew all the words on the Motown Greatest Hits album and in cliched form, the three of us would take up our respective microphones - a hair brush, mash potato masher, and a ladle - we would dance to The Supremes "RESPECT." We had an entire choregraphed routine by the end and we lip synched all the words and when my dad came home, we'd perform it all in front of him. These are the moments that I remember. My mom did her best to make sure my sister and I felt the love of two parens - even when there was for the majority of the time - one.

Here we are Mother's Day 2009 and I am in the hospital. I am not even in the psych ward yet. I am in the emergency holding cell. You know the communal ward where every patient in limbo - between admissions and actually having a room - wait. There are geriatrics screaming, a dude with a swollen arm, and me all healthy physically, but mentally battered and bruised.

I haven't slept and I am still feeling the madness wash over me. The depression is coming on strong. I feel deflated, flat. I feel like my limbs are filled with lead. I can't sleep, but I'm not awake.

I think the best analogy for mental illness is that of a shadow. For the most part you can go on your daily routine. Your shadow is there, but you hardly notice it. It's just there - serving no real useful purpose. Suddenly, it's midnight and you hear a creak run down the hallway. Your once safe bedroom looks scary as it casts its own shadows. The clothes hanging in your closet take shape and suddenly someone is in there. You close your eyes trying to make these visions disappear. You stare into the darkness and you see a figure. You swear it's a person - an intruder - ready to strike. Your heart rate increases, your left arm tingles - okay it's just a panic attack. You take a deep breath. Your heart is now pounding out of your chest and it's all you can hear in your ears. Your body breaks out into a chold sweat and you shiver as you try and hide under the covers - just like when you were six. You hide until you've calmed down enough to rationalize with yourself: "My eyes are playing tricks on me. It's my own over active imagination." So you sit up - clutching your knees to your chest - you slowly turn your head and just as you do head lights shine into your bedroom window and suddenly your shadow is seven feet tall and ready to strike.

You are frightened by the shadow of yourself. It's you, but not. It's you, but distorted. It's your face, blacked out. There you are face to face with yourself. A cut-out of yourself. An empty reflection of yourself. But in this shadow you are more frightened than if it was a burglar that broke into your house. Instead of breaking into your house and taking all your wordly possessions - it breaks into your mind. Suddenly, the place that seemed secure as a swiss bank account is broken into and turned upside down.

Your shadow doesn't want anything.
It just wants to tear everything upside down.

It throws a vase. Overturns a table. Rips the drapes down. Breaks a window or two. But you try to rationalize with it: "Hey, let's just talk about this. You don't need to do this. There's still time to just turn around and leave."

It ignores you and topples over a table in retaliation. Then it's your book case, with all your beautiful books that are alphabetized by author. As the book case is falling the books start toppling out and hit the floor with a light thud, thud, thud. The book case lands like the lid of a coffin.

Again you try to reason with it: "Please, just stop. We can figure this out. You don't need to make this any worse than it already is." Again, your shadow ignores you and bounds down the stairs, flinging pictures off the wall as he goes. You try to reason with him again: "You know, I really don't have time for this. I have a life and responsibilities. I don't have time to put everything back together, because you are feel like showing up!"

Your shadow turns to you for the first time: "You have nothing. You're a fuck up and a failure. You have ruined everything for everyone and you'd be better off dead. Oh, did I forget to mention you're ugly, fat, and an idiot? Man, how do you even have parents that love you?" He smashes a plate with this last remark. "And another thing," suddenly your shadow has eyes and there is a spark of malice in them, "you don't matter to anyone. Nobody loves you. You think they do, but they don't. Not even your parents. They only pretend because they have to. And your partner - he's just not that into you. He's just waiting for the moment when he can leave you." With this last statement he flips the dinner table over and slams out the door.

And you, you are left standing with the wreckage of your life. Your entire life turned upside down in a moment, in the middle of the night. This is what happens without any warning, without any clue when he will be back, but you are left to clean up the mess and attempt to piece your life back together.

Unfortunately, this happened on Mother's Day. The one day that I'm supposed to honour the woman who brought me into the world.

Instead, I sit in hospital limbo - wondering what I am going to do with this mess.

I am Mad

Madness is a funny thing. Not "ha ha" funny, but odd funny. You are going about your day and have a lovely evening with the love of your life, you share a glass or two of wine, have wonderful sex, and you fall asleep wrapped in each others arms and everything seems absolutely perfect. You wake up elated, kissing him good morning and whisper I love you. All this is going on, all this normalcy and perfection, and unexpectedly and undesired the madness is growing. You make scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. Casually scanning the local paper, seeing if there is anything of interest going on in this small town (little do you know that your own life will become so very interesting in a few hours). You sneak a glance at your love, as an image of your blissful evening passes like a cloud shrouding the sun. It still lets in the sun, but it obscures the direct view of the memory. You both sigh as the day ahead urges you on. Sighing not wanting to lose this beautiful morning to responsibility and obligation. But, the day calls and you each move towards your respected duties. Outlining a thesis - it looms over you - the piles of books and research that took you months to collect and read must come together now in some cohesive whole. You've completed a ten page proposal and presented a conference paper, which was warmly received by faculty, but received a poor grade by the graduate director. You remember her comments vividly: "You will have difficulty in your career, because you have not decided upon a time period." As she does not understand that we do not all want to be Jane Austenists! She did not see the "point" of the paper and that my textual analysis was weaker than my contextualization. I seem more interested in the interdisciplinary model of English rather than the literature itself - I see this paper as an absolute failure. I was proud of it at one point, but these comments toy with my self-doubt. I am an apparent failure.

The madness was stealthy and quick .

One moment I am organizing my articles, and in a nano second I am on the bathroom floor, crippled by fear and anxiety. My chest is burning and it feels like my heart is going to beat out of my chest. My heart sounds like a drum, beating - beating - against my cheat. The tears fall in big globules that collect around my chin. I lay down and feel the cold ceramic against my cheek. I curl myself into the smallest possible ball and I try and stifle my cries. "He's in the other room. He's going to worry." But I can't stop. I suddenly remember - the razor - suddenly, as if possessed by a spirit I am a woman on a mission. I remember seeing a razor in here last night. Finding this this razor is absolutely necessary. It is the only thing I think about. If I find the razor I will just get some relief. I just need a release. But, I can't find it. "Where is it? it was here last night? It couldn't have gone far. If I were a razor where would I be? The medicine cabinet!" Empty. "Anything else useful in there? Pills? Medication?" Nothing but beautiful bottles filled with lotions and potions. "The drawer!" Empty. Nothing of use in there either. "Don't we have any medication in the house at all? Ah ha! Under the sink!" Not there either. Just some kotex and toilet paper. Then I remember, "the other drawer in the cabinet." This is my last hope. The tears have stopped since I began to search. All I can think about is cutting. I can't think of the anxiety. I cant think of the oppressive weight on my body. I can't think of the looming thesis. All I need is to cut. I need to feel the burning sensation. I need to see the blood. I need to know I am still alive. I tentatively open the drawer, as if I am expecting something to jump out and kill me (if I was only that lucky). At first I saw nothing, a few hairbrushes, a nail file - nothing. Then I see it. The bag containing the razors. It's like a glimmer of hope in my black world. Do I want to die? I don't know. Do I want to disappear and never exist? absolutely. My hands shake with excitement. Like an addict scoring their hit or an alcoholic with a 1950 bottle of merlot. I test the sharpness by dragging it lightly at first along my bicep. It burns. The blood begins to surface. I make a second mark parallel to the first. More blood. It's sharp. I drag a diagonal line across my forearm. Then repeat on the same spot. Ah - the blood is all I can think about it. I need a deeper mark. I drag another line closer to my wrist. Just caressing the vein. Then I get an idea - I need a line straight from my wrist to my elbow. No. Just one real deep cut. One that will gush blood........

a knock.

I realize the crying has resumed.

another knock.

I hear my name.

A voice. His voice.

I panic.
He's going to be mad, send me to the hospital.

I've done it now.

I feel my chest heave with a sob. He tries the knob. Aha! I was smart enough to lock the door. I feel proud of myself as if I have accomplished this great feat of evasion. As if I have just performed some military coup d'etat. I hear my name again. The knock turns into a banging. I'm wailing along with the banging that seems to be going in beat with my heart that is pounding in my chest.

I let him in. Why? I don't know.

I feel myself lie back down on the cold ceramic. Putting my wrist on the cold floor and feeling the burning of the cuts subsiding.

He falls to his knees.

He is crying.

Why?

He picks me up in his arms and cradles me like a baby. He whispers that it will all be okay, and I think to myself that it's not. I am not okay. All I can say is, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I have ruined everything.

One perfect morning and my entire life seems to fall apart like a house of cards encountering a soft breeze that enters from an open window.

It is done. I am mad.