associated in random thought

nearly a year

a story untold could be the one that kills you.
-pat conroy

about a year ago, i checked myself into a psychiatric hospital. i wrote about it, indirectly last september. and now, a year later, i want to tell the story as i journaled it privately, in the hope that others like me can find a bit of revelation. or solace. empathy.

24 august 2004, 1 am

tonight, i am in the psyc ward of centennial hospital. i do not know what i am doing here, ultimately, or how this is going to make anything better, but. here i am. wearing a wristband. strip searched. drawstrings cut from my pants. i have spent the past four hours answering endless questions: do i have a suicide plan? do i want to hurt anyone else? etc. surreal does not describe it all...

i don't have the reserves anymore (to cope with just the daily fidelities...). it feels melodramatic to say that. and i know that my eyes are going to be widely opened upon interacting with the other patients. why are you here, anne? because your inconsolable outburst yesterday could have been your end. this, whatever it is, is a conscious choice to become well.

i want to shed my past. i want to simply become the woman i am becoming. i want to not fear that my life will kill me. and for now, i shall shower. "you'll have a lot to write about when you leave here," the hospital receptionist said. i know.

day one.
i'm propped up on my bed, awaiting kathy, my assigned nurse. she is bringing the klonopin. my eyes are shifty this morning, and i am nervous, overwhelmed. i am surrounded by such a sad group of peers. but the sun is shining through the closed blinds anyway, and so i am staring at its shadow on the floor. sleep came difficult last night, as m., my comatose roommate, snored and coughed loudly all night, making me shake.

this morning started early, 6 am. they drew blood from me, took my morning vitals. and then it was breakfast, and the two cigarette rationed smoking break. i met with my psychiatrist, dr. o., who asked another round of questions. he has assigned me the task of writing my life story in eight pages for my next appointment tomorrow morning.

since then, i have been zoned on klonopin. i've napped awhile...i think it is starting to storm outside. there is much writing to do. i should begin, i guess. more later.

25 august 2004
day 2.

am i really still here? much of yesterday is a klonopin haze, with cigarette breaks as reference points. i met with my care coordinator, my social worker, and nurse. kevin and becca came to see me. by early evening i was feeling really withdrawn. there is only so much a girl can take when surrounded by hopelessness. part of me wants to be the encourager of the inmates, the comic relief. oh, but that is the role i always take, isn't it? i get to put aside the whole reason i'm here. i can't do that right now. i may feel selfish for being so me-centered here, but this is about getting well again.

i rolled out of bed to meet with dr. o. this morning. the man holds nothing back. after reading what i'd written of my life (which wasn't much...), he said he thought i have a strong sense of ideals. i agree. he said that i mention peace a lot, but not love. i'm not exactly sure what to do with that.

26 august 2004
day 3.

today, i feel anxious, but i am immensely grateful for the light in this room, for crazy j. and his generosity with the gauloises. i'm living for the smoke breaks, for the chance to feel sun and wind, to see stars and the moon. every break is the evidence of time passing, of a few hours closer to my release from this place.

the days are a haze, and yesterday was a long nap. i'm interacting more, though, having spoken with my mother. the daughter in me over-ruled the mom-protector. and i called from the social worker's office. i told her i was here, and tried to explain why. she was calm...

by this time tomorrow, i'll be back in the real world, with all its cares at hand. but. for now, i'm still here, still watched and restricted. protected, ultimately. i'm trying to remain calm, to take in this whole experience, and leave a little more whole. dance of the dissident daughter has been a constant companion. sue monk kidd's journey--her leveling--is so much my own. the descent. the reseeding. all of it. i am being born again, i think.
in this sleepy place, i know a little bit about the hand of God. and sparks of wonder, of life after death, are still living in my belly.

i am so quick to create my symbols, come to my conclusions. but. i feel something different welling up inside me. something like a new season.

[finally, the entry i wrote two days after my release from the hospital. i had gone to sewanee, tn, with charley, to have a time of decompression in a cabin on a bluff, before heading back into my life. of having to explain my absence to my friends.]

29 August 2004
The deck.

The morning is a Sunday sunny breeze. Charley and I woke up early, and watched the slow mist dissipate over the hills. A grey morning has burst into a fullblown sunny day. The wind sings change: autumn is coming, and the trees are holding onto their green for just awhile longer now. Everything is in its right place: the clouds swim gently across the sky, and Charley is lying by my side. I’ve got Jolie Holland singing through the window and this is church.

I’m trying to breathe in the day, to prepare for re-entry. The dog and I will be leaving soon, as soon as the incense burns out. Nag champa is the scent of Sundays with Helen, like two weeks ago, when we opened all the windows, and she made me a steak. A lovely day.

I’m reading all about the pre-Christian labyrinth right now, about how it is a threaded journey into the womb: a death and rebirth. Helen and I walked that labyrinth, remember? We sat in the middle together awhile. I knelt facedown; she lifted her face, sitting lotus. But we met at center. We’re reaching, holding out for the life that calls our names. “Come and live,� it says. “Be born.� We are women who bear the weight of the world on our shoulders, and I pray that there comes a time when we can lay it all down.

As I typed, a hummingbird visited briefly. A goodbye before I even said hello. Charley didn’t notice.

What is the day saying to me? it says breathe, I think. Make your decisions, and your peace with them, and live your life. I’m slowly letting go of Nashville. I’m preparing to leave. I’m preparing to venture out of the safe borders of evangelical Christianity. My heart left a while ago. My body is catching up. I do believe in God. I do believe in God within without. I believe God is breathing in the trees, swimming in the skies, lying next to me. My fingers tingle to write my whole heart, uncensored: that it is MotherGod whom I need now, the one whose lap I am welcome to lie in and become whole. I dreamt of that as I lay in my hospital bed during the close-blinded sunny afternoons. Ah, there is my hummingbird again. Here and gone.

I cannot help but think that Charley is the Holy Spirit canine incarnate. She does not leave my side (except for her romps in the woods), and I laugh wholeheartedly at her energy and joy. She is learning so quickly the commands to sit and stay, lie down. Good dog. She dances for treats, spins like a dancer. My graceful pup. She is on this journey with me. She is the one who tromps along with me.

There are stories in my heart to be told. I will survive this season of poverty, somehow. I will return to Starbucks tomorrow. I will resume my life. I will walk forward. I’ve got to let go of what has passed.

Posted by bananie at August 13, 2005 2:21 PM | TrackBack