You will be jealous I got to go and you didn't.

You know that feeling when you go back to your diary after not writing in it for a really long time, and, even though logically you're aware it's just a bundle of paper, you feel awkward because you know it knows you've been ignoring it? No? Just me? Ok.

Well, that's how I feel right now. I was in the hospital for a week and spent another week legitimately not knowing how to put into words what happened. Every time I thought about writing here, I had that sudden urge to hide, like when I pretend that I missed someone's text so that I don't have to make a commitment to hang out right then. I know I am not the only one who does that.

But, here I am. Braving the blog. Still awkwardly not knowing what to say to this beloved friend. I want to come back with a bang. With fireworks. Fireworks shot off by sharks.

Yeah, I'm on a couple drugs.

In keeping with the theme of feeling scattered and unsure and unable to truly acknowledge the gap, how about I just sprinkle out some of the more interesting moments of my stay in the hospital. When I have a solid footing on what actually went down, I'll let you know. But to be honest, that won't happen. I will continue to fling out random goodies and let you piece them together. That seems to be how I roll.

We're just going to skip over the intake process.

Skipping over the crying.
Skipping over the desire to escape.
Skipping over the fucked up idea that death looked preferable over being committed.

Onto the good stuff.

View from my hospital window. Through regular screen,
blinds that didn't adjust, and safety screen.

SAFETY:  They took all my drawstrings from my hoodies and sweatpants. I wasn't allowed to have tights or a purse with a long strap because I might be able to hang myself with them. Even the cords on the phones were no more than a foot long. Although, there was nothing to hang myself from. No curtain rods. No rods for hanging clothes in the closet. No hooks to put a jacket on. Even the shower head was a nub that stuck flush to the wall. The doorknobs were these cone-like things that were impossible to grasp. There were a few times when Dad visited that he legit couldn't get out of my room because he couldn't turn the damn knob. Nothing protruding out of anything anywhere.

I was fine with all that. Hanging myself was never really my style anyways. What pissed me off was when they took all my spiral notebooks and left me with just one that had no metal on it. And I was only allowed one pen! For safety reasons. Well, fuck that. I cannot feel safe unless I have at minimum 3 notebooks and 4 pens circling me. (Totally made that up, but that is what my kitchen table looks like 24/7. So maybe there is a grain of truth to it.)

My first 2 days of being there, I managed to steal no less than 6 pens from the nurse's station and group therapy sessions. I never ended up using any of them; I couldn't cheat on my precious pen. I became a klepto based on principle.

BONNY (name changed for anonymity): One day during group, we were discussing what types of feelings brought us there. Loneliness. Sadness. Drug abuse. Depression. Despair. Suicidal ideations. Homicidal thoughts. Say what now?! Enter Bonny.

Bonny was probably about 75 years old. She looked like the petite little grandma-type that you could picture  working on a puzzle to pass the time while her snicker doodles baked. Except for one little thing. She openly admitted that she was homicidal. She had a victim in mind. And a method.

I don't know what this says about me, but she was my favorite. She had this horribly dark sense of humor that, if taken the wrong way, could have earned her a reservation in the seclusion room. But it's Bonny, so everyone laughed.

Nurse: "Bonny, here's your nighttime meds."
Bonny: "Good. If you would have forgotten, I would have had to whoop you with my cane."
Everyone laughs.

Group Leader: "What's going on with you? What brought you to the hospital?"
Bonny: "Well, I'm bipolar and homicidal. Which means I'm not sure if I'm going to kill me or her (points to random patient)."
Everyone laughs. Including random patient.

The icing on the cake is that Bonny lives in a convent with her sister who is a nun. And Bonny openly admits that she likes to fuck with the other nuns, showing off her lack of vows to God by purchasing expensive items and flaunting them in front of those who took a vow of poverty.

Had I never gone to the hospital, I never would have been able to say that I engaged in friendly chit chat with a homicidal sister of a nun over lunch.

FAVORITE GROUP: My proudest moment of my visit had nothing to do with medications or breakthroughs or discoveries. It took place during the last group session on my last day before I was discharged.

Let me set the stage. We are discussing what and who has helped us the most during our journeys. Many patients are calmly and vaguely discussing their families, friends, and religious affiliations. But one patient is hardcore a "Jesus saved me, this I know" type. In the obnoxious, judgmental, scoff at my Star of David bracelet kind of way. Now, there is absolutely nothing wrong with using your faith to help your recovery. In fact, I would encourage it. However, NEVER use it to jeopardize someone else's.

Then there is Jenny (again, name changed). She is quite, timid, and easily shut down by this loudmouth bitch. Jenny starts talking about how NAMI has helped her immensely. After waiting her turn, she tells the group about the volunteer opportunities, how they help the community, and how they probably saved her life. Jesus Bitch butts in. "I hate NAMI. I hate their core beliefs. They do NO good. All they care about is making money. Blah blah Jesus blah."

Jenny shuts down, bows her head in defeat, and the group carries on. Mary to the rescue! "Can I just say something real quick? I don't want the last thing people to hear about NAMI before they leave is how awful it is. I have seen firsthand how much those people care. Maybe Jesus Bitch had a bad experience, but everyone else needs to know that it is a safe place for them to go if they need help." Sadly, I did not refer to her as Jesus Bitch. My one regret.

Jenny perks up and Jesus Bitch turns red. We argue back and forth for a bit. She gets louder, angrier, and more irrational while I continue to calmly state my opinions and back them up with examples. I'm pretty sure at one point she even blamed NAMI for the lack of care that I had received prior to coming to the hospital. How? I don't even know.

"I don't give a fuck what you think. And fuck NAMI. I have Jesus backing me up for support. I don't need to take this." And out she walked. In my book, that was a win for me. A couple other patients gave me silent nods of approval, and the second half of group was far more pleasant. I stood up for Jenny, stood up for NAMI, and stood up for myself for once. Maybe I did find a little confidence that week.

*****

I am not yet ready to explain what happened from a medical or psychiatric standpoint, but I can with 100% certainty say that it was a good thing I went. Sure, I have had a few down days since coming home, but that's to be expected. The important thing is that I am safe again and willing to seek the help I need without being put in the hospital again, and that is something I don't think I would have reached by myself.

Thank you, Aurora.

Survivor: Day 1

I didn’t want to go in the front door. I wanted to walk around the half a dozen squad cars parked in front of my house, past the herds of people in uniforms and suits, and in through the back door like any other day. The front door was reserved for guests and special occasions; the back door was where I headed every other time Grace’s dad dropped me off. I knew that if I walked towards the wrong entryway, I would be admitting that something was not right. No one had to tell me something was wrong. I already knew what happened before I even stepped out of the car, but I wasn’t ready to hear it out loud. I wanted to go in the back door.

It was a cold December day in Wisconsin, five days after Christmas and the day before New Year’s Eve 2000. It technically wasn’t even the new millennium yet. There was really no real significance to that thought, just that it passed through my mind several times on New Year’s Eve when she wasn’t there. An impressive amount of snow covered the lawns on our quiet street. It had gotten to the point where the snow was piled up almost like walls alongside the sidewalks making it a lot harder to cut corners when I walked to school.

“Is that the daughter?”
“Dear god, did you know she was so young?”
“Poor girl...”
They didn’t think I could hear their whispering. As was probably typical of girls my age, I was offended that they saw me as such a little kid. Sure, I was a little on the scrawny side with limp, blond hair, but I thought my glasses and nailpolish added at least a grade to my looks. Although, the neon scrunchy maybe pulled my maturity back down a little. So I guess it balanced out to my actual age, a 12 year old girl in 7th grade. They may have been commenting on my youthful look, but I know now that it was because they all knew then that my childhood would be essentially over once I walked through that door. That’s what was so disheartening about my age.
I must have been standing on the sidewalk a little too long. Or they bombarded me; I don’t know. Before I had time to decide which door I should approach, a woman I had never seen before put her arm around me and called me “honey” while another attempted to take my hand. This may have been the moment I subconsciously decided to shut down from reality. I don’t remember walking to the door with these strangers. I don’t remember if I responded to anything they said to me, or if they even did speak to me. Hell, I wouldn’t have been able to pick them out of a line up two seconds after they let go of me.  
I faded slightly back into reality for just a moment when a man standing on the porch opened the door. With dread in his voice, he announced, “She’s here.” I felt as though I floated up those five steps and through the doorway. I suddenly found myself standing in the living room with my dad’s arms around me. To this day, I don’t remember where my coat went and that has always bothered me. That should have been the least of my concerns. Through tears, my dad was able to choke out, “Mom’s hurt.”
Ok, she broke her leg. She was in a car accident. She fell down the basement steps. She was in the line of crossfire when the gas station was held up. It doesn’t really matter what happened because she’s fine. She has to be fine. Oh god, she’s not fine. Dad wouldn’t be crying if Mom was just laid up in a hospital bed. People wouldn’t be giving me these sad eyes. Please, God, just don’t let it be that. Don’t let it be what I think it is. Anything but that. Anything.
These were the thoughts that ran through my head as my dad and I walked from the doorway to the couch. It couldn’t have taken us more than four seconds, but I had the sensation that the physical world slowed down while my braid sped up. I felt dizzy. The relief I felt as I sat down on the couch with my dad almost made me forget that my house was crawling with people wearing ID badges and that every one of them kept trying to nonchalantly stare in my direction.
“Mom’s dead.”
There it was. My dad didn’t have to say how she died. I knew the unforgivable sin and unspoken act that occurred while I was out at the movies with Grace. Those two words captured all the fears and regrets our family had been living with for years, and I suddenly couldn’t wrap my head around it. While I was smart enough to understand the situation, I was also smart enough to know that accepting it would destroy me. So I made the choice to not accept it. I felt as though the rest of the world was suddenly trying to convince me 2+2=5. Mentally, physically, emotionally, I refused to believe it. No, it wasn’t a matter of belief; they were just wrong. As much as I believed two plus two was four, I still believed Mom was alive.
Mom wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t just leave us like this, leave me like this. She is upstairs taking a nap, and will be walking down any second...any second now to make lunch. It’s almost that time. Please, Mom. Please just come downstairs and tell me Dad is lying and get these people out of our house. I know this isn’t real. Come prove to everyone else this isn’t real.
It was then that I realized I had just been told my mom was dead, and I had been staring at the steps leading up to her bedroom with absolutely no emotion in my face. My dad, who I had only ever seen cry once before in my entire life, was bawling, while I sat there wondering what we were going to eat for lunch. I was hungry. But in order to not appear like a heartless bitch to all the people who were still staring at me, I forced myself to cry. That’s the logical thing to do, right? That’s the appropriate reaction? Something inside me broke, but I knew what I had to do. The first tears I shed over the death of my mom were pushed out by re-enacting a dramatic scene in my head from the Emperor’s New Groove.
Apparently I pulled it off. Someone decided that being surrounded by all the commotion was just too much for me to handle, so I was sent to the basement where my two older brothers were hiding out. None of us talked. No comforting words were exchanged, and no hugs were given. While Nate and Connor mindlessly stared at the television, I sat there petting my dog, Miko, in the corner. I think maybe I was trying to convince him it would be alright.
I sat in that cold basement with Miko and near my brothers for what I think was hours. That state of limbo, being completely uncertain of absolutely every aspect of my life from this point forward but not having the mental fortitude to concern myself with it one way or another, was almost pleasant. I liked not being looked at or talked to. These would be the last few moments of real peace I would have for months. Nothing was haunting me. In fact, I felt totally numb and enjoyed it as much as I could enjoy anything while blocking all emotion.
When I heard the basement door open, tears welled up in my eyes. I still wasn’t crying for my dead mom; I was crying because I was upset that my peace was interrupted. My heart started racing, and I sat perfectly still, as though whoever was looking for my brothers and me may not have noticed that I was there if I didn’t draw attention to myself. But when you are the only daughter of the woman who just shot herself, they come looking. And they find you.
Within less than two minutes of being led upstairs, I witnessed two scenes that would be burned into my memory forever. More than a decade later, I still see them as almost photographs in my mind when I blink. More than a decade later, my dad admits that he understands why this day shattered my disintegrating faith.

Slowly, I ascended the stairs, dragging my feet, looking down, and angry that I had  to keep Miko downstairs. When I reached the top, I let out an exasperated sigh that kind of seemed to say, “Let’s get this over with.” You would think that some deliberation would have taken place or plan of action would have been set up before bringing me back up into the chaos. Nope. Instead, I lifted my head to see my dad being fingerprinted by a cop. I had snuck out of my bedroom at night to watch one too many episodes of Law and Order when I was supposed to be sleeping to naively put my head back down. Those fuckers wanted to test his prints with those on the gun. Granted, no one had told me there was a gun. It was another one of those things I just knew. Though I still hadn’t admitted that my mom was dead, there was no way I was going to sit back and watch as they made my dad a suspect, even if it was protocol.

Up until this point, I don’t think I had said a word since I stepped out of Grace’s car. Now without thinking, I was screaming at the top of my lungs at a cop. “NO! He didn’t do it! How could you even think that?!” I may have even lunged at the cop because I was being held by who I think was the same woman who guided me into the house, but that’s another one of those things that still puzzles me today.

My dad gave me a look and a nod that seemed to say that he understood what the cops were doing while simultaneously thanking me for the passionate support. I returned a look of solemn solidarity. We had to get through this together, even though a little part of me hated him for letting this happen. But to be fair, I would come to hate everyone for letting this happen.

The police department offered this wonderful service of sending a child psychologist along with the detectives, cops, and whoever else whenever there is a violent or traumatic event with children in the house. Sounds like a great idea, in theory. The child psychologist, Lloyd, was the man who had led me up from my safe haven in the basement, and as he introduced himself to me, he led me to my bedroom. This was the most rational location for him to speak with me. I would be most comfortable on my own turf and away from the intensity of the bastards accusing my dad of killing my mom. Yes, my bedroom would be the safest.

This is when the poor planning and god-awful timing came back into play. “Why don’t you have a seat on the bed?” Lloyd suggested gently. Considering there was no place else to sit, it seemed natural. I took the few steps from the door to my bed that was adjacent to the front-facing window. That goddamn window. No one closed the blinds. I had a front row seat as I watched two men wheel my mom’s body out of the house in a body bag.

Of course, about three seconds later, an unnamed woman burst into the bedroom and inhaled sharply when she saw me standing at the window with that same look I had on my face earlier when I was waiting for my mom to make lunch. She had been sent to close off the house so we wouldn’t accidentally see my mom being carried out of the house. Poor Lloyd was unaware of what he did. The woman apologized for nothing in particular and left the room flustered. Had I acknowledged my mom’s death, this could have prompted another outburst like I had in the kitchen. Thankfully, my denial was still in full force and this image wouldn’t have an impact until weeks later when I would blink and see it as a photograph.

Lloyd tried to talk to me about my feelings and other bullshit like that. I had no feelings, aside from being angry that I wasn’t in the basement and occasionally insulted when he insinuated that something wasn’t right about my family. Obviously my family wasn’t normal, but we didn’t talk about such unpleasant things in our house. One question Lloyd asked stands out in particular: “Why don’t you have any family pictures around your house?”

In my mind, that translated to “Your mom felt unloved. You drove her to do it.” So I did what any 7th grade girl would do. I lied. “We had to put the picture frames away to make room for the Christmas decorations.” I didn’t feel guilty about lying. It’s not like I thought any of this was real anyways, so what did it matter if I added one more fictional detail? In retrospect, I’m actually a little impressed that I was able to come up with such a believable lie to protect my family so quickly when I probably couldn’t have even told him my name in the foggy haze I was in.

Eventually, I completely checked out from the conversation. After a couple questions with no response, not even a courtesy shrug, Lloyd sent me back down to the safety of my basement and moved on to my brothers, one at a time. I remember so little of what happened the second time I went to the basement that I have chosen to remember it as a nap. I don’t want to believe that I’m blocking something out or was so disoriented I don’t have any recollection of even existing. So as far as I’m concerned, those hours were spent in blissful slumber.

At about 6:00 that evening, the house was finally cleared of cops and detectives and child psychologists and accusing bastards. All day, I had wanted them to leave so our home could feel normal again, but without Mom around, it felt eerily empty. Even my basement sanctuary didn’t provide the comfort it had earlier that afternoon. My dad, Nate, Connor, and I sat next to each other in the living room. I wouldn’t say we sat together as no one talked or looked at each other. We lingered there like we were all trying to escape an awkward conversation with someone we ran into at the grocery store. We didn’t know how to be with each other without Mom. Even Miko just laid on the kitchen floor whimpering. This was the moment I realized my family was a little bit more fucked up than I wanted to believe.

“We have to eat.” Leave it to my dad to associate comfort and stability with food. It was true that no one had eaten all day since my mom never came downstairs from her nap to make us lunch. I guess we were going to have to fend for ourselves a little while longer. After what seemed like hours, we mutually decided that every option available to us sounded disgusting, but McDonald’s would be quick and easy. My dad and I headed out into the brisk December air with the hope that we would all regain our appetite once the food was on the table.

Before my dad started the car, he started crying again. “She finally has peace,” he said in a quiet tone that was uncharacteristic of my dad as if that was supposed to be of comfort to me. The disconnect I had this whole day made it hard to even force out the crocodile tears this time. I opted for burying my face in my hands to mimic the motions. After my dad pulled himself together, I gave a couple heavy breaths as though I was trying to do the same, and we started for McDonald’s in silence.

To outsiders, it probably looked like a mundane father/daughter trip to grab some burgers and fries. He had his arm around me, and I still held that blank look on my face as we got to the register. “Umm...yeah...We’ll have 4 double cheeseburgers and 4 large fries, please. To go.”

I didn’t hear the rest of the transaction. I’m sure the cashier asked a few more questions and my dad said some polite words in response. Suddenly I felt dizzy again, like all my senses were heightened beyond what is safe to be exposed to. My heart was pounding, and I felt weak. I wanted to physically run away from this feeling, but I knew if I tried to move my legs, I would collapse. Something wasn’t right.

“Dad, why are we getting McDonald’s?” I nearly whispered in a trembling voice through the first genuine tears I’ve shed all day. It didn’t make sense. My mom, the health-conscious former nurse, would never let us eat McDonald’s for dinner unless it was some sort of special treat. The scared and sad look on my dad’s face explained more than I was ready to hear. We were getting the fast food because Mom wasn’t there to stop us anymore.

It finally hit me. I could barely hold myself up. I started hyperventilating. I felt like I had physically been punched in the stomach. I forgot that I was in the middle of a crowded restaurant on a Saturday night. “Oh god, why did she do it? Why couldn’t I have stopped her?! She didn’t love us!” I knew people were staring at me, but I didn’t care. I begged my dad for answers he didn’t have.

At one point, the manager came out to ask if there was a problem. “No, no problem. We’re fine,” my dad answered almost instinctively. I think we had all been telling ourselves that too long.

“Nothing’s fine!” I shouted as my dad pulled me in closer, half because I wasn’t capable of standing on my own, half because I needed to be comforted more than I ever have or probably will in my life. “She’s dead...She’s dead...She’s dead...” I couldn’t stop repeating it out loud. I was waiting for someone to correct me and tell me she was alive. I was waiting for it to not sound like the most fucked up combination of words that had ever been spoken. Even after I had stopped screaming it in the middle of McDonald’s, I kept repeating it, “She’s dead,” in my head for years, still waiting for someone to tell me it was a lie.

It's a Tornado

Boyfriend and I call it "going wild." We speak of it in almost an affectionate way, kind of like you would a puppy who is lovable but needs to be watched closely. I get far too excited. My pulse pounds. My hands sweat. My breath quickens. I can't stop moving. My mind and body are in a race to reach a finish line that doesn't exist. There are no winners, there can't be. But they still go faster.

This is nothing like a puppy at all. It's a storm. When the ominous clouds roll in, I run outside to greet them. I am captivated by their power and in awe of their majestic size. I expose myself, arms outstretched, breathing in the silence before the storm, welcoming the flutter that is entering my chest. No matter how many times this storm comes, no matter how many times I find myself in the aftermath, I keep thinking that it will be a great time. It's fabulous. It's wonderful. It is not a shit storm.

When the rain pours over my head, it is refreshing. It is a baptism that cleanses me of the sickness and promises to make me better. I am capable of anything. I toss my umbrella. I shed my raincoat and heavy boots. I splash in the puddles and laugh louder than I should. Every idea I have is brilliant, and every moment is a gift. The people inside the bright, dry houses gawk at me as I radiate in the dark, wet chaos. And maybe they warn me. I don't listen. I keep jumping in the puddles.

Eventually, those puddles get deeper and deeper. I'm still trying to jump, but I'm done laughing. In the middle of everything I thought was wonderful, I find myself irritated by how wet my socks are and how my hair is ruined and how the puddles are not as uniformly deep as I want them to be. I suddenly remember. There is a tornado coming for me.

I haul ass trying to prepare for this storm the way my neighbors did hours ago, the way they asked me to when I was busy jumping in puddles. I drag my heavy patio furniture into the garage while everyone watches. I close the windows and lock the door. I grab my kitty, a blanket, and a few cans of whatever, and run to the corner of my crumbling basement. My pulse still pounds. My hands still sweat. My breath still quickens. I'm crying.

It's too late. The tornado easily breaks down the shattered structure I placed myself in. The walls, weakened by years of shrugging at cracks and putting pictures over holes, are torn down by the tornado. As I sit there, still wet from prancing in the puddles, I beg him to leave and ask him why he hunts me down. He spins around my head for hours. He forces me to curl up and hold on to nothing for dear life. If only I had gone inside earlier. If only I had patched up my safe place my head wouldn't be at the mercy of this disturbance.

Hours later, the tornado disappears. I am mentally and physically exhausted by the whole ordeal, but I pick myself up to rebuild my wall for next time. I stack rocks and jagged pieces of concrete on top of each other until I can't reach any higher. It's not sturdy. I am afraid it will fall over on me at any time. There are more cracks, more holes than before.

It's time I asked for professional help in the rebuilding process.