It is said that there is a fine line between genius and insanity; this isn’t really true. The truth of the matter is that the line is so blurred that anyone who is truly inspired strafes over the line, occasionally dipping into the depths of madness so that he or she can grasp ideas that are disjointed from reality. Once the idea is held firmly in the mind- a true genius can pull themselves back from the brink and analyze the practical application of the implausible thought.
Unfortunately, there is a dark allure to the boundless impossibilities that play at tempting the mind of the one who strays from the path of conventional thought. If a person, lacking in either motivation or ambition, sees little reason to return to reality they may find that they are in a dire situation indeed. When he manages to find enough drive to grope for a life lived in common with the masses, he could find himself in an awkward position; caught between the desire to live as normal people live and the captivating grip of the “well intentioned” who do not understand the priceless power of destruction and creativity.
This is what happened to me a few weeks ago. It’s true that I have problems- like everyone, but I don’t see myself as crazy. The problem is that I’d reached a place where I knew that life could not go on as it always had. You see, at the young age of five, I was raped- and that information I kept to myself because I was the pillar upon which my family was unsteadily built. I don’t know if it was my situation, or a genetic predisposition that engendered my condition, but in my earliest memories I was as depressed as I am today. I break down and cry at work, for no reason, when no one is looking of course- because I couldn’t bare for anyone to think I was sub-par in any way. But even that is failing pretty horribly- I am near losing my job for a combination of depression and undisclosed injuries. I find myself in the position to admit, not only to myself but to others as well, one of the hardest things to think let alone utter to someone else.
I walk into the crisis center not really knowing what I will find in their walls. I hope that they will provide me with a number through which I can seek the help I require. Perhaps a free therapist to help me deal with the molestations and emotional abuse, and possibly even a physical therapist to help with regaining the ability to acknowledge the presence of pain that years of the phrase “That doesn’t really hurt- I’ll show you what real pain is” and the subsequent beatings, forced away from my being.
Walking in I feel helpless and scared. I have never uttered the words “help me” to any living soul, or even thought to myself for that matter. Doing so now is crushing in a way that a swift kick to my ribcage never was. I feel truly defeated now, when under physical abuse I could spit out the blood and smile and ask for another, so as to take the power away from my aggressive brothers. Here I don’t even have that.
I sit in a small corridor with chairs lining the wall waiting for the triage, when it hits me. Tears start streaming down my face in an avalanche of in self-loathing. A girl walks up, and tells me her name is Jessica and she has some questions for me. She leads me into a room with three chairs, a desk, and boring taupe walls. Then the worst questions I can imagine start to lurch from her mouth. “Why are you here? Do you ever hurt yourself? Do you want to die? Do you see things that others do not?”
Mentally I thought, ‘well, I’m fucked,’ as tears continued to stream down my face and a snot trail is trying to form a bridge between my nose and my knees. I answered honestly. “I’m depressed and I have to ask for help- the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, thus the sobbing. Yes, I take showers so hot that I scald blisters into my back and sometimes cut to cope with the feelings of inadequacy. I want to die a martyr or hero- not that I go looking for burning buildings or drowning puppies, but if I happen across them I run into the building or dive in the water- respectively. And finally, yes, I see shadows out of the corner of my eye…” ‘Damn, I even sound crazy when they make me say it that way- guess there’s no getting around it without lying.’
“Ok.” The girl says in a sweet voice. “I think you should walk over to the clinic with me to see a doctor.”
She didn’t tell me that by ‘clinic’ she meant ‘to a cell’ and she meant tomorrow or the next day for seeing a doctor. So I walked over with her like a moron. Then they asked for my cell phone and the bullshit began.
After they had my only contact to the outside world they started. “I think you need to stay here for the night.”
“No,” I replied. “I really need to be going, so that I can make an important meeting. It is very important that I be there.”
“No, you don’t understand.” The lady from triage said. “We’re going to keep you overnight for observation, then connect you with mental help in the morning.”
“I can’t do that.” I said, “I have obligations. I just need the number. I walked in here of my own volition; I can’t continue to live as I have. I need help and I will seek it, but I can’t afford to be detained. Especially not against my will.”
“You don’t understand.” The lady said. “If you leave, we will call the police, order a pink slip, and you will be right back here. You don’t have a choice.”
“That’s bullshit.” I said.
“Your room is three doors down on the right.” She said to me. “Do you mind if we keep your shoes for safety reasons?”
“I sure as hell mind if you keep my shoes!” I shouted at her.
“We’ll give you comfy little booties. It’s not like you have to go around barefoot.”
I stared pointedly at her. “That’s not the point! I mind that you keep the rest of me as well. If you want to take my shoes from me you’ll have to take them off me by force.” I looked at the scrawny or overweight social workers around me and said confidently, “It will take at least three of you. Try at your own bloody risk.”
To the social worker the nurse whispered, “Let her keep the shoes, but check in on her to make sure she’s not hanging herself.”
I fingered my belt in bemusement. I’ve replaced my shoe laces three times in the eight months that I’d had the shoes, but the two inch thick leather belt I’d had at least ten years. I wondered why they didn’t fight so hard for that, but said nothing of it. “Can I at least keep my laptop?”
“No.” The worker said, “No electronics.”
“What about my pens and paper?” I asked.
The lady shrugged, “It’s not electronic, so sure. Whatever you like.”
In my mind I laughed at the stupidity of it; allowing a person you thought was crazy a sharp pen- but wanting to take away their cheap shoelaces. “What I’d really like, is to go home.”
“Well, anything but that. Can I suggest a cheese burger?”
I glared at the lady unamused, and two workers guided me into a four by five foot room with white walls and a bed that was hard bolted to the floor. They close the door, and I find myself alone, in a small colorless room with no escape.
If a creator ever discovers himself at a crisis center, I hope he fares it better than I fear I am capable of. Silence prevails here. A numbing soundless pervasion of hopelessness lives in the very air. If a person were not crazy walking in, it is easy to imagine they could discover that soft slip through the grey area here.
Rooms are as cold as the death the cheery yet adamant staff claim to help people want no part of. Yet here, more than in a crypt, death seems peaceful; friendly even.
I can’t help but wonder; how many times a person, not so different from myself, has sat here in this bed, and attempted to embrace the shadowed reaper who feels only an arm’s length away. How many succeeded? How many of them, walked in like I had, hoping for tips on surviving in corporate America with soul intact, only to find their freedoms stripped away.
I came here feeling helpless, now I really am.
I feel trapped, as much as I had ever felt in my life. It’s the same as being locked in a closet, as I had not been since I was nine or so; the same as not knowing how to defend yourself from false accusations at work.
As I sit here in silence I think to myself, ‘this can’t be happening. This has to be a dream. I wish pain in dreams would wake me, I’d just pinch myself and wake up, but after my broken childhood I can be horribly maimed in the sur-reality of dreams and feel the pain, but never bleed. If only I could cut myself. I’d know this was a dream and I’d wake up.’
A doctor came in, and the conversation happened so fast. She decided that I was bipolar and suggested a mild tranquilzer- which I refused, then offered me an ultimatum ‘twin valleys, or the intensive care unit’.
“I just want to go home and release to the media the circumstances of this entire fiasco. You want to lock me up for having unconventional coping methods after twenty years of mental, physical, and sexual abuse. I think you’re the crazy one.”
“I’m not going to stay here all night. I need a decision.” She said.
“Fine I’ll stay here, but not because I agree with your assessment, but rather for the reason, that knowing with my horrible luck, they would accept me at twin valley mental institution and no one would ever see me again, and I have a great distaste for the thought of disappearing into a sea of people that don’t believe that I’m not crazy.”
The doctor glared at me with cold harsh uncaring eyes. “Ok.” Was all that the doctor said, and took her leave, probably with her feelings hurt, but I didn’t care. She was fucking with my life. If I could get to her in any way I was resolved to do it.
After she left I went to the social worker and begged to be released, or to call my friends to come get me, or for anything- all of which were refused. The bargaining phase ends rather quickly when the people that you have to bargain with are programmed to believe that you will lie to escape the care that they believe is necessary for everyone that could possibly end up there.
After that I went to my room and slept until the man came to take me to the intensive care ward.
About 14 hours of sleep, but to me that version of sleep is to let my mind wander the abyss and see what gold it brings me. I was depressed that not only was I not getting the help that I needed to survive; my freedoms had been forfeit by my attempt to seek them.
About 14 hours of sleep, but to me that version of sleep is to let my mind wander the abyss and see what gold it brings me. I was depressed that not only was I not getting the help that I needed to survive; my freedoms had been forfeit by my attempt to seek them.
The man came, and I half listened to the things he said as he showed me around my new hell. Food over there, group sessions every few hours, and your new room in the corner with a desk. I sat in my room in shock and depression for the next few hours.
A nice worker came to talk to me for a bit while I sat on my bed. They asked if I wanted anything.
I asked for my laptop and some clothes that were in my car- which I was surprised to hear he agreed to walk with me to retrieve.
The next day I spoke with a nurse who was much more understanding, and didn’t seem to think I belonged there at all. Inclined to agree with her, I went back to my room and started plotting. Anger had finally kicked in and I used in as fuel to power an onslaught of pushups and sit ups, all the while playing Coheed and Cambria’s Al the Killer on my laptop as loud as I could. If I was here more than two days, I’d break out and tell my story I decided. I carefully inspected the bars on the windows and the locks on the doors. It wouldn’t be too hard, I just had to be prepared to make for the Canadian border as soon as I left. Ok, that thought may not have been completely rational, but it made sense in my desire to avoid finding myself back in the freezing cold, padded, prison.
I fell asleep on the fourth or fifth set of twenty. When I woke in the morning something dawned on me- they already thought I was crazy. I could do anything in here with no consequences. I decided the group sessions that day would go a bit differently than the mind numbing conversations about unmemorable topics that had pervaded the day before.
A lady called us in for the first group, and I have to say that I was a bit excited, even though I think I did a good job of glossing over my eyes to look just as defeated as the rest of the ‘crazies’.
The lady walked up to the board and wrote the words “The serenity prayer” on the board. Followed by the three familiar sentences, “God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.”
Then she made her first mistake. She asked the question, “Does anyone know what ‘serenity’ means?
I blurted out “Sure. Everyone knows that. Serenity is a Firefly class starship piloted by the delicious and talented Alan Tudyk.”
The girl next to me exploded into laughter and stares came at me from all the other ‘crazies’.
“No.“ The girl at the board started, a little flustered but began to continue on with her ‘lesson.’ That is when I noticed her handwriting, and I couldn’t resist the chance to derail the conversation yet again.
“I’m sorry, this is terribly off topic,” I began “but your handwriting is a graphologists’ wet dream.” I said in a matter of fact voice.
“Why is that?” she said, unable to keep out of her voice the curiosity of being psychoanalyzed by a ‘crazy’ person.
“Your K is capitalized in the middle of you sentences which means there is a ‘K’ word bearing heavily on your mind, considering that you are with child you are probably debating the implications of naming your child Katherine. Your sentences start off even and raise at the end which means that you are hopeful for the future but they end abruptly with a wide margin on that side of the board signifying a fear for the future but a confidence that you can handle it, with your current hormones it symbolizes that this is your second child, and while you are sure that you understand the intricacies of child rearing you have the sensibility to understand that every child is different. Last of all almost every first letter on every line curves in, but the margins are fairly even signifying a decent childhood but a fear that you will turn out to be the same type of over bearing protector that your mother was to you.”
She stopped dead for a solid two minutes. “Ok, now I’m going to write different so that you can analyze that then.”
“You can’t. Now that you’re aware of the observation you are unable to produce an untainted sample.”
“Right.” She said back, “Moving on. Who can tell me why the serenity prayer is difficult?”
It came up again- by now you should understand that I had to bite. “It is not only difficult, but unrealistic because of its desire for unearned knowledge. If you are in a situation that you cannot change, and wish to know if it is truly immutable or whether it is simply difficult the only way to gain the wisdom is to try everything first. Wisdom follows experience- not good wishes.”
One of the other ‘tickies’ said “Wow, that’s really deep and insightful.”
“Actually, it’s pretty fatalistic, but unfortunately it’s also realistic. Wisdom isn’t bestowed like wishes from a magic genie in the sky. It comes through sweat, blood, and failure. Praying for it is only telling the universe that you want more situations like the one that is causing you grief so that you can learn whether you truly can change them or not. It’s like your arm is on fire and instead of wishing for rain you wish for the other arm to be on fire too so that you can be more motivated to find a solution.” I smirked as I spouted my cynicism.
The next night they released me after a series of complications about having lost the papers that allow them to legally converse with my friends- who are the only semblance of a family that I possess. And a disagreement between the nurse and the doctor on whether I should go to twin valleys, where I would have disappeared from the face of the Earth considering they would not have the paperwork to allow my friends to reach me, or even find me at all.
I took the first moments of my rediscovered freedom to see my boyfriend. Seeing him is always enjoyable and I had to drown myself in perfume in hopes that he wouldn’t notice I hadn’t showered since I’d been taken captive three days earlier.
I met him at our usual place, the Park of Roses, off high street, and we walked down a familiar path. My heart swelled with my freedom and swooned with any small token of affection he granted me. The three words rose and stuck in my throat, causing me to cough as I tried to say them.
We walked a bit further down a familiar path and he began to sing to me, something he does often and with much gusto. I tried to say it again, but the words stuck in my throat like a spoonful of nutella.
I know that I can’t say those words, because I am sure he doesn’t feel the same way. He likes me well enough, but he’s only loved one girl before and she was perfect for him and I find myself lacking so many ways in comparison.
At the end of the night I sigh and drive myself home and sleep uneasily for the next day. My roommate woke me up with his computer games as he has done every Saturday morning since I moved in with him over a year ago. I still can’t pay rent reliably or even buy food. He doesn’t get it that my depression is an ocean that I find myself drowning in on a regular basis.
I open my mouth and out of it falls the hardest words to say yet- “I’m sorry.” He thought it was for disappearing for a few days which I explained away, but in fact it was for the matter that I am the way I am, and I’m not going to ‘get better’ as he hopes. I can’t be fixed to be a person that can cope with constant depression and pressures from bosses to produce standards that I’m not capable of. It eases my soul to say the words even if he doesn’t understand. I wish I could be better, live a life that he could be proud to say that he helped me attain, but I’m not that person, and I’m afraid I never will be.
