The clock on the dashboard glares neon. It’s nearing midnight now. Through my drowning eyes I see the moon. The little girl in my head sings, “I see the moon and the moon sees me,” and someone taller kicks her good and hard, barks an order, tells her to be quiet, be still. Be Quiet. Be Still. Quiet. Still. Two things I can’t be. The grown up me clenches the steering wheel, screams primal and primitive into the dark, and kicks the little girl again good and hard.
I vaguely recall pulling back into the driveway in front of the house that’s not a home, which I share with my husband and child. I recall sponging the black mascara from my face until the water ran clear in the sink, willing myself to leave the razors alone, leave the razors alone, leave the razors alone. I recall how he bristled when I curled into a ball on the sofa and begged for help. How he averted his eyes from the pain he couldn’t understand, how he crossed his arms over his chest and asked what I expected him to do. “Do you want me to call somebody tomorrow? You want me to find someone for you to go talk to?” I clenched my eyes clothes and willed him to lift me into his arms and rock me like a baby. He got up and went to bed. I didn’t blame him. I blamed him for everything.
I awoke alone, still clothed, under the covers. My daughter wanted banana waffles for breakfast. I wanted a Draino cocktail. Even as I longed for the quiet and still, wondered how much I would need to drink, how much could I drink before my body expelled it, eyed the bottles on the shelf of the adjacent laundry room… my hands mixed the batter, my mouth formed words and smiled at my darling girl, my feet carried me from room to room as I made beds, fed the dogs, brushed her golden hair, made the call.
“I’m not making any sense. I’m not rational. I can’t think. It’s been 24 hours now, and it’s not getting better. I need help. I need to go to the hospital before…” My friend, Lindsey, remained calm. She gave me instructions. We made a plan. The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse ditty played loud in the background and I shook my head hard to clear it. I hoped the TV was on.
I would pack a bag. I would take Beau to preschool. I would wait for Lindsey.
I wonder now if I looked frantic that morning when I dropped her off at school, hugged her fiercely goodbye, kissed her sweet, pink cheeks over and over. Back at home, I paced, circled. ‘What do I bring? I Googled, “What to bring when checking into the mental hospital” just for fun. I crammed cosmetics - including my eyelash curler - and toiletries into my duffel bag and avoided opening the top cabinet where the medicines were stored. Barely. I packed six pairs of panties, but I forgot socks. In chalk, upon the blackboard wall in my kitchen, I scratched, “I love you.” On a pad of paper I scribbled a note to John saying I’m sorry, I’ll be back soon, so sorry, I’m leaving so I won’t leave forever, leaving so I can be well and stay, forgive me, your shirts are in the washer.
The drive to Denver is fuzzy. There were tears and realizations. I think there were donut holes and Ray Lamontagne’s cover of “Crazy,” which was too ironic and made me laugh. There was silence. Rest. Confessions:
“I drive around at night – around and around town - to keep from killing myself, because I would never harm anyone else, so I’m safer on the road. It gives me a job. The momentum keeps me still. And every time I don’t get on the freeway and abandon my family and start a new life, I’ve succeeded in something. Something, anyway.”
“I kissed a girl. A stripper. At a strip club. I
didn’t like it. And God I hate that song.”
“I’m catastrophically in love with another man. A man who is my… nothing. My every goddamn thing. My destiny and destruction. My null and void, my fill-the void, my reckoning, my undoing, my own soul’s reflection, my heart in the food processor, my walls built tall and crumbling down, my core on fire, my limbs tangled and tongue twisted and breath ragged, my eyes darting left and right and overflowing with unshed tears and clamped shut to it all and seeing, really seeing for the first time… a man who’s the closest thing to truth I’ve ever encountered in human form, the closest I’ve ever come to love, love, love – stupid, stupid, stupid, no-such-thing-as-love, and I wish I’d never met him. And I wish I could stop time and meet him anew every day for the rest of my life. And he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me. Not. Fuck the daisies."
“I haven’t eaten in days, haven’t slept in weeks, haven’t smiled in months, haven’t breathed in years.”
“I am not worthy of them. I should never have been a mother, a wife. I’m not suited for “happily ever after.” I’m numb. I can’t attach. I can only keep them at arm’s length. They don’t belong to me because I’m an imposter, and I can’t belong to anyone. If only I could find a replacement – someone whole and solid, someone more like his mother, to take care of them… “
By the time we arrived in at Denver Hospital, I had nothing left to say. I was spent, resigned, damn near catatonic. At the front desk, the reception clerk asked, “What are we seeing you for today?” I blanched. I stalled. I fought the urge to turn and run back through the double doors into the daylight, go catch a matinee, have a little lunch, maybe do some shopping. Do they have an Anthropologie in Denver?
“Suicidal,” I half-whispered. I didn’t even know you could half whisper, but apparently you can. Evidently, a half-whisper is the appropriate delivery method when one must sound forceful enough to convince hospital personal one is dead serious about being dead, but musn’t give the normals around cause to doubt one’s sanity. Wait. What? Yes. I ‘m an insane person who really would rather not have anyone else know she’s insane, except for the people who can hopefully commit her before she does something irrevocable and… insane.
Five minutes later I’m sitting in the intake room with a box of Kleenex on my lap - which struck me as odd, even at the time. As the nurse handed me the box, I thought, ‘I’m not crying. Why did she assume because I wanted to kill myself I am sad?” I tucked this away in my cranial cavities for further investigation later. Right now I had to tell her why I felt suicidal. I started to cry. Oh, I get it. Golly gee whiz, lucky I have this box of tissue handy.
… to be continued.