An Eternal Multitude of Despondency

Instead of letting me go in an ambulance, my parents drove all the way from Albuquerque, New Mexico to Prescott, Arizona to take me from the tiny regional medical center where I had been for nine days to the much larger hospital in Phoenix.

Instead of letting me go in an ambulance, my parents drove from Albuquerque to Prescott, Arizona to take me from the tiny regional medical center where I had been for nine days to the much larger hospital in Phoenix.

When they arrived to collect me, I was furious because I was not dead yet, and I was furious at my parents because one time they had wanted to have a baby, and that baby was me. Horrible, miserable, disappointing, useless me.

Somewhere at the back of my skull where depression had driven my better self, I could hear a murmur of words that said, ssssh, be nice. They love you. This is hard for them.

My parents drove me from the hospital to the house where I had been living and gathered my things. We filled my suitcases with the paperback novels I read until I’d gotten too sick to do anything but stare at Green Acres and Make Room for Daddy on Nick at Nite while I sharpened and re-sharpened every knife in the house. My mom put my hamper in the minivan last, telling me she’d do my laundry and bring the clothes to me at the hospital.

I was in the middle seat of our Volkswagen Vanagon while my mom drove the steep, twisting roads out of the mountains and into the pestilential heat of Phoenix. We paused for a funeral procession and I looked at the hearse and I hated its dead passenger with a hot red rage because how dare that asshole get a chance to die when I could not have mine? How could the universe force me to continue to draw breath when so many were allowed to make their escape?

Something broke behind my face, and I don’t know if it was sitting in that seat in the van where I had sat so often as a child, or if it was the presence of my parents (who on that day I hated and loved in equal degree), or if the little green and white capsules (“This drug is so new you’ll always be able to tell people you were one of the first to take it!” chirped the psychiatrist who prescribed it, as if I didn’t have every intention of dying before I ever told anyone anything ever again.) were chiseling away at the deadness in me, but I cried.

I laid down on the brown van seat and bawled. I used up all the tissues in the car, and then the roll of paper towels my parents always carry when they travel. Finally, I crawled into the back to find one of the little travel blankets my mom made when I was twelve and I cried into it and there seemed no end to the tears and snot and suffocating misery. There was no relief in those tears, no purifying release, just more: an eternal multitude of despondency.

My mom parked the car and my dad opened the sliding door. He unbuckled my seatbelt and I walked under his arm, my face covered, and he guided me until I was in a chair in an office with a woman who asked questions. I hated that woman, this intrusive, bossy crab who wanted me to answer her stupid question and sign her ridiculous papers. “I’m sorry, Mr and Mrs Jones, but she’s 18. She has to answer herself,” and she was just another prying, arrogant ass who wanted to stop me from checking the fuck out of this life.

We walked again, me still under my dad’s arm, my swollen, soggy face hidden, and there was a loud clunk and I was seated in a new chair. I cried on. My face was as hot and raw as a knee that has been skinned on pavement after a bad spill from a bicycle, and still I cried on. I leaned into my dad while someone put a tourniquet on my arm and drew blood  and someone said, “Excuse me. I need to use the phone.”

I looked up. In front of me, a blonde woman no bigger than a ten-year-old wearing jeans and a housecoat, and behind her, across the room, a mustard-yellow steel door. “We’re here? We’re already here?” I asked, panicked. I was locked in.

“You gonna move or what?” asked housecoat woman, and my mom guided me to a different chair so I wasn’t sitting in front of the row of pay phones on the wall.

“Can’t I come to the hotel with you guys?” I asked my parents. “Just for tonight. I’ll come back tomorrow. I promise! Just take me with you for one night, please? I won’t do anything. I promise. I really promise.”

My dad squeezed my hand. “We have to go now. You need to stay here but we’ll come visit tomorrow.” They each hugged me and I don’t know if I hugged them back.

That night, a nurse gave me a Benadryl to help me sleep and my insomnia snickered at that drug and I spent the night sitting in the day room with my 1:1 aide (the person charged with staring at me every minute lest I find some way to hurt myself in this bladeless, beltless, edgeless, glassless place). The aide lit my cigarettes one after another after another while I stared at the console television with its familiar succession of elderly shows on Nick at Nite. She asked me questions as if I was a child she was humoring at a friend’s party: Do you have any sisters or brothers? Do you like dogs? What was your favorite subject in school? I did not scream at her shut up shut up shutupshutupshutup and eventually she opened one of the magazines in her lap and seemed to be reading it.

The days were long, punctuated by meals we ate in the smoky day room and the counting of returned plastic cutlery after. There was a tray of graham crackers and apple juice from which we could snack between meals, and down the long main hall was a man who was either bedridden or in restraints who screamed curse words at the staff all day until evening when they gave him medicine that made him sleep and we, patients and staff alike, breathed a collective sigh of relief. On the rare occasion I was able to sleep, my roommate woke me to share the triumphant news of her successful vanquishment of ceiling demons. “They would have eaten everyone,” she told me, and I wished she would let them.

My parents drove to Prescott to pick up my car, then my dad drove home in our van while my mom stayed on in Phoenix for a few days. She brought me my clean clothes. She had gotten all the blood off the left leg of my khaki pants and I wished she’d just thrown them away but maybe she needed to scrub and scrub and scrub until it was gone. She couldn’t scrub my hand the way she’d scrubbed the pants and I poked and pulled on the wounds there but they didn’t hurt much anymore.

I was relentlessly cajoled. I was running a low fever and my blood work showed I was dehydrated so the staff brought me cup after cup of soda, tea, and water that I would not drink. They threatened that I would not be allowed off the unit if I didn’t eat but all the food tasted like sand. All the drinks felt like glass in my mouth. I sat in a chair in the day room and listened to my thoughts pummel me and I hoped I would die in my sleep and I smoked my cigarettes and when they brought that green and white pill in a tiny paper cup I swallowed it.

There was a doctor with an accent so thick I couldn’t understand more than about half of what he said. He began to give me diagnoses, one after another, stacking and shuffling them, as if hanging enough words and codes on my emotional reality would cause a spontaneous healing. “Please just give me some medicine to make me sleep,” I said.

“You already have catatonic signs and symptoms,” he said. “A sedative will only make you worse. Don’t worry; when you are tired enough, your body will sleep.”

I shuffled out of his office and my aide took me back down the mustard-yellow hall, through the mustard-yellow door, and seated me in a mustard-yellow chair. She lit my cigarettes until shift change when someone new came to light my cigarettes. I sat sleepless through that night and the next day the doctor said, “You’re a really tough case. You’ll probably need to be in the hospital for a very long time.”

“Please just give me some sleep medicine,” I said, and he refused.

“You’re a tough case for sure,” he said again.

One night, the charge nurse took me to the courtyard with her. She lit a cigarette for me and one for herself and said, “I hear you want to die. Why would you want that? You’re young and pretty and you have everything going for you! I wish I could be young again. I wouldn’t waste it in a place like this.”

I smoked my cigarette and held my beltless robe closed and I did not scream at her shut up shut up shutupshutupshutup. I could not understand why no one but me could see that I was already dead and it was only my stupid body that was keeping me trapped like a ghost among living people.

The nurses told me when to shower and I dutifully soaped and rinsed, my aide watching all the time while the water screamed insults and threats at me. I got out of the shower and lay in a soggy, naked heap on the bed, overwhelmed and unable to decide what clothes to wear. The aide sighed and brought me clean underwear and socks, then put two hospital gowns on me, one open at the back and the other open at the front.

I shuffled back to the day room and smoked cigarettes while the other patients swirled around me, interacting with their hallucinations, arguing over the TV channel, demanding drugs or food or freedom from nurses, aides, and other patients. The man down the long hall howled, hurling his familiar insults in his familiar way and I hoped that soon he would get his haldol or thorazine or whatever they gave to shut him up.

A nurse brought me a cup of orange soda and set it down next to my ashtray. “Drink this,” she said. “Eventually we’ll have to give you an IV if you don’t drink something. How do you think your parents would like that? How can you do this to them? Maybe I’ll take your cigarettes away until you drink something. Maybe I’ll even take your cigarettes away until you speak. Would you like that? No cigarettes as long as you keep sitting there like a statue?”

“Fuck you,” I said.

She looked slapped. “Fine. Drink your soda so I don’t have to call the doctor again.”

“Fuck you,” I repeated.

The nurse walked away. The aide looked at me over her newspaper and chuckled a little. “You might get well after all,” she said.

I drank the soda.

Darkness Is a Cannibal

I remember walking up the stairs to Robert’s apartment, determined to end the hateful stalemate that was immoveable, static, a mountain or a moon, and I walked up the stairs trembling and I would end it. I would end it if I died.

I remember most of it like snapshots, the way you remember things that happened when you were a very small child.

I remember the police walking up to our door, and why? Could it have been just because my daughter Abbie was at my house and her dad, Robert, was angry about that? It seems unreasonable, but then everything was unreasonable.

I remember opening the door to them, the way they stood back, one on each side of the door, hands hovering over their holstered guns. One officer asked, “Do you have any weapons?” and I answered, “We’re Mennonite,” a ridiculous answer for what felt like a ridiculous question.

I remember my stepson taking his little brother into his room, trying to protect him from seeing police in the house, and is that a memory, or is it a hope? The police said we may not close any doors, and that may be invention, too. I was underwater, breath held, heart paused, and one officer asked Abbie, “Are you OK to be here? Are you safe here?” and she glared (did she?) over his shoulder and said yes, yes, she was safe, she was fine, and they asked to see papers. They wanted to look at papers with signatures and official seals: is she mine? Is this girl flesh of my flesh? Is she my heart, my soul, my waking and dreaming life and all the hopes and heartaches I have lived? Did a judge, a lawyer, some official person declare her to be so?

Many days or weeks before, but maybe after, I called my son Jacob. It was December, his 18th birthday. “I never have to see you again, Mom. I’m never going to talk to you again. I don’t have to anymore and you can’t make me,” and the world was flat and I was flat and you were flat, too, and the phone burned to dust and someone was there, but who? Who was there? Someone held the parts together because the parts stay together and life goes and we are not flat, except we are. We are flat and so very, very sad.

Later, but not much later because I was leaning against the window in my bedroom and the window was very cold, and I rested my forehead against it and felt the coldness and the coldness kept me tethered to the flat, flat world, and Jacob was on the phone, in my ear, and his voice came out to me but it was carrying his father’s words. I don’t know most of the words anymore. I heard them 1,000, or 10,000, or maybe 1,000,000 times, if you count how often I heard them while I slept and when I made dinner and while I drove, but I don’t remember all of them. I heard them on a little silver flip-phone, and over a Palm Centro, and on a Droid X, and on a Samsung Note and occasionally even face to face. I heard them and they stabbed me all over, each one a tiny piercing needle and I cried until I was a husk of corn, stripped, withered, ugly. Wasted. Useless.

I remember walking up the stairs to Robert’s apartment, determined to end the hateful stalemate that was immoveable, static, a mountain or a moon, and I walked up the stairs trembling and I would end it. I would end it if I died. I would end it if he killed me. I hoped he would kill me. I hoped he would kill me 9 times and burn me down, flat me on the flat earth in the emptiness of life without them. I would die, I would hurt and I would die and it would be so right, so holy, a most perfect thing. I would not live without them anymore. I would not look outside to see some official person with a weapon or a clipboard come to decide about me. I would not watch for the cars with the official seals on them because he hoped I would lose not just the two children we shared, but my other children as well. I would not cry myself to sleep Jacob Abbie I want you I miss you life is empty everything hurts come home come home come home to me I love you so much and I’m flat and everything is burning and still I go to the grocery and pay the gas bill and watch cartoons with your brothers and where is the ground? Why does it buck and curl under my feet this way? I can’t love you this way. I can’t. I can’t. I’m flat. We’re all so flat; there’s nothing but the hate he cultivated and the hate has made us all flat.

I remember hearing my husband murmur to our youngest son, “Stay here with me. Mommy has to cry for awhile, but she’ll be OK,” and our little boy’s voice, angry, asking, “Why are they so mean? Why don’t they come back? Don’t they love us?” and I covered my head with pillows.

I remember walking up those apartment stairs the most. Crumbling concrete stairs, itchy gray wool socks on my feet, and a mild Albuquerque winter day, and I knocked on the door. Robert came to the door and I was ready. I would push my way in, force an end, stop the stalemate and surely one of us would die or sleep that night in a jail cell, but I would end it. I would breech this unbreechable thing with a broken jaw or a pair of handcuffs. Finally, I would see it through to the end.

All those times when he sent official people to my door: nod, nod, no sir, no weapons, yes ma’am, we have food in the kitchen, see? No sir, we don’t spank, yes ma’am we have a pediatrician. We are good, do you have that in your official papers? I am their mother, do you see here where the judge signed? Do you see where some official person with an important title said that these are people I have permission to love? Do you see this seal? This date stamp? This envelope, this name, this signature? I have no weapons, nothing useful except this phone, this hateful phone and these ears to hear and these eyes to see and my regret to keep me awake at night.

But the memories. I remember opening the door, so many times. I remember answering the phone. I remember mistakes, recriminations, allegations, and the cold, cold window against my forehead, and the world dark on the other side, and darkness is a cannibal and hate is a ravenous monster and they ate connection, cohesion, coherence, and left me with these snapshots. I moved the mountain. I breeched the unbreechable, and when I celebrate, I also cry, and I am more whole and more broken, both. I read and sleep and walk and wish that Robert could hurt, and pray to forgive. Forgive him, forgive them, forgive the nameless others, forgive me.

Because I always opened the door.

The Big Reveal

Groucho Marx couldn't even make this look good, and I'm not as funny as him by half.

Remember when I told you I was getting new eyebrows? And then, if you follow me on Facebook*, you know that some people asked me for pictures of said eyebrows and I said no no no and threatened to wear a paper bag over my head for the rest of my life?

The woman who did the eyebrows told me several times (and the Google machine confirmed) that they would be much darker at first than they would be after they healed. My sister reassured me, as did my mom and my husband. My dad was kind enough to say they looked just fine the way they were, but I remained unconvinced.

So I panicked a little and put a ton of makeup on them for a few days and wore the hugest sunglasses you have ever seen, and then I woke up on Saturday and I looked even worse, because the peeling had begun and if you’ve ever had a tattoo you know that part is always gross.

But as the peeling and flaking and general eyebrow-dandruff-on-crack phase progressed, I could see that the color underneath was much softer than it was at first, and I started to breathe a little more and freak out a little less.

Now, it turns out this eyebrow-getting business is a two-step process. I go back 30 days after the initial appointment to have them touched up and adjusted, which is good because (oh, irony, how I love you!) my eyebrows are now a little too light. That’s OK, though. It’s kind of like salting your food: you always want to err on the side of not enough. I want to adjust some things about the shape and etc., etc., etc. Because it’s my face and I guess I can be picky about my face.

But holy crap, can I just tell you that face tattoos hurt like a beast? Oh, man. I didn’t think I would have any trouble. When the cosmetician (is that a word?) left the room after she put all the numbing goop on my face, I told my sister, “This is kind of stupid. I have five tattoos and there’s no way this is going to hurt. This numbing stuff is probably for wimpy old women who paint their poodle’s toenails.”

Yes, I actually said that. Famous last words because by the time we were halfway finished I was practicing my childbirth breathing and giving myself pep talks like, you will look like a complete ass if you leave here with one eyebrow, and begging my mom and sister to rub my feet to distract me from the pain on my face.

It’s been a week now and they’re well on their way to being healed and, while they still need some fixing and they’re a little too light and it will definitely take some time for me to get used to having eyebrows when I get out of the shower, I’m kind of (OK, totally!) in love with them.

I wrote about trichotillomania at Postpartum Progress today, so come on over and say hello! Whether or not we can stop pulling, plucking, or picking, we can lay down our shame. Little by little, I’m learning to forgive myself and if you have trichotillomania or dermatillomania or another body focused repetitive disorder, I want that for you. It’s not your fault and you’re not alone.

*If you don’t follow me on FB, you can. No Points for Style has its own page, or you can follow me, the actual person. The awesomest, of course, is if you follow both.

The Transcendent Familiar 7: Choking on the Ashes

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 3.1 (except it’s less of a part and more of an interlude)
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
If you haven’t read parts 1-6, that’s OK. This one stands pretty well all by itself.

Peek with me into a house and observe the family therein.

There’s the dad, young and handsome, laughing at two tiny children who are splashing and playing in the bath.

There’s the mom, also young, and she would be pretty if she didn’t look so tired and puffy, getting small jammies out of dresser drawers.

The dad lifts the older of the two children out of the bath and towels him off. The boy runs across the hall and into the bedroom where the mom is waiting. He flings his tiny body onto his bed, howling, “To infinity…and beyond!”

“Silly boy!” the mom says, and she reaches for him, pajamas at the ready, and he grabs her arms, pulling her to the bed with him.

“Read Sam, Mommy! Can we read Sam?”

“Again? Jacob, we have tons of books! Let’s read a different book, OK?”

“No,” and the little boy shakes his head firmly. “Read Sam.”

“OK,” the mom sighs, “but jammies first.”

The little girl comes in then, all pink pudge and halo of ginger hair. She climbs onto her brothers bed, imitating his shouts with her own, “Ifity! To ifity!”

They are beautiful children—healthy and exuberant and sweet. The mom puts a diaper on the little girl and helps both children with their pajamas. She reads Green Eggs and Ham while the boy sucks on two of his fingers and the girl sucks on her binky.

The mom tucks the little boy into his bed while the dad tucks the little girl into hers. They pass each other in the hall, switching rooms so that she can kiss the little girl and he can kiss the little boy.

The dad goes to the couch in the living room and turns on the television. The mom moves past him, to a desk in the den where she turns on a computer. She connects to the internet and spends an hour on UseNet, reading and responding to messages on boards about depression, marriage, politics, and parenting.

At 8:00, her husband appears in the doorway. “Hey, you wanna get it on?” he asks, and she turns to him, fear and disgust plain on her face.

“I…” she begins, but he interrupts her.

“God, you make me sick. How do you think we’ll save this marriage if you won’t give me the one thing I want? Why the fuck would I want to touch you, anyway? Look at yourself! Look at you!”

She does. She looks down at her stained shorts and sloppy t-shirt and her face is desperate and despondent for a moment. She slumps in her chair.

“Jesus, you don’t even try,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s a good thing the people in that goddamn computer can’t see you or they’d tell you to go fuck yourself.”

“Like you’re any better,” she says, standing and moving toward him. “What the hell is that? Wanna get it on? Is that… what? Romance? Love? You haven’t said two words to me since you came home from work!”

“Whatever. I’m sick of talking to you. Why don’t you just get the fuck out? If you won’t have sex with me there’s no point. Just go away.”

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll get the kids.”

“Like hell you will! You won’t take my kids out of this house!” he shouts, and one of the children cries out. He blocks the woman’s path so that she can’t go down the hall to the bedrooms.

“I’m taking the kids!” she screams at him. “Move!”

He laughs at her, shoves her backwards into a bookshelf. She looks stunned as books and photos thump to the floor. He is nearly nose to nose with her, shouting, “Those kids are mine. I’ll tell the judge you’ve been in the nut hatch and you’ll never see them again! You could just kill yourself right now and no one would give a shit. You’re crazy! Fat and crazy! You disgust me!”

There is another cry from one of the children. The woman makes another attempt to push her way past her husband and he shoves her again. This time she lands on the floor atop the books and photos.

She sees the phone amid the clutter and grabs it, running for the back door as she dials. “Dad?” she says into the phone, stepping onto the back patio. “I need you to come over right now.”

She waits on the back patio until she hears her dad’s truck in the driveway. Walking through the house she sees her husband, still standing sentry near the opening to the hallway. “My dad is here,” she says.

He shakes his head and smirks at her a little, then sits down on the couch and turns on the TV.

When her dad comes into the house, the mom picks up the children, one in each arm, and takes them to the car. She buckles them into their seats and drives the six blocks to her parents’ house. She sings the children back to sleep then lays, listening to her babies’ breath, until dawn. She does not cry.

At breakfast, her parents ask her, “What happened?”

“Just a fight,” she says.

“You should go home after we eat,” her mom says, “before it turns into a big deal.”

“Yeah,” says her dad, “the longer you wait the more uncomfortable it will be.”

And so she does.


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What else could I write?
I don’t have the right.
What else should I be?
All apologies.

The Transcendent Familiar 6: Love Is Not a Victory March

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 3.1 (except it’s less of a part and more of an interlude)
Part 4
Part 5
However, maybe you didn’t read those, and maybe you want to read one post and not 6. Fair enough. Here’s what you need to know: Robert was my first husband. We married in May of 1993 and our son Jacob was born in December of that same year. We were both very young and our relationship was always chaotic and difficult.

During Jacob’s first year, I controlled every bite of food that I put into my body. I subsisted on vegetable soup, oatmeal, and dry salted potatoes, a diet so low in fat that eventually I became deficient in fat-soluble vitamins, and by consequence was covered in bruises. Every time I scratched an itch, bumped a table, or Jacob bit my shoulder, I would get a black-and-blue mark all out of proportion the to the injury. My doctor sent me to have something like 20 vials of blood drawn so he could test it for God-knows-what-all, and we all breathed a sigh of relief when those tests proved I didn’t have leukemia. The doctor seemed unconcerned that I was so thin I wasn’t menstruating and had to sleep 12 hours out of every 24 in order to maintain my brutal workout schedule. He prescribed a multi-vitamin and sent me home.

During that year, I also kept our house in pristine order. Everything was perfect. I washed my cloth diapers and hung them out to dry and they were so perfectly even and white out there on the line, they looked like movie star teeth. I swept the floors daily and mopped them twice a week. My dishes were clean and there were no sticky jam spills in my refrigerator. My jeans were size 4 and my breasts had all but disappeared.

Everything was perfect.

Eventually, not long after Jacob’s first birthday, I lost the thread that connected me to whatever force enabled me to do all of those things that were so unnatural for me. I ate some cookies or I watched TV instead of cleaning the bathroom, and soon it all unraveled and I was me again, laundry half done, dinner unmade, my nose in a book, and candy bar wrappers hidden at the bottom of the trash can. Robert told me I was “marshmallowing out” again and asked how a person who couldn’t cook anything more complicated than Jell-O could possibly manage to get fat.

When I lost hold of the thread, my period came back, and in April 1995, the rabbit done died again.

When I was four months pregnant, Robert got a new job and he asked me not to come visit him there, in spite of the fact that he would be working less than a mile from our house.

“Why? Don’t you think Jacob wants to see where you’re working?”

“You can come when you look more pregnant. I don’t want people thinking I have a fat wife.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how.

My weight had fluctuated widely since my late teens, but during my pregnancy with Abbie I became genuinely fat for the first time. Part of that was almost certainly due to the fact that I entered the pregnancy on the rebound from a year of near-starvation, but also, I was angry. With food to nourish my brain, I couldn’t ignore that anger, and since I couldn’t starve it away anymore, I ate it. I ate my anger with omelettes and toast, with roast beef and mashed potatoes, with ice cream and cookies. I ate and ate and ate until I had stretch marks in places I didn’t know people could get stretch marks and I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror.

I was so ashamed, I almost never left the house. All my emotional and mental energy was consumed with food and weight, planning how I would find that thread and get back to being the perfect, tidy, slender person I had been a year earlier. I spent hours lost in a daze as I planned the diet I would pursue beginning the instant I wasn’t pregnant anymore.

Awful as it was, it was better than feeling so violently, helplessly angry.

And then there was this:

Oh, the pink juicy wonder of my Abbie. She smelled so good, I thought I might accidentally suck her up my nose. She was round and rosy and sweet and always, unmistakably, her own person, sharp and opinionated and stubborn.

Two babies were a heavy load on a weak and shaky marriage. Soon after Abbie’s birth, the cracks in our relationship’s foundation began to grow. By the time she started to crawl, I could fit my hand in those cracks, and when she learned to walk I discovered that I could climb right into some of those cracks and take a nap.

Maybe there’s a God above
All I’ve ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
And it’s not a cry that you hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…

Part 7