24 posts tagged “the stories”

Last night, one of those sleepless nights that still plagues me at times, I finished the first chapter of the stories. I figured it was best to post them all together. It's the story of the development of my bipolar illness. It's only the beginning of what led to now, but it plays a pivotal role. Because it leads to where my life headed next; the journey back across Canada, how the illness progressed, reared it's ugly head, and surprised me time and again. How I found a place to feel normal, and how, later I would lose that. It's the story about the man who I loved, who loved me, and the whirlwind that followed. It's the story of how I survived.

The energy and the mood stayed. In fact the energy soared, but I was content in that. Dr. McD was happy, the parents were happy. I had evening passes where I would go home and visit the kids. Despite being gone for nearly 2 months, they both threw themselves at me. Because I had the energy, and in part to make up for the time I hadn’t been there, I would play with them: dance, sing, wrestle, run, hide, swing, play, play, play, until they both lay at exhausted heaps at my feet. They thought having me home was awesome, and that this new and improved Jessie was so much livelier, funnier, and more fun in general.

Day passes turned to overnight passes, and then finally to a weekend pass.  It was amazing, except for a few minor glitches. Like, needing to run at 3 am, or cooking up a storm of cookies. I would get slightly overwhelmed by the kids energy at times, but then my own would soar, and we’d be back at it. When my energy was high, and I felt good, and so alive, I began to fantasize about getting tattoo’s and piercings, of which I’d had neither before. I babbled incessantly. And the parents, bemused listened, and assured me that there was no way I was getting a tattoo, but I could get my ears pierced if I wanted. My ears, I thought? Oh no, I wanted my lip, my ears, the cartilage, maybe my eyebrow? Oh yes, and I wanted, no needed it NOW. Why weren’t we going?  Why weren’t we going right now?? Didn’t they understand this need?!?!

So, with a few minor glitches, things went okay. My dad got me a fake lip ring, just so I could see what it looked like and if I really liked it. I decided to liven things up a bit and wore it back to the hospital. It just so happened to be Nurse Ratchett that was on duty. I didn’t say anything about it, and waited for her to notice. She did. “Wh...when, wait did you have that pierced...when did you have that pierced?”  I collapsed in a helpless fit of giggles and when I looked up, even she was laughing.

 I was given free reign to visit this place several times a day. In no time at all, I was given a day pass home. I was giddy with excitement. I hopped a bus home, met my brother there, picked up my keys, and we absconded on an adventure. It was a beautiful day. Slightly hypomanic, my energy level was a little high and I was feeling reckless, but with Logans help we both survived the day, and had an amazing time.  When I knew I couldn’t stay away any longer, I dropped Logan back at home, and headed back to the hospital. It didn’t seem so bad going back to it, once I’d had a day of freedom.

It was later, when my parents noticed that Bluebell was missing, that they called the nursing station to tell them that I had my car keys.  They were all adamant that I turn them in. And I was adamant that I was not going to. The more they pushed, the more I shrunk against them, and clung tightly to the keys. Those keys symbolized freedom. I had had a taste of it, and I knew it existed, and I wasn’t going to allow it to be taken from me; not again.  

Somehow in the mess and confusion they called Dr. McD. He popped in and sat beside me. He searched my face, that face that betrayed me often enough. And his face mirrored my own pain and turmoil. “Not yes Jess. Not yet.” He went on to explain that sometimes the energy returns before the mood does, and that this is the most dangerous time of all. “Please, can we go for a walk?” I asked. And so we did. We talked about birds, and nature, the way the trees were blossoming, and the sound of a woodpecker calling. He never once asked me for my keys. He didn’t even mention them.  And so, because he was leaving it up to me, and he was showing me that freedom wasn’t too far out of reach, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my keys. “Dr. McD...here.” He took them in his silent calm way, and we continued on our walk. Finally we returned, and together we approached the nurses’ station. He asked them for an envelope. “Jess wanted to give these to you for safe- keeping. It was entirely her decision, and I didn’t even say a word about it.” They looked at me, with unreadable faces, and I was unsure how I felt. Glad that he had given me the credit, all the while knowing that he had helped me make that decision, without even needing to utter one sound.

It turned out, that by “checking in on me occasionally” what he’d really meant was that every 15 minutes my nurse would come and ask how I was doing. It was written orders, and she had no choice. All that she asked of me was that no matter how frustrated I got with it, that I not be aggressive and hit her. I laughed a bit at this idea. We both knew that wasn’t a possibility. For the first hour, I handled it with a typical answer of okay. And then she would go, and come back the next 15 minutes.  By the third hour, it was beginning to drive me nuts. It didn’t help matters that Garrett thought the whole situation was hilarious, and was taking every opportunity he could to torment me about it. Finally, exasperated, I shouted “I’m fine! Okay, I’m Fine!” at which point she graciously gave me space and didn’t reappear for the next half hour. It was a tedious task for both she and I, and one which neither one of us enjoyed. The next day started off the same. Standard answers of okay, and fine. But then a distressing call from Nicole got me upset; really upset to the point that it was noticeable by the nurses. In the past I had retreated from sight, collected myself, and emerged controlled. But now I didn’t have that luxury. It turned out to be a good thing. When she asked “How are you feeling,” I opened my mouth to give the standard answer, but instead I said “I am not okay.” And we progressed from there. And suddenly the words in my throat loosened and I could talk again. After that, she only bugged me once an hour. I communicated effectively with her. His experiment had been a success.

When he returned on Monday, I was still sort of seething about the whole thing. And when he said, “I knew you would handle that well,” I glared at him. He was calm and composed. Suddenly I didn’t want to be honest, and I didn’t want to be truthful. I wanted to be outside, breathing fresh air, away from this desolate place. I was desperate and willing to play the game to the best of my ability. Also, after a month and a half, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t asked him this question before. It came out sounding hard; harder than I’d mean it to. And the edgy desperation was evident. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. “When can I go home?” It was a simple question, but the answer was a bit more complicated. He asked if he could tell me a story, and I said of course. It was then that he told me The Long Short Road. He wanted me to take the long short road. So it seemed even when I really tried, there would be no game playing.

The next day, instead of having a therapy session indoors, he asked me if I would rather go for a walk. I looked at him like he was crazy for even asking, grabbed my hoody, and we set off. He wanted to show me something. But first, he stopped beside me and made me promise that I would only ever use this place for healing, and not harming. It was sacred. About 20 minutes up the road from the hospital, we veered down a private road, and then again we clambered over a yellow barricade blocking the path. He didn’t try to justify the trespass, but he did stop to say hello to the owners of the land as we passed, and they were very kind. As I stepped from the drive onto the path, it was like I was pulled into another world. The forest was dense, and lush. The smells and sounds invaded my senses, and I felt...home. I looked up into his face. It was calm, and open, and he nodded once, before setting off.

I could not believe that this world existed just up the road from the hospital, and that I hadn’t succeeded in finding it, or had overlooked it, in my travels. That was one of the lessons I took away with me that day; how not to overlook things, especially not the tiny winding roads. We walked leisurely side by side, neither of us in a hurry to reach any destination. I was grateful that he was as amazed as I was by the majesty of nature. Only once did he stop and say “listen”. There was a sound of water. He led me down a less trodden smaller path, and then suddenly, we emerged from the trees. We were on a small rocky outcropping, and far below us, the river meandered. I could do nothing but stare, and absorb for long minutes. I witnessed him doing the same thing. Together we sat side by side on the edge of the cliff, and he asked me to close my eyes. He told me a native story about the sun, which I greedily turned my face towards. There was the sound of the rushing water, the feel of the warm rock beneath me, and the sun on my upturned face. And Dr. McD, had found a physical manifestation of my safe place. Finally, he asked that I open my eyes, and tell him what I saw. Around me, everything was in bloom. There were fragrant buds, and tiny flowers sprouting. The water, and the earth, and the air seemed positively charged. It was a simple realization. “Life.” Around me I saw life. And it was beautiful, and restoring, and when I looked into Dr. McD’s face, I knew that he knew the complexity behind that simple answer.

It seemed that, with this strangled secret no longer there, I had suddenly become free. Every piece of me that I had tied down, throughout the years, all the times I’d held back when I really did want to talk to him; for every wedge I created and for every black crevice that I would crawl into. All of it had been absolved in that one afternoon. And slowly, we learned how to exist side by side; we smiled more, we laughed more, we talked deeply. Two severed halves became a whole.

Around this time, taking note of the sudden change, my psychiatrist and I decided to take a more aggressive approach to my therapy. Each day in our sessions, he’d probe a little farther into the recesses of my mind, into the Davy Jones locker. He’d be sure to end each hypnotherapy session with a positive image, a calm ship in stormy waters that might ground me and something that I would produce and conjure up later. We were both pleased at how well things were going, and so we pushed, too far, too fast.

It didn’t feel any different when I “woke” from that last session. There was a grounding image, I felt calm and relaxed. And we parted ways as always.  Shortly after the doctor left I was suddenly, acutely aware of how loud it was. Someone was screaming. I went into the hallway to see who it was, I tried to call for a nurse, but it seemed that my words had stopped. I could feel them in my throat, but there they caught and held, building up like a blockage. And someone was screaming. Was it getting louder? My ears...the noise...I couldn’t.

Things get a bit hazy from there on out. I’m not entirely sure what happened exactly, but somehow I made it to my bed, my body reflexively coiled in the tightest fetal position possible, my hands clasped behind my head, in a tight v shape covering my face and knees, my arms doing their best to shut out the noise that I couldn’t make stop. There was a camera in the room, and so, a nurse came. I remember seeing her shoes at the door. She said something to me, but it was as though I was drowning under a transparent sea, watching her at the surface as I sank deeper beneath the waves. The next to come was the doctor. He took everything in, in a single sweep, pulled up a chair and sat beside me. I couldn’t seem to connect who he was, or why he was there. I found out later, that he sat there beside me for hours, speaking calmly and gently, getting at first my toes to move, and then so very slowly, helping with his calming words and voice to get the rest of my body to unwind and relax. It was dark when I finally lay there, the tension released. Somehow I’d lost 5 hours.  I tried to put things in order, but I couldn’t remember what had happened. All I could remember was the noise, and the overwhelming fear, and knowing with certainty that I had reached the hell in my mind, and that there was no coming back from it.

That fear carried into the next morning, when I met with the psychiatrist. The first thing he did was apologize for what had happened, and then suggested maybe we could just do some safe place visualizations. I had barricaded myself the best I could against the fear I felt. So there with my knees drawn tightly against my chest, I shook my head. The blockage in my throat had continued, and when I opened my mouth, it was to hear an unrecognizable voice say with dead certainty “I don’t want to do this anymore”.  What I’d meant was that I didn’t want to explore any other areas ever. I didn’t want to dissociate and lose 5 hours; I did not want to be confronted with the next place my mind would go to. I had never experienced such a terrifying event in my life, and the thought of discovering something new, only more heinous, to take its place was unfathomable.  It was (I understood after) an easily misconstrued message. Added to my posture, my physical distance from him, and my lack of eye contact, he took it to mean that I didn’t want to do life anymore. He nodded. “Do I need to call security?” I shook my head, trying to understand why he would. “Okay, I’m going to have a nurse check in with you occasionally, if that’s okay?” I nodded. And he left. When I exited the room, I saw that they were moving my bed into the lockdown room. Privileges gone again, I would, at least until Monday, be confined to the ward. Resigned, I resorted to old tactics. I shoved the ear buds deep into my ears, cranked the volume as loud as I could, fingered the worry stone I always carried, and paced the hall, trying to close my eyes against the cold cement and white walls.

Outside, the rain slowed in its endless flow, and suddenly, spring came to Vancouver Island. The trickle of patients that entered and exited the psychiatric ward continued, and I got to know them all. Because of that, they would often seek me out, to see how I was doing. There was a common phrase that passed among them, and through them, to me. “Jess, you’ve GOT to play the game.” There were slight variations on this, like “You’ve got to play their game; you’ve got to tell them what they want to hear, make them believe what they want to believe.” I didn’t know how to do this. It seemed simple enough, and I watched patient after patient do it; tell me the truth about how they were doing, how they were feeling, and then lie to the doctors to get discharged.  I watched, but I couldn’t do it. The problem was that I was a terrible liar. Every emotion displayed itself in my posture, in my voice, but mostly, in my face. That and my doctor seemed to be capable of reading all of that and then some. He could read my very soul; lying would be futile, and an insult to both he and I. So I didn’t play the game, instead I told the truth.

One day my father came in to visit. His face was haggard and grey. He had aged immensely while I had been away, and it was sad to see him so tired and pained. He wasn’t a very good liar either, and though he did try to pretend like everything was okay, he failed miserably at playing the game. With our visits, we had mostly maintained a safe area of conversation...neither of us willing to delve too deeply for fear of upsetting the other.  For whatever reason, on this particular visit, we both decided to drop our defences.  The conversation led us into deep and dark territories. Places we had never gone before. We really spoke to one another for hours, for the first time in years, since I had been a child.

Our childhood was a rocky one, and when I was ten, my brother left to go and live with my dad.  This left me alone, with my mom. My father and I had always been close. He and I could talk about anything, and I cherished the two visits I got with him every year. But then my brother left, and my father said to me “If you ever want to come and live with me, you let me know.”  I didn’t understand. He was asking me to choose what to do...I was ten. He would hear my screams in the darkness as I slept soundly in the next room, my subconscious betraying me. He heard the horror stories my brother told him. I was ten. He was my hero. And I wanted him to save me.

I didn’t know it was true until the words left my mouth “I wanted you to save me. I needed you to save me.”  I glanced into his face and saw the tears gathering. They spiralled down his cheeks at a fast and furious pace; I’d never seen him cry before. Suddenly my floodgate was thrown wide, tears streaming, and I listened as he spoke, his words filled with pain and regret. “I’m so sorry J.C., I didn’t know it was that bad...if I’d known, I’d have...” and then his voice broke and we sat there in silence, save for the sound of crying. We had spent ten years in a semi-silence. And now the words had been uttered and the pain had been unleashed and set free, and together in that hospital bed, we embraced as though none of it had ever happened.

It is odd, the things you remember about an experience.  Sometimes it is a vibrant colour, other times it might be a feeling, or a snippet of conversation.  Very rarely you experience something that combines all of these traits; creating a strong, long lasting memory that doesn’t fade, even over time.

There is much that I don’t remember about my experience in the psychiatric ward. One day faded into the next, and then the next, and then finally, became blurred and indistinct. The only thing that changed were the patients. I watched them come and go, getting to know them briefly...in the ways they would allow me to know them.  Some of them were chronic patients. Like revolving doors; they would be discharged only to return days, weeks, or months later. Others came once, for the mandatory 72 hours...perhaps in the hopes that they would be scared enough to never come back.  Of all of the patients I met, there are two that stand out in my mind.

When they brought him in, it was apparent that he was in need of help. He was young, 16; a raging troubled youth whose body was mutilated by scars. He went immediately into the lockdown room, where they injected him with a sedative, and where he slept solidly for the next 24 hours.  When he awoke, sedated but somewhat more coherent, they let him out among the other patients. At first he eyed me warily; then he began to follow me. As he closed in tighter and tighter it was like a wolf going in for the kill. He was convinced that I was someone else; someone else he knew that he wanted to fight, very badly. It took a lot of careful talking, and as much evasion tactics as one could employ while locked up in a single hallway, to both avoid him and keep the nursing staff out of it. But in time, as the medication kicked in, his paranoia and hallucinations stopped.  His name was Garrett, and we became friends once he was convinced he didn’t want to murder me. We exchanged war stories; he spoke of his scars, and I of mine. His feet when he arrived had been a bloody mess- he’d walked for hours and hours without any shoes, and the result had been horrendous. He was patient with the nurses as they carefully cleansed and dressed them several times a day. He was desperate for music, and since I understood, I lent him my Discman. However, a locked up Garrett was a bad thing, and as the days wore on, his patience and behaviour rapidly deteriorated. Finally, after annoying the nurses and terrorizing the patients enough, he was discharged. It only took about a week before the police brought him back in, worse off than before, a lifer afterall.

It was shortly after this that Jess arrived. She was small and quiet, and very obviously terrified out of her mind. She didn’t say much, and after a brief appearance she retreated to her room, where she curled up and tried to disappear. Her silence was profound. She positively vibrated with anxiety and fear. I knew she had many stories to tell, it was obvious in that silence, and it intrigued me to no end.

It didn’t take very long before she, Garrett and I connected. The night owls of the group, we watched that first night as she collapsed in the hallway from anxiety. The loud thump stirred us and we roused the nurses to help her. In the morning, over food, we “surface” chatted, sticking only to the safe subjects. Later we would speak of the unspeakable, of our lives, our families, what had brought us to this place. When she spoke of her children, her whole body changed; it radiated love. In her eyes there was this immense joy, but overshadowing it lurked the pain and turmoil that she believed she had caused them. To distract ourselves, we would think up elaborate plans of escape. We would do our best to make each other laugh, Jess describing in detail the musical she would later write about this place.

Her stay was short and when she left, she took the time to write a letter to both Garrett and I; searching me out as I sat buried in puzzles, music blaring in my ears, attempting distraction. That kind gesture alone signified just what a good person she was. It would have been much easier to just pick up her stuff and vanish out that front door, as I know she longed to. But she didn’t, and it was then I knew, without a doubt, that she would be okay.

While my world continued to fall around me, at home the rifts ran deeper, and the supporting walls began to crumble. Now when they visited, my stepmother and father watched helplessly as I soared high in the clouds, or crashed entirely, too physically exhausted and sedated to even move.  Soon it was only my father that came, his face older and greyer, as he attempt to both save me, and escape the stress that had invaded the house. The kids, who could believe that I was sick and needed to be in hospital for a short while to get better, started questioning my absence. Michaela especially, took it hard. Although she had been banished from the hospital by me, she attempted to show her love in as many ways as possible...always the little mother, always the little worrier; she hoped she could heal me.

She spent countless hours creating get well cards, with strict instructions on what order, and when I could read them. She even sent one from Norton, a picture she drew of him purring. In those cards was a sense of desperation, of longing, of utter sadness and the inability to comprehend. I kept all of these...treasured them, displayed them as the only things that mattered. One day a card arrived from Declan; it captured his feeling, and broke my heart. On it, he had drawn the family: a little Declan, a Michaela, a Gerry, and a Tina. And then, far away and removed, about as far away as he could draw it, there stood this little tiny person inside a building; it was me.  His card spoke volumes; though the physical distance separating us was really not that far, there was an entire world between us.  The children grieved in their own ways. They were angry, frustrated, concerned, and sad. But mostly, they were lonely. They were both searching for the missing piece to the puzzle that would make it whole again. And locked far away and removed, I was desperately searching for the same thing.

Logan took in my posture, the way my legs moved up and down in desperation, the torturous look on my face. Within seconds, he and my stepmom were negotiating with the nurses on night staff. Against written orders, they agreed to allow me to go downstairs, and just step out the front door but absolutely no further for a full five minutes. I wasn't to leave the sight of my step mom and brother, and when I got back, I was to take an anti-anxiety medication. Those were the stipulations.

I gratefully accepted.

Outside, as the cold air rushed into my lungs, my muscles instantly relaxed. My brain stopped racing, and I felt the panic melt from my body. I couldn't talk. I didn't have to. My family just stood next to me in silence.

When we returned, the nurses took in my composure and stopped pushing the medication on me. Logan showed me the offerings he had brought. A Gerbera plant, brilliant orange and blooming; alive. A book to write in, some chocolate to eat. I placed the blooming plant on the windowsill, kept the writing book within grabbing distance, and quietly slipped the chocolate into the drawer...as food and I were still not the best of friends. There was no sense of uncomfortableness between us. And the silence didn't last long. Logan burst forth in an apology. I told him he had nothing at all to be sorry for. I apologized for not coming to him earlier...for keeping it from him. And then we hugged each other tightly. And with the knowledge of sharing this, a piece of me that I didn't realize had been harmed began to heal.

It didn't take long for the nurses to notice the large gash on my wrist. And in just a few moments Dr McD was there by my side. His face was unreadable. And I was unable to meet his eyes. So instead, he slid off the chair and sat on the ground, meeting my downcast gaze. Neither of us said much. He waited for the words to form and tumble from my lips. I did my best to bring some sense of sanity to the jumble in my brain. When nothing came, we sat in uncomfortable silence.

I lost all privileges. Confined to the ward, not allowed to leave even accompanied by staff. My bed was moved to the lockdown room, right next to the nurses station. It didn't matter to me. I was exhausted, defeated, and I had let the one person down that actually cared about my well being. I found myself wishing I had never crawled out from beneath that bridge.

Later one of the other patients came looking for me to tell me I was wanted on the phone. Expecting Nicole, I wearily dragged myself from my bed down the hall to the payphone. But the voice on the other end did not belong to Nicole.

"Hey Jess, it's Logan. I tried calling you at Dad's place, he gave me this number. Where are you, at Nicoles house?"

I stopped to register the fact that my brother was on the other end of the phone. The brother that I had been lying to for weeks. I considered lying again. And I resigned myself to the fact that I really had zero strength to keep up any facade any longer.

"Hey Logs...no, I'm not actually at Nicoles house. I'm sort of in the hospital."

"What?? You are in the hospital?? Are you okay? Whats happened? Jess?"

"I've been here for a couple of weeks....I'm in the psyche ward, I just....I'm okay Logan, okay? So please don't worry."

"A couple weeks???? Why didn't anybody tell me..."

"I asked them not to. Oh, and mom doesn't know, so don't say anything."

"God Jess, are you okay? I can't believe I didn't know..."

"I'm okay Logan. Nothing to worry about, okay? I love you, I have to go for now."

And I hung up the receiver. Back in bed, I stopped trying to battle the pictures in my head, and just let them come. There was the vision of me smashing my fist through the window, the one of me hanging from the bathroom door by my hoodie, sticking a utensil in an outlet, filling the bathtub to overflowing and burying my head underneath the water, distracting the nurses long enough to get my hands on enough medication to end it. It was an endless violent film reel in my mind.

Finally, when the pictures got too much....I disappeared to the quiet room at the end of the hall. I needed to flee. I needed to escape my own mind. And there was nothing I could do....I was confined. Without knowing what I was doing, I backed myself into the corner...slouched down into the tiniest ball possible. I felt my heart race, my breathing move out of my control. Something terrible was happening. I had lost my mind completely. I could no longer control any of this. When the nurse entered the room looking for me, I didn't recognize her. She flipped on the lightswitch, and all I saw was this terrible looming person. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't speak. She tried to talk with me, reason with me, and finally told me that if I didn't move out of that room and go back to my own, they would be calling a security guard up. The prospect of that terrified me. I gasped and strangled on my words, my heart racing. And somehow I managed to will my body to uncoil. Began to feel my feet underneath me, somehow managed to push myslef to a standing position and make my way to the tv room. I planted myself in a chair, my legs twitching rapidly up and down, and willed whatever was happening to just please stop. I'd never been so terrified in my entire existence.

The buzzer sounded and I looked up at the heavy locked door to see my brothers face...wracked with anxiety, his arms full of gifts, behind him, my step-mom. And when I met his eyes, I was never more glad of anything.