Read An ExcerptChapter 14
The Promise of Being Whole Again
On November 30, 1979, five days after my Thanksgiving visit home, I was admitted to Old Orchard Hospital, a four-story, 133-bed psychiatric hospital in downtown Skokie, Illinois.
My medical records from the time state, "In October, the patient was rushed to the Hinsdale Sanitarium when it was found that she had overdosed on twenty-six Fiorinal tablets, which she found in the medicine cabinet and which her mother used for tension headaches....When she was admitted, she was in a catatonic, withdrawn state, reliving the experience with drugs, could not relate to those around her, was becoming less able to be cared for in the home."
During my intake interview at Old Orchard, I was unable to provide the attending social worker with any information. My speech was fragmented. And I seemed incapable of putting together a coherent thought or recalling anything about my life. I felt as if I were suffering temporary amnesia, and anything I said at that point seemed to contribute to the social worker's assessment that I was suffering from a "psychotic condition."
Aunt Brenda and Uncle Larry were with me, but they knew little about my history, so the social worker felt it best to contact the other members of my family—specifically Milie—to compile a more complete understanding of my past. All my aunt and uncle could say was that, on the past several days while living with them, I could be found wandering around, crying and incoherent, and that my state did not seem to be ameliorated by any normal reassurance.
The first week of my hospitalization, the doctors determined that my behavior was "regressive," noting that I spent a good deal of time in the fetal position, whimpering, fearful, and asking for my mother. I was assigned to the fourth floor, a heavily supervised area reserved for children and adolescents deemed a threat to themselves or others. They put me on escape and suicide precaution, and gave me a low dose of Mellaril, a tranquilizing antipsychotic medication.
I wanted nothing more than to be left alone in my bed. But because I was on suicide watch, I was visited every fifteen minutes by a staff member. That sense of being watched brought on acute paranoia in me, and I began to feel as if I were locked in a prison—precisely how, I imagined, my mother felt most days. I was also experiencing a tremendous amount of anger that felt like it was being funneled through a narrow tube.
Looking back, my initial experience in therapy was remarkably similar to being deprogrammed from a cult. The goals of my stay at Old Orchard were to recreate, for me, a sense of family, and to provide me with support in a safe environment. The hospital was to be a place where I could improve my self-esteem, learn to communicate more effectively, and be away from the source of my emotional stress: my mother.
Still, I missed her terribly. My thirteen years with her up until that point did little to prepare me for relationships in the outside world. My identity was so enmeshed in Millie, in my failures and successes at making and keeping her happy, that in her absence, I had little knowledge of how to behave in "normal" situations and interpret "normal" emotional responses. When someone treated me nicely, when they complimented me, I grew suspicious—it simply couldn't be that easy.
Over the years, whenever things went well with my mother, when she lasted long enough to let me in, my world became more habitable. At those times, I could be filled with such joy that nothing else seemed to compare. Those were my triumphs. Without these hard-earned victories, I had few other ways to build my self-esteem.
Though the doctors had little of my medical history, it wasn't difficult for them to see that my relationship with Millie was marked by extreme codependence. So, they separated me from her, hoping this would help me establish a sense of my own identity. But breaking my bond with Millie was like asking me to cut off my right arm.
For the first month of psychotherapy, I wasn't allowed to see my Millie at all. I'd have to acquaint myself with a different reality—one not dictated by my mother.
On the first day of art therapy class, I was asked to draw a self-portrait. I was certainly no artist, but the stick-figure representation I drew was missing body parts. In my own mind, I lacked any distinguishing features.
* * *
One night, after claiming to be my aunt, my mother successfully got a call through to me at the hospital. As soon as I heard her voice, I began sobbing. I begged her to come and get me. "Mom," I pleaded, "please. I can't stay here." I assumed it was why she was calling—to get me out. But she told me, "I couldn't get near that place," and when the staff noticed I was becoming upset, my telephone privileges were eliminated.
Later that night, as visiting hours were starting, I stood peering out my room. For a week, I'd been carefully observing the habits of the staff, taking note of who worked which shift and who I might be able to sneak past. The elevator door opened and, as people stepped out, I stepped in. Before I knew it, I was on my way down to the ground floor. As the door to the elevator closed, I held my breath, hoping no one had seen me.
I got off and tried to act as if I weren't in a hurry—tried not to make any noticeable movements. Keeping my head down, my hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt, I walked casually past the main reception desk.
The receptionist had been gathering her belongings and had just bent over to pick up her purse when I slipped through the exit. I quickened my pace.
I looked back at the building to make sure I wasn't being followed. As I did, I happened to glance up at my floor. The faces of the other patients were looking out at me, struggling to get a glimpse. I started to run.
Once I felt I was a safe distance away, I slowed to catch my breath and tried to determine how far I was from home. A car suddenly came up behind me, and I ran again to hide behind the shadows of parked cars. It was dusk, so the little light from the sun and the appearance of the moon provided enough shade to obscure me.
Reaching a two-lane highway, I noticed a hospital across the way. I figured I could blend in with the commotion in the lobby of the emergency room enough to make a telephone call. As I neared the busy road, a car screeched to a halt in front of me.
The driver noticed me and smiled furtively as he opened the door to his car. He stepped out, and began making his way around to the passenger side where I was standing. I tried to veer around him, but he put his arms out, as if I were simply playing a game. "Hey," he said. "Hey!" I ran the other way. "Slow down," he said. "We can have fun."
Luckily, another car pulled up, distracting the guy's attention and making me aware of the oncoming traffic. If I'd kept running, I might get hit by a car. Going back in the direction I had just come from was not an option. I looked down at my feet. I was wearing only socks. In the chilly evening air, I could see my breath. I darted across the highway, not looking to either side, only at the hospital illuminated by the bright lights of its parking lot. I ran from the honks and squeals of several cars, drivers yelling at me.
When I made it to the nearest payphone in the entryway of the hospital, I stepped inside the booth and made a collect call to my mother. Worried she wouldn't answer, I suddenly realized what I had done.
Then she picked up the phone.
"Hello?" She sounded annoyed.
"Mom," I said, out of breath. "I escaped. I got out of there." I was expecting her to offer to come get me, so I began looking around to find landmarks. By now, the moon had already risen. I still couldn't tell if I were close to home.
"No you didn't," Millie countered.
"Mom, I did," I said. My voice was shrill. I looked around, trying to come up with something to convince her.
She again said, "No you didn't."
Finally, I gave in. "Okay," I said. "You're right. I didn't."
Then I heard a click. She'd hung up on me.
For a moment, I couldn't move. I stood frozen, the telephone at my side, biting my lip to keep from crying, to stay composed. Otherwise, I was afraid someone would notice me.
I started walking again, hoping I was going in the right direction.
As I walked farther, turning at street names that seemed familiar, I noticed my new middle school. I was close to my aunt and uncle's.
As I neared their house, I spotted my uncle walking to his car, and I hid behind a bush until he pulled out of the driveway.
Once he was down the street, I walked up to the house and went inside. Sabrina, one of my cousins, was on the couch in front of the television, and I sat down next to her. For the first time in my life, I felt safe.
"You have to go back, you know," she said as I took off my socks, which had holes in them from all the running. She told me the hospital had called. Her father had just driven off to look for me.
When Uncle Larry returned me to the hospital that night, he made it clear he just wanted me to be safe. I wanted him to see that I was safe—on the couch with my cousin. In that moment, I felt resentful about not being able to sit there on a Saturday evening in front of the TV. But I knew I had to go back. I liked my uncle too much to put up a fight.
In the car, we were quiet. There radio was on low, and I wished we could drive a little longer. "Sweetheart," he finally said to me. "You're going to be okay."
Back at the hospital, a nurse did a body search on me, and I was given a cup to pee in. I was restricted to wearing pajamas without any shoes and escorted into my room. That night, I sank into bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep for the first time in weeks.
In the morning, the doctor ordered an electroencephalogram (EEG), a test that would monitor my brain waves. I tried to imagine what they would find out from the test. Though they told me it was a "noninvasive" procedure, I worried that they'd see something in my brain that I couldn't hide, something that would make them lock me up for good.
I still hadn't spoken to anyone about life with Millie. I had no idea where to begin and, at that point, I lacked the words or perspective to describe what it was like living with her.
Looking back, it confounds me that I was being scanned by machines, fed medication, allowed few privileges outside my room, all while my mother's madness deepened and spread like a cancer undiagnosed; perhaps, I thought, they'd find something in me that would lead them to her.
© 2006 Christine Kotulski. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission of the author. This text may not be reproduced or retransmitted in any form without express written permission of the author.
|
|
|
|