The Crazy Chronicles, Part 7: The Fastest Hour

"Wow, thanks for helping me make a mug, art therapist! My depression has lifted now that I know how to fire up a kiln and glaze a bowl!" - a quote from a reader who's been there

"Here I am Lord and I’m drowning in Your sea of forgetfulness
The chains of yesterday surround me, I yearn for peace and rest" - Casting Crowns, "East to West"


Monday, 9:00 a.m.

Chris managed to turn the conversation away from the painful subject of my kids.

"Do you need me to bring you anything?"

"Yes," I answered. "Books."

"Ok. What about cigarettes?"

"I don't smoke."

"I thought you might need them to barter or something."

I started giggling through my tears. "Baby, this isn't prison. I don't need to trade some smokes to buy protection so I don't get ass-raped."

We hung up the phone and I went through the day in a fog. I still had not begun to really examine why I was here and what had prompted my falling apart. I had always scowled at those who would blame their past for their present situation. I believed that we can be whomever we choose to be, regardless of where we came from or what others may have done to us.

Simple and naive, yes?

I operated under the firm conviction that you don't have the right to blame all of the crap you've done on your shitty childhood. We were made to rise above it. I still didn't want to accept that maybe my childhood was odd and far from perfect. Maybe my parents were partly to blame for some of the things I did and the way I felt. I was overcome with guilt for ever thinking that. I felt weak. I was never a victim and I didn't want to start being one, now. Besides, I love my parents and I think they did a pretty good job of making me who I am. Flawed, but who's not?

It never occurred to me that I can examine the past and accept that my childhood was not normal without being vindictive or resentful toward my Mom and Dad. They screwed up a lot; so do I. It doesn't make me love them any less fiercely than I do and it doesn't make me think for one second that they were bad parents.

My present situation was brought on by a mix of things from childhood, my teen years and beyond. Everyone's life is a tapestry of experiences, good and bad. I'm not special. My situations were different than others, but no more painful. I never really felt the need to drudge all of that up, but all of these therapists were telling me that digging up the bodies was exactly what I needed to do.

So, here I was. Where did it start? Do I really need to spill my guts to these people? I didn't want sympathy or compassion or advice. I just wanted to understand what makes the overwhelming shroud of despair drop over me at any given moment. What makes me feel so full of rage and grief?

As I sat in groups that day and listened to people share their demons and battles, I resolved to start talking about my life and that, even if I couldn't bring myself to voice some of the things that had shaped me, I would relive them in my head, examine them for clues to the whereabouts of my peace of mind and then put them to rest. They would never be gone from me, but they could be put somewhere quiet and dark, a place where they could do no more harm.

When 6 o'clock finally came, I waited, impatiently, and then threw myself into my husband's arms when he walked in the door. He held me and I breathed into the crook of his neck, basking in the smell of him. We went to a family room and sat down. You basically have no privacy, but when you share everything with the people in your group, there's not a lot that you don't feel comfortable saying with them in the room. Besides, everyone is so wrapped up in their little piece of the outside world that they could care less what you have to say to your spouse.

"I snuck in some contraband," Chris said. He pulled out his IPod and brought up the photo album. There was my baby Harmony, grinning and proudly displaying all eight of her teeth. I had never seen anything so perfect or beautiful. We sat and looked through the rest of the photo's while I quietly regaled him with stories and eagerly drank in every little tidbit of information about my kids.

When the tech poked his head in to let us know that it was time to say our goodbyes, all of my happiness vanished in an instant. I felt my chest constrict and the heat and throb of my heart aching as I pulled him closer to me and whispered, "I want to go home with you. Please don't leave me here."

"Hang in there, baby. You'll be home soon. Use this time to your advantage and do what you need to do to get well."

"I'm fine, damn you! I want to go home!"

His face crumbled and he struggled to keep his composure. "I brought your books," he whispered. "I brought you some more notebooks so you can write. Did you write down the blog you want me to post?"

I pulled out a small square of paper and handed it to him. "There. It's pretty self-explanatory."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, indicating the paper.

"Yes. I feel like they're my family, too. They've always supported me and they deserve to know what's happening."

"Ok."

"Do I still have a job, by the way?"

"Yes. I talked to your boss and he said your job is waiting and to just concentrate on getting better. He's really supportive."

"Thank you."

I kissed him goodbye and watched him walk down the hall until he turned a corner and I couldn't see him through the window, anymore.

"Crystal?" Kristen called from the desk.

I walked over. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Your husband brought you some things. I just have to rifle through them, you know the drill."

She went through the clothing and looked through the pages of the notebooks. As she was checking everything, I glanced at the stack of books Chris had brought to me. The one on the bottom was larger than the rest and looked very familiar to me, but I couldn't place it. As she began flipping through the pages of the books and moved closer to the bottom one, it hit me.

Oh, God. Oh, no. No he DID NOT. No. No, no, no.

Before I could properly move my mind into a defensive position, Kristen pulled the last book out and we both stared at it.

The Joy of Sex. My husband brought The Joy of Sex to the mental hospital.

Normally, this would be hysterical. When one is vulnerable, subjected to extreme invasions of privacy and treated as though you're a slightly stupid, wayward child, one tends to get embarrassed over things, like, say, your husband bringing The mother-effing Joy of Sex to the loony bin.

Kristen looked up at me and said, "I think this will go in your locker."

In a small voice, I said, "Oh, sure. Is there anything else tucked in there? Some lube? A midget with a twelve-inch wang?"

"Nope. I think that's it."

I walked away and immediately sought out Linda, who's husband brought her a stack of TV guides when she requested reading material. We laughed for an hour over that one. My husband saw his TV guides and raised him one inappropriate book about sexual positions. I had to tell her. It was then that I really noticed the four or five people still sitting in the break room. No one had come to see them. No one had hugged them or told them what was going on at home. Some of them had no-one at home. Some of them had no-one at all.

How lucky I am to have a husband who brings me the wrong books, I thought.

It bothered me all night to think of those people feeling so lost and alone. I wanted to do something to make them feel appreciated, but I didn't know what. As I pondered this into the morning hours and walked the halls in my state of insomnia, I approached the desk to ask the morning techs to give me my face cream and makeup bag. I felt like looking less like a pile of dogshit this morning.

"Good morning, Brenda. May I have my makeup and face cream?"

She looked at me and grinned. "Girl, I've been reading your book."

My eyes widened in horror and the whole group of people standing around erupted in laughter.

I sighed. "Learning anything new?"

"Mmm hmm. Child, there are pictures in there."

"I know. I plan on trying some out with Dr. Sain today."

"Don't make me get the straightjacket out, Crystal."

I perked up. "Now, that, you kinky minx, is an idea. Do you think I can borrow it for about half-an-hour?"

I was starting to feel more and more comfortable and it scared the shit out of me. How would I ever go back to a life that seemed so strange and foreign to me, now?