There is nothing like knowing your own future. There never has been and never will be. To feel your destiny creeping up on you like a Cheshire cat is to know humility.
The twenty-nine year old me was blessed with this awareness, because I could hear my own thoughts reeling in the future.
In this way, I could know there was one more shocking piece to the puzzle. One: my father raped me. Two: he did it many times. Three: the most disturbing and last piece was about to unveil itself. I knew it was coming. I wanted it to. I also wanted it to stay away forever.
* * * * * * *
(1972)
In Western State Hospital, I didn’t have any of my own stuff. They gave me a hospital nightgown and robe. The room was barren and white. It contained only a bed and nightstand with nothing in it, of course.
Claudette came back to give me a tour of the place and make introductions. After that, it was dinner time. I didn’t get another chance to be alone for awhile.
* * * * * * *
There were twelve girls in the ward. It was at capacity. I was the youngest at fourteen with the rest being sixteen or seventeen.
My room was one of two isolation rooms. The staff said it was because they were short of rooms. The other girls said it was because I came in as an emergency patient. That was the first I had heard of an emergency. The staff assured me that it would be temporary, because two girls were due to get out soon.
* * * * * * *
(1987)
The adult me woke up in a cold sweat. I had had a dream. My partner and I had gone to my counseling appointment with BJ. But, the appointment had gotten miss-scheduled, and BJ had no time to see me.
I felt as though I could not go on. My partner tried to help me. However, my mother arrived on the scene complaining about me not coming to see her. I felt pressured in a thousand different ways.
Finally, my mother left. Standing there, my partner told me to look at my arm and pointed. My arm was a bloody mess. I looked up and told my partner, “I don’t remember doing it.”
Finally, my mother left. Standing there, my partner told me to look at my arm and pointed. My arm was a bloody mess. I looked up and told my partner, “I don’t remember doing it.”
“My God,” my partner threw up her arms and turned to face the world as if she was on stage, “she doesn’t even know when she cut herself.” I looked down at my arm and noticed how much it looked like the dead piece of someone else’s body. I woke up shaking and thinking of all the dreams I’d had about dead body parts. A cold chill ran down my back.
For days, I’d known my father raped me many times. In my mind, I’d been reciting as a chant: “My father raped me several times. Twice with a knife, twice with a gun, and twice with I don’t know what.” Now, an eerie thought formed itself in my mind. Dead Body Parts.
“What?! That’s it, Joceile, this time you have sailed straight over the edge,” I immediately thought. “I simply cannot believe it. No. That’s impossible. You have outdone yourself with warped imagination. That is too sick to be believed. I’m worried about you, because you even thought of it. Where the hell would he get dead body parts?
“What will you think of next? Just how far will you take this personal inspection trip without questioning it? Would you believe it if you came up with the notion that your father was a mass murderer? No, of course not. You have to draw the line somewhere. I can’t believe the things you will think of.”
On the conversation went. I tried to envision talking this over with BJ. It proved to be too much. I resolved not to mention it to anyone for several days. “Ok, I’ll just wait and see if this crazy idea goes away. If it’s wrong, it must surely go away.”
As an afterthought, I labeled the Dead Body Parts theory as DBPs and hoped to leave it at that. “DBPs.” I shook my head. As far as I was concerned, if there was any doubt at all about my sanity, this was definitely proof I’d gone over the edge.
* * * * * * *
(1972)
The sheets were crisp and cool as the fourteen year old me slipped between them for my first night in a mental hospital. I was wearing the hospital robe and nightgown in bed. The room was cold. Everything felt foreign. Laying there, I felt naked as the only thing that belonged to me was my body.
The sheets were crisp and cool as the fourteen year old me slipped between them for my first night in a mental hospital. I was wearing the hospital robe and nightgown in bed. The room was cold. Everything felt foreign. Laying there, I felt naked as the only thing that belonged to me was my body.
I listened to the voices die down. The lights were put out. The staff withdrew to write their reports at the end of their shift. I didn’t know anyone. It was a frightening feeling.
I stared at the shadows thrown from the window of distant lights displayed in the room and imagined I would never get to sleep—so much foreignness in one place. But, it had been a long day. I drifted off quickly to a dreamless sleep.