The adult me didn’t think the rapes had occurred during the month I lived with my father before I went to Western State Hospital. I thought it was more around the age of eleven (or earlier) before my father left my family, or should I say my mother asked him to leave?
(CAN’T YOU TELL THERE’S MORE HERE? Uh-huh. STUFF I PROBABLY WOULDN’T LET MYSELF KNOW UNTIL AFTER MY NEXT COUNSELING SESSION. What do you expect? That’s the way it works isn’t it? YEAH, BUT WHO COULD LOVE THE PROCESS?)
* * * * * * *
(PAIN, IT STILL CAUSES ME PAIN. FIFTEEN YEARS LATER WHETHER DISCOVERING ABOUT RAPE AND INCEST OR REMEMBERING WESTERN. I HOPE ONE DAY IT GOES AWAY.)
* * * * * * *
(1972)
Another kid. Frobisher had never told Sally that he already had two kids somewhere. As recently as the year before he met Sally, his daughter had lived with him. Somehow, it had been easy to keep it from Sally. She liked to talk more than she liked to listen.
The prospect of trying to raise a child again frightened and excited him. He wasn’t proud of his relationship with his other two children. He hoped to do better this time. In keeping with his plans for a new beginning, he and Sally were married in June 1973.
* * * * * * *
Alfer Centurie awoke to find himself in a strange bed.
(You’re kidding? NO, I’M SERIOUS. Well, where the hell was he? YOU ARE SO IMPATIENT. JUST WAIT…WOULD YOU BELIEVE I STILL DON’T WANT TO WRITE THIS? Yes. THAT MY STOMACH FEELS TIED UP IN KNOTS? Yes… AND THAT I’D RATHER GO TO BED. So go, who’s keeping you up? MR. CENTURIE.)
A future BJ person came into see Alfer Centurie while he was still trying to figure out where he was. Names and faces—Alfer Centurie could not place her. She knodded at him, “A cripto bool, ah abu abu.”
“What?”
She frowned and repeated, “A cripto boo, ah abu abu, mesto.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t understand a word you say.”
She looked at him with concern. “Imbon awas?” He shook his head. She gestured helplessly and came over to take his hand.
He felt reassured by her touch. “Where am I?”
“Inconto lada.” She seemed to know what he was saying. But for the life of him, he couldn’t understand her.
“What language are you speaking?” She looked at him oddly but didn’t respond. He started to get up, but when he raised himself his head started pounding. She touched his head and murmured something that he thought was supposed to be soothing.
“Would you find someone who can tell me where I am?" She nodded and left. Alfer Centurie was relieved. Her presence and the odd way she spoke made him nervous. He settled back down in the bed and waited for someone to come and explain what was going on in a language he could understand.
* * * * * * *
The first day. What does one do on the first day in a mental hospital? Get to know everyone and get to know the place.
I found myself sitting in the day room—a large space lined with chairs and tables facing the staff work station. Girls sat around playing cards or in some cases just staring. I was looking at a magazine I’d found.
All at once, Carol, one of the other patients, strode purposefully up to me and quickly sat down. “What are you here for?” She looked directly at me.
Unsure of mental hospital protocol, I had avoided asking that question of anyone else. Now, I was somewhat unsure how to answer it. Feeling a little flip and angry with my situation, I answered seriously, “Because, I killed my mother.”
“That’s all I wanted to know,” and up Carol popped and moved off quickly down the hall to her room. I sat there stunned for a few moments. I looked around for some clue, but no one seemed to notice anything. I shrugged my shoulders and put it out of my mind for the time being.
* * * * * * *
A little while later, I noticed furtive glances thrown my way as well as quite a bit of shuffling back and forth to Carol’s room by other patients.
Although it suited me to say I had killed my mother, it began to dawn on me that it might not be the wisest approach to take with other patients and could prove to be embarrassing if the staff found out. Reluctantly, I got up to go and set the record straight with Carol.
* * * * * * *
Carol was a short blond girl whose room was just down and across the hall from me. I was very tall and painfully thin. When I met Carol at the door to her room, the height difference was disconcerting. I immediately asked if I could sit down.
“Carol, I have something to tell you.”
“What?”
“I was only kidding about killing my mother.”
“Oh?”
“She’s very much alive. I just didn’t know what to say.”
“Are you sure?” Carol looked at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Yes.”
“Because, we were told two weeks ago that a girl might be coming who killed her mother.”
“Well, it’s not me.”
“You did come in as an emergency.”
“Carol, I didn’t kill my mother.”
“We didn’t want to have a girl here that was a murderer.”
“I can understand that. I was just kidding.”
On it went until Carol believed me. I told Carol about arm cutting and being angry with my mother. Carol told me that she was there from taking acid and having flashbacks.
From the adjoining room, Sally walked in and explained why she was there. Her father had raped her. She had a lot of younger brothers and sisters, and he treated her like a wife. The point they both tried to make to me was that everyone there had problems, and it was nothing to be ashamed of.
I listened to them and sighed after leaving. What were the chances of my flippantly saying I killed my mother when some girl who did kill her mother was supposed to be arriving any day?
Astronomical, I thought, absolutely astronomical.
(REALLY, THOUGH, MAYBE ALL GIRLS IN MENTAL HOSPITALS HAVE WANTED TO KILL THEIR MOTHERS. We should do a poll sometime, eh?)