As soon as the door to the building shut behind me, some of the struggle went out of me. At that point, there was really no where else for me to go. I was hustled unceremoniously into the isolation room, and the door was shut and locked. I was left without a human contact or an avenue of appeal.
* * * * * * *
(ALL THIS TIME THERE’S BEEN NO DISCUSSION ABOUT HOW SHE CUTS HER ARM IN A MENTAL INSTITUTION. Well, just how is it done? LET ME TELL YOU….)
* * * * * * *
It was some inner voice (not Sasifraz, for once) that kept me from ever bringing a razor blade back to Western from my dad’s. I knew it would be easy enough. Konrad’s slit artery only confirmed what I felt inside. I must never bring a razor blade to Western, because I would have to use it in the worst way.
So, I turned to bits of glass. I collected them on walks everywhere I went—eyes downcast for the glint of glass. I was on a quest for the perfect piece of glass—the sharpest piece I could find. I thought of it as a side profession to my main job of being a mental patient.
A few days before the movie, I had stumbled on another brilliant idea when I found a sewing needle somewhere. Thinking it might be a usable implement of injury at the right time and place (at least having the ability to draw blood) I slipped it into the hem of the leg of my pants. And, that’s where it was the night they threw me into isolation—posing questions to me all on its own.
* * * * * * *
I was angry. I felt desperate for some way to hurt myself. With a start, I remembered the needle. A cold chill ran down my back (or was it a hot poker) as I checked the hem of my pants. It was still there. “What a perfect time to see what it can be used for,” I thought and pulled it out.
* * * * * * *
(SILLINESS AND TOM FOOLERY. Really? WELL, JUST WHAT CAN SHE DO WITH A NEEDLE? I don’t know. AND WHY IS IT THAT SHE ENDS UP IN ISOLATION WITH A NEEDLE. You got me. I’M NOT SURE I WANT TO GO INTO IT. Ok, don’t. RIGHT, BUT THAT’S WHAT I’M HERE FOR. WELL, FUCK…)
* * * * * * *
I drew the needle along my arm at an angle pressing in firmly. It was not much use for drawing blood. Only the barest scratch was made. I stuck the needle into my arm—not much reward in that. Then, I got it. A vein protruded at the elbow of my arm where I had cut myself so many times before. I stuck the needle into the vein and held it halfway contemplating the effects of letting go.
I reasoned that, if I stuck the needle all the way into my arm, it might kill me. On the other hand, if it didn’t kill me, it would be quite an inconvenience to try to get out. I had brief fantasies of trying to explain the predicament to the staff. For once, Sasifraz was strangely silent as I pondered the problem.
From time to time, I heard girls pass through the hall outside the door. There was an open window high in the door about eight inches by six inches. I could hear them walking by. I could see the tops of their heads if I looked.
I held the needle in my arm—fantasizing. I looked at the problem from all the angles I could think of (after all, I had a lot of time), and made a decision. I acted quickly before I could change my mind. I slipped the needle out of my arm, strode purposefully to the door, and tossed the needle out the window into the hall.
I took a breath. The issue was eliminated. Right or wrong, I knew that I had made a decision for life. Whatever else awaited me in isolation, the greatest threat was gone.
* * * * * * *
(SHE’S OUT. Oh no, she’s not! WELL, OK, I WANT HER TO BE. That’s more like it. Why don’t you help her out? BECAUSE, GETTING OUT OF ISOLATION CAN BE ALMOST AS PAINFUL AS GETTING IN…AND I DON’T WANT TO FEEL IT.)
* * * * * * *
(1988)
The adult me had been unable to write on my story for weeks. The fourteen year old part of me remained in isolation for a month. I imagined BJ coming to visit that fourteen year old and saying the things that I would have liked to have heard. I took some comfort from the fantasy. But at some point, I knew that I just simply had to write the child out of isolation.
Later in the month, I was desperate to get the fourteen year old out. I finally dictated the end to BJ in a session just to finish it…
* * * * * * *
(1972)
“I had nothing else to do.”
“I figured out that I could make myself bleed by picking on an old would.” (A scrape that I had purposefully made on a cement wall the day before.)
“The blood dripped down my arm.”
“I entertained myself by making patterns of blood on my arm…on the wall….on the door.”
“Then, I waited a long time.”
(My recount to BJ was punctuated by shaking as I relived the memory.)
“The hall got quiet.”
“A long time after the girls had gone to bed, I banged on the door a couple of times, and no one came.” (I realized that the staff shift change had occurred.)
“Then, I yelled something. (I don’t know what.)”
“After awhile, I heard someone stir in the office. Then, Margie came and unlocked the door. (Margie was my favorite dayshift counselor. I was relieved to not have Bolton.)”
“Margie marveled at me patterns on the wall and let me out. She took me in the office to clean up my arm.” (Margie was a nurse.)
* * * * * * *
On the way to the clinic, Margie told me that she’d forgotten all about me and then had heard some noises and investigated. Inside, I took little comfort in my safety at Western.
While cleaning up my arm, Margie noticed the bandaid pattern on the old wound. It was as if I had done such a tacky thing—picking at a scab. But, I had no words to explain that it was quite an improvement over the needle in my vein.
Margie had me clean up the blood in isolation and sent me to bed. I slipped gratefully into my own sheets. I had no concept for how to conclude in my mind all the events that had happened in the evening. Apparently, I wouldn’t get any help from the staff. So, I slept on it fearfully—alone inside without even Sasifraz’s commentary.