Entry II.14 (1972)

I had some close friends in Western. Konrad who came from a wealthy background was the first. A young woman tortured similarly to me by the voice in her head she called Satan. She was also the only other cutter in the group when I was there. 

Konrad was as tall as me and nearly as thin. She always wore these big platform clogs that added another two inches to her height. Consequently, she often seemed taller. She had short, red hair and pale skin with freckles. She was either pacing, moving, and talking fast or overly drugged. There was nothing in the middle. 

Her room was nearly across the hall from mine. She had a pentagon drawn on her floor with a small bowl of something that looked like dark blood. She mostly wore a dark purple, long flowing robe. I understood that she’d been in and out of Child Study for a long time. She was well to do so I guess her parents could afford it. I don’t remember her having a dad. But, her mom came to see her. 

There was a profound sadness about Konrad. She once told me that she lived so close to Western that if she stood at a certain place she could see the roof of her house. That seemed terribly sad to me. I couldn’t see it. But, standing in the laundry room where she said she could see it out the back, I always looked. 

We had a kind of kinship that she didn’t seem to have with anyone else except Cheri who was also at our end of the hall. They had both been there quite a bit longer than me and had hung out together during hard times. 

Konrad seemed to be a lightning rod for the staff so I watched how she was treated and tried to learn from it.  When Konrad got wound up, it would last for days.  She paced constantly up and down the call, periodically yelling about problems with Satan.  When it went on for too long, she would get a shot of Thorazine.  Then she would sit in a lounge room for days and do nothing.  From all appearances, she was gone.  It made me sad.

Other times, she would be up in the middle of the night and crawl in bed with me.  We tried not to let the night staff, Mary Bolton, know.  I would open my covers for her and welcome her in.  She was 17 and so older than me.  But, I knew we were made of the same stuff.

Konrad was even more at risk of going to Mainside than I was.  We were told that once we turned 18 we would age out of Child Study and be transferred to the main hospital.  From what I could see of the people mindlessly shuffling around the grounds at the main hospital, this was not a good plan.

Konrad also appeared to be a favorite of Dr. Van Pattern, the psychiatrist.  She was the only girl I was aware of that went directly to Van Pattern for therapy.  I decided having therapy with Van Pattern was prestigious and committed myself to getting the same treatment.  On the other hand, it didn’t seem to be working out so well for Konrad and Van Pattern was the one who ordered the Thorazine shots.  I was never successful in this pursuit.  All in all, it might not have been a bad thing.

  * * * * * * *

Along with Sasifraz, I was still aware of Alfer Centurie, Lucifer, and Frobisher.  I just didn’t know exactly who they were.  Neither of the other three talked to me like Sasifraz.  I was just aware of their separate lives and possibly their struggles.

Entry II.13 (1972)

The 14 year old me had been in Western for over two months. It was July.  Without being required to go to my father’s every weekend, I began to get a fuller picture of life in Western.  They had a thing called “Incentive Activities.”  Strangely, staff thought that they could change our behavior by dangling the latest incentive activity before us.

We had Incentive Movies, Incentive Dances, Incentive Walks, Incentive Trips.  It was yet another tool to make me toe the line either with arm cutting or my other favorite subject—food.

I had never been a big eater.  In fact, eating had been problematic since I was in sixth grade and my stomach started hurting.  The doctors could find no reason for it.  I did a barium swallowing test.  Everything was normal.  So for the year of sixth grade, I ate blueberry yogurt.  Just blueberry yogurt.  It seemed to be the only thing that didn’t make my stomach hurt.

As a result, upon entry to Western, I was a 5’10.5” teenager that weighed 112 pounds on a good day.  One of the missions of staff at Western was to get me to gain weight.  Naturally, this involved me eating more.  No one thought that the quality of the food they provided might be a problem.

We were fortunate in that a cook, Rachel, came into Child Study & Treatment Center weekday mornings to make breakfast.  I could eat breakfast.  Eggs and toast were recognizable and tasted normal.  The problem was the other two meals.

Institutional food came in trays from the main hospital.  Not only did it appear to be unidentifiable, it also had a terrible smell.  I cannot eat things that smell terrible regardless of how hungry I might be.  Since I had not been eating much during the preceding years, being chronically hungry was my normal.  I found little bits of this and that like maybe some cottage cheese to snack on.  Mostly, I didn’t eat.

We had a patient store at the main hospital that we got to go to as an incentive activity.  I was able to buy a couple of three musketeers bars to tide me over for those dinners made of mystery food-in-a-tray.  I broke the bars in quarters.  I would have a quarter to augment whatever I could find eatable for dinner. Sometimes, we had also ice cream bars at ten in the evening before bed.  I could easily down an ice cream bar or two to add to my light dinner fare.

In these modern times, I would be identified as anorexic.  In the early 70s, that term wasn’t bantered about.  I didn’t hear it until I was much older.  I wasn’t labeled with the term.  But, my weight was a constant target for the staff.

* * * * * * *

One of the incentive activities during the summer was a back pack trip.  If we didn’t get to go on the trip, we’d have to stay at Western with no other girls and a couple of staff.  This sounded exceptionally boring.  The staff came up with this plan that if I gained three pounds I could go.  I weighed 112 so if I got up to 115 I could go.

No one that I recall ever asked me what the problem was with eating.  I don’t know if I could have verbalized it anyway.  But, they began this program to get me to gain three pounds.  There was never any discussion about healthy eating or protein or calories.  Instead, they just wanted me to eat and gain weight.

I found myself with a conundrum.  It seems that half the staff was encouraging me to eat a variety of things.  I have no memory what these things were.  The other half of the staff felt sorry for me and were telling me to eat bananas and milk so I would be constipated and tip the scales that way.  At 112 pounds, a little constipation can go a long way.

Despite this contradictory messaging, I did manage to come close enough to three pounds that I got to go.  Based on my adult knowledge of human resources, I imagine there could have been staff motivation to have us all go so they could get time off because us girls were safely off back packing with the recreation staff.  I have nothing to confirm that adult suspicion however.

Chock it up to another mysterious piece of Western’s mental health therapy play book of 1972.

Entry II.12 (1989)

At the same time, the little nightly voices continued to speak to Rahne.  I asked Sasifraz for an explanation.  “Sasifraz, what is it with these four kids?”

“I told you and your friend I couldn’t protect you if I stopped doing my job.”

“But, who are they?”

“The children I killed—quieted so they would never speak.  They are another part of The Mark.  Now, you’ve opened the door.  It’s not my fault.  You wanted me to change my job.  Consider it changed.  They’re not my problem.  You’re on your own.”

There wasn’t much for me to say to that.  He’d changed his job.  How was I to know he was holding closed a door to so much more than I knew?

(The Mark.  That cracks me up.  WHAT DO YOU MEAN?  The “Mark.”  Get it.  Part of an elaborate con.  A CON?  Yeah, a con set up by someone really wicked.  WELL, THAT HELPS ME FEEL BETTER.  I do my part.)

* * * * * * *

I called Rahne on a Friday two weeks after the first episode of my right leg not working.  It had resolved but I woke up again with my right leg not supporting me.  “Rahne, I can’t walk on my right leg.  I need help.  My knee won’t hold me up.”

Rahne came and took me to Group Health again.  I was x-rayed and examined.  “We don’t know why this is happening.  You’ll have to see your regular doctor again.”

“What do I do in the meantime?”  I lamented.

“We’ll give you a pair of crutches.”  So, I graduated from cane to crutches.

* * * * * * *

Life with Rahne was the bright spot in my life.  I felt as if I’d fallen in a hole of pure love.  Rahne’s touch was powerful and romantic.  Things with Adrian had quieted down to a dull roar.  She was with Leslie two nights and then with Rahne and I for two nights.  Not the best for a two year old.  But, the best I could arrange with Leslie.

Entry II.11 (1989)

I called Rahne who took me to Group Health Cooperative my medical provider.  I sarcastically referred to Group Health as “Group Shit and Die.”  I was able to see a physician’s assistant who reviewed my symptoms and examined my leg.

“Well really, it’s not clear what’s going on.  I’m afraid you’ll have to see your regular doctor.”

“What should I do about walking in the mean time?”

“I suppose you should probably get a cane.”

“Can Group Health give me one?”

“No, but you can rent one just up the street.”

In my mind, I heard a British accent, “Ah, well, there you go.  Nothing much we can do for you today.  Do get a cane.  It would be very nasty for you to fall.  Can you come back in a week?  Well  then good, have a nice day.”

I made an appointment early the next week to see my general physician and rented a cane.

* * * * * * *

(YOU DO REALIZE, OF COURSE, THAT I’M AFRAID TO WRITE ABOUT NOT WALKING.  Really, and why is that?  YOU DUNCE.  I’M AFRAID OF A RELAPSE OR REOCCURRENCE OR WHATEVER YOU WOULD CALL IT.  Well, I’m glad to hear you are afraid of something.  Always marching in where angels fear to tread.  Ha!  Do you think I’d feel sorry for you if you had a relapse?  “Woke up and accidentally forgot to walk, did you?  So, sorry.”  THANK YOU FOR THE EMOTIONAL SUPPORT AND ENCOURAGEMENT.  DO TRY TO REMEMBER YOU WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO WALK EITHER.  WE DO SHARE THE SAME BODY.  Oh, I’m quivering in my boots.  AT LEAST, YOU HAVE BOOTS.  CAN YOU WALK IN THEM?)

* * * * * * *

My world was a flutter.  Everyone wanted to know what was wrong with me, and everyone had ideas about what it must be.

“Is it your back?”

“Have you tried acupuncture?”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Have you been to the chiropractor?”

“You look so dignified with a cane.”

I did go to the chiropractor who was quite certain what was wrong.  But, it didn’t help.

I did go to my GP who didn’t have a clue but would happy to send me to an orthopedist in a couple weeks.  Obviously, rollerblading was out.  There was also competition amongst Sasifraz and I.

“But, you see Rahne, I can walk.  I can run.  I can hop.  It is only an affliction tied to that idiot friend of yours.”

“Sasifraz, will you please treat the body gently?”  Rahne implored knowing that I would pay for his over exertion.

“Why should I?  It’s not my problem.  Your friend is psychosomatic.  It’s in her head.  I can prove it.”  He would hop up and down some more.  “See, there is nothing wrong with this body.”

Rahne, fearing nerve damage to a spinal injury or just more pain for me in general, advised Sasifraz she would not talk to him if he did not stay in one place.  So, he would…for a few minutes.  Then, he’d be off again.

This entire situation puzzled both me and Rahne.  We both knew the problem could easily be psychosomatic.  We also knew that Sasifraz had an ability to ignore pain that was frightening.  We decided to take the safest course of action and limit over exertion lacking any better information.

* * * * * * *

The weeks moved into months.  Leslie moved in with another single mom whom she managed to make hate her in only a few short weeks.  Then, she moved to her office in the Camp Fire Lodge until late that fall.  Rose’s house came up for sale.  Rose moved.  Leslie bought her house.  Finally, for me, Adrian was stationed in one place a mile from my house without any reason to move again for a long time.

It was vintage Leslie.  She managed to move into someplace familiar and remarkably attached to Ronnie’s and my life.  Rose’s house.  What could be better?  Proof positive, I thought, that Leslie would always take the path of least resistance and was dependent on me and Rahne without consciously knowing it.  So much the better.  All I cared about was taking the best possible care of Adrian which meant, I was beginning to understand, also taking the best possible care of myself.

Entry II.10 (1989)

After Leslie moved out and I had Adrian so much less, I found I had a lot of new time to myself.  It was way more than I wanted.  Inside, there were some very angry people or rather children.

Rahne and I spent most nights together.  Unfortunately, many nights we were visited by younger alters of mine.  Many of my interactions with Leslie triggered those small people inside and caused them to come outside.  (Not to mention, those small people were recalling memories too awful to believe.)

Sarah would hide in Rahne’s closet.  Mandy wanted her mother.  Stephen could play catch, but Jesse was a scratcher.  He repeatedly scratched me in one place until I was bloody and raw.  Sometimes, he scratched my face, hands, or arms.  Because I had placed myself on weapons prohibition, Sasifraz was delighted to discover how much harm could be done by mere finger nails and continuous, compulsive movement.

At night when Jesse would scratch my face, Rahne would hold his hands.  But, there were many times when I was alone I would get scratched and had to go to work with a scabbed, open wound on my head or hand.

(In retrospect, it seems very sad.  But, at the time, it was so much better than razor blades.)

* * * * * * *

Sasifraz continued to crave self-harm especially during those moments when no one expected me to be anywhere.  One day after counseling, I asked him if he could think of something else to do regardless of cost.  Together, we thought of roller skating.  We went to a rental place near Green Lake in Seattle and discovered a pair of rollerblades to rent.  Slightly unsteady, I skated around the lake.  It was divine, and Sasifraz, himself, was thrilled at the new physical outlet.

* * * * * * *

I rented the rollerblades for a week and spent an hour or so each day cruising whatever blacktop or concrete surface that beckoned.  The increasingly fluid motion made me feel an ease inside while I was skating.  I could skate for hours.

The next week, I bought a pair of rollerblades on credit.  It wasn’t long before Rahne wanted to skate too along with me like two little flying birds.

That summer, I used rollerblading to fill some of the void that time without Adrian left.  I actually thought the joy of the movement would help me get through the grief and worry about Adrian.  It didn’t hurt that Sasifraz noted that rollerblade sounded very similar to razorblade.  It gave him an extra boost in his no weapons commitment.

* * * * * * *

That summer, Rahne’s parents came near her birthday.  One of the first things they did was buy Rahne a pair of rollerblades.

Things were looking up.  I had a lovely time with Rahne on her birthday.  That night we made love and I felt myself reach a core of ecstasy and release I’d never touched before.  I trusted Rahne.  I knew I could be as vulnerable as I wanted.

Leslie, however, was always a problem.  Still, I felt my larger vision would lead Leslie to where I wanted her in terms of time with Adrian.  Things never ran smooth, but they seemed do-able to me.

And, then it happened.  One Friday morning, I woke up and my right leg wouldn’t hold me up.  It had happened years before when I was in sports in high school.  I thought it was just a touch of an old bug—inconvenient, but temporary.

Boy, was I wrong.

Entry II.9 (1989)

In an effort to remove myself from the destructive environment with Leslie, I asked Rahne if I could live with her in her one bedroom house for the month of May.  It seemed clear to both of us that Leslie and I were perilously close to physical violence.  I knew I could ill afford to indulge my anger that way.  In fact, I pushed Leslie back one Friday when she summarily changed her mind about my time with Adrian.

On the nights I had Adrian, Adrian started spending the night with me at Rahne’s.  Adrian slept on a foam pad in a sleeping bag a few feet from Rahne’s bed.  (The house was so small that she would have been just a few feet from the bed regardless of where she slept.)

My plan to wean Adrian from sleeping with me continued while I waited for the end of May.

* * * * * * *

The days slipped slowly by.  Leslie, of course, showed absolutely no signs of moving out in a timely fashion.  Towards Memorial Day, I could see the handwriting on the wall.

“Leslie, you have to be out by June 1^st.”

“I might not make it exactly on June 1^st,” she leered.  “After all, I’m going to Port Townsend for the three day weekend.”

“If you are not packed by this weekend.  I will pack your things myself.”

“Oh, really, can’t you be a little flexible?”

“No.”

On the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, I bought a box of big black garbage bags and commenced packing Leslie’s things.  In a way, I knew it was better this way, because I could keep whatever I thought was mine.  I carried each item, each stinking bag, each stick of furniture out to the carport and placed it gently with malice where Leslie could get it at her own convenience.  Then, I changed the lock on the front door so Leslie couldn’t get her hands on anything of mine—in retribution or whatever.  Leslie had told me that when she broke up with her first long term partner she had burned her partner’s poetry and cut up her favorite jeans.  I wasn’t willing to chance it.

When Leslie came back with Adrian, she was out.  I had to face the next pain—that of not knowing for sure where Adrian was when she was with Leslie.  The only thing I knew for sure was that I was going to stick close and remain available.  If Leslie tried to keep me from seeing Adrian, I would park my car in front of where ever Leslie was and sit there all night if necessary.

I knew that I had one very strong hand.  I knew that Leslie could not stand to spend extended time with Adrian alone.  As long as I remained available, my time with Adrian would come.  I knew that Leslie could not parent without me and would not replace me as long as it was easier to just keep using me.  It was not a pretty relationship.  But to me, my relationship with Adrian superseded any garbage I might have to endure with Leslie.

* * * * * * *

Immediately, Leslie tried to conceal where she and Adrian were staying.  But, she and I had too many friends in common for that to work.  “I’m staying at Trina’s.  She and Bob said I could stay as long as you didn’t come over and make a scene.”

“Well then, you need to make arrangements to give me Adrian.”

By now, we had a rudimentary schedule—something a kin to two nights with Leslie, one night with me.  The other factor in my favor is that I worked part-time.  Leslie worked full time and couldn’t cover Adrian’s care without me.

“Okay, meet me at the Arco station at Plum and State at nine o’clock tomorrow morning on my way to work.”

“Okay.”

I felt like a spy.  Each time we met, it was at a different place.  I would wait for the phone call at work telling me where to pick up Adrian.  It wasn’t great, but it was something.

* * * * * * *

Meeting Leslie was a constant irritant.  “I brought a box of things I think are yours,” she stated in the Arco parking lot.

“I don’t want them.”

“Well, I don’t want them.  I think they’re from your mother.”

“I don’t want them.”

“What about this mug?  Isn’t it Rice’s?”  Rice was a good friend of mine who had lived with us during Adrian’s first year.

“I’m not taking them.”

Then, Adrian walked over to Rice’s mug.  “This is Rice’s.  Take Rice’s cup,” Adrian insisted plaintively.  I bent down and took the mug out of deference to Adrian and Rice.  “I’ll take this then, but nothing else.”

“You’re gonna leave it here.”

“Yes.”

“Suit yourself.”

Leslie and I both drove off in opposite directions leaving the box in the parking lot next to the dumpster for whoever should discover it or throw it away.

* * * * * * *

Eventually, Leslie became verbally abusive during these meetings.  When she couldn’t get a rise out of me with needling or obnoxious questions, she would call me names as I left.  “Okay, you fucking bitch.”  I kept walking to my car.  “Bitch.”  I had no intention of putting on such a display in front of Adrian.  “You bitch.”  I slid in the car and left without responding.

I arranged to have people ride with me when I picked up or dropped off Adrian temporarily stifling Leslie’s verbal abuse.  Leslie was too well bred to be rude in front of strangers.  But, she had another idea.  “If you bring someone with you from now on, when I see them, I will just drive off without giving you Adrian.”

“Then, you better treat me better.”  I responded feeling like I was in a chess match:  queen to king’s bishop seven.  However, Leslie toned down a bit to her merely quiet offensive self.