Entry II.19 (1972)

People do strange things in mental hospitals.  People do strange things everywhere.  In mental hospitals, they seem even stranger because I can’t think straight about what is happening.  It led to many unfortunate incidents.

My friend, Cathy, was a returnee to Child Study.  She had been there before and was Jerry’s patient.  She identified as Native American.  I never asked more about that.  She wore thick glasses and had a wide smile with lots of teeth.  We became good friends when she returned to Western in the summer.  We talked and hung out together.

As I mentioned, returnees had higher expectations on their behavior.  This didn’t seem to improve their behavior.  Cathy and others struggled with this.  She and I had a commonality that is hard to put my finger on.  Partnerships are created, dissolved, and recreated in closed societies.  I spent two months in close friendship with Cathy.

This meant she was exposed to my constant rants about wanting to kill myself.  I imagine she shared those feelings.  The way she expressed it was to help me along more than once.  I have to wonder why I went along with it.  Another mystery about what happens in a mental hospital.

We spent a week at a state camp on a lake in the Olympic mountains.  It was beautiful, forested, and glorious in the Pacific Northwest summer.  We hiked up on a ridge looking east with Jerry.  I could see the Seattle skyline across islands in the Puget Sound.  I recognized buildings and the Space Needle in an act of feeling so close and so far from home.

Patients roamed around unsupervised as there wasn’t anywhere for us to go.  This caused trouble.  I was determined to cut myself.  I found a small metal lid and bent it back and forth for over an hour to break in half to create a sharp edge.  Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out to be sharp enough and made light bloody scratches on my wrist.  It was viewed by staff as another “acting out.”  No one ever asked what was going on with me or what triggered this bout of self harm.  It was just behavior to be managed.

Cathy and I were alone one afternoon.  I was carrying on about suicide.  Under a tree, she turned to me and said, “You want to die?  I can help you.”

“How?” I naïvely asked.

“Lay down here under this tree.”  Obediently, I laid down.  “Stay there.”  Cathy straddled me.  “I’ll help you die.”  She placed her hands on my throat and started to squeeze. 

It’s a strange thing wanting to die but not necessarily wanting to be strangled.  As she pressed more, I began to thrash around.  She was heavier than me. I wasn’t sure I could buck her off.  At that moment, another patient saw us and ran back to the counselors yelling.  Cathy broke off.  I got up and dusted myself off.

The sad thing was the other patient thought she saw us making out.  It was so typical to be misunderstood in that environment.  Carolyn came to me.  I said, “No, she was strangling me.  Honest, Carolyn, I was BEING STRANGLED!”  I didn’t think she believed me.  I have no idea what Cathy said.

Later when Carolyn and I were alone on a floating dock in the lake, she said, “I know you have problems you haven’t talked about.  Is being attracted to women one of them?” I was impressed she asked me while I was trapped on a float with her. I didn’t swim and required a boat to get back. 

As much as this was an invitation to be honest with a woman that I was of course attracted to, I knew that it was not the right time to be honest.  I had no idea what they would do with the information.  I doubted it could be good.  So, I waxed poetic about some day meeting the right man, having kids, and living happily ever after.  As all girls, I knew the fantasy by heart.  Carolyn’s eyes glazed over but she never challenged me on what I was saying.

Another opportunity to address my real concerns was neatly sidestepped.  As far as I knew, no one noticed.

Entry II.18 (2019)

I am now my 30 years in the future person. At 61, I’ve achieved much of what I wished for at 31 with certainly far more than I could have ever imagined at 14. But, there have been great losses. One of which was giving Adrian anything similar to a “normal,” healthy childhood. I bear that burden alone. Leslie also shares in this except she doesn’t take responsibility for anything done wrong.  She’s not introspective nor given to self reflection. Also, we only see each other on accident with brief meaningless exchanges. In her presence, I am constantly on the watch for indirect meanness.

The long term effect on Adrian of the chaotic and destabilizing house alternating lifestyle became a conversation with Adrian and I. Eight years ago, she began dating David. David was hovering at 50 to her 24. He was in rehabilitation housing for cocaine addiction. She lives in Portland now after graduating from Portland State University. 

Rahne and I were visiting, shopping with Adrian and David in northeast Portland. We were joking around doing sarcastic commentary and laughing. Adrian must have been telling an odd, funny story about Leslie. Laughing, she says, “Getting together with Leslie. What were you thinking?”

I laughed, relieved to have the conversation in the open. Inside, I was thinking, yes, just what the hell was I thinking? Outside, I said, “That’s the problem, Ad. I wasn’t thinking.”  I thought and added, “Even when my mother was the only one that liked Leslie, I didn’t take that as a clue.”

Adrian has known about my mother’s abuse since she was four and hasn’t seen my mother since she was two.  She nodded, “Yeah, that really should have been a sign!”  We laughed more.  It had a bitter ring to me.

Adrian kidded me lots about that for several years.  I took it good-naturedly.  I believe it’s her right to hold me accountable for my decisions in parenting.  Eventually, I thought of a reasonable comeback to lessen the sting.  “You know, it’s true I made a very poor decision picking Leslie to have a child with.  But once I did that, I went about finding the best damn person on the planet to be your third mom in Rahne.”

Adrian didn’t even pause, “That’s absolutely true.  You did.  Good job.”

* * * * * * *

(1989)

I continued to have intermittent problems with walking interspersed with needing crutches.  At times when I placed the crutches and swung my body through them, I feared both legs would land in a giant hole.  I would be swallowed up.  It was another morning when I woke up and couldn’t move either leg.  Really?!

It was the most damnable thing.  I could feel my skin to touch it.  When I sent a message for my legs to move, I got no response.  What now?  There weren’t many options.  I waited.  Finally, I maneuvered myself to the floor and scooted my butt backwards dragging my legs to get to the bathroom and finally the living room couch.

I said to Rahne, “I guess we have to rent a wheelchair.  Would you go get one?”

“Yes.  And, then we’ll need to go to urgent care.”

“Naturally.”  I didn’t have a lot of faith in western medicine.  (I still don’t.)

Rahne came back with a rented wheelchair.  “It cost $10 a week or $30 dollars a month.”

“What did you do?”

“I wasn’t sure what to do.  I rented it for a week.  We can convert it to monthly if we need to.”

“God, I hope not.”

* * * * * * *

We unloaded and rolled into urgent care at Group Health, waiting room C.  I was using a damn wheelchair.  I was light with long arms.  It wasn’t difficult for me to propel myself.  But, I was angry, hating the world and not expecting much from an urgent care doctor.  After the wait, I was questioned and poked.  I experienced my first neurological examination.  Something both Rahne and I can now do in our sleep.

“We don’t know what’s wrong.  You’ll have to make an appointment with your regular doctor.”

“Do you have any ideas?  Anything to watch out for?”

“If you lose control of your bladder or bowels, you should come in right away.  That could indicate a serious spinal injury.”

I thought, and this doesn’t?  All I said was, “Ah, good to know.”  I was angry.  Where were all the caring concerned specialists I’d seen in stories when a person is suddenly in a wheelchair?  Where were the rehab people?  The people that helped one get back on their feet.  Where the hell were the alarm bells announcing that SOMETHING IS VERY WRONG?

“Call your family medicine doctor tomorrow and make an appointment.”  That didn’t seem very alarm belling to me.  Although internally, everything was alarm belling.