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.