Witness to Withness

Now they Call me Crazy

Crazy as a loon unable to be sane
acting unpredictably, behavior ever strange
Never knowing if it could ever end
Knowing that in this state I could know few friends

Breathing consists of inhalation and exhalation. In the context of trying to describe the affect of mental illness it takes on a different twist. I would breathe(Inhalation) and get super inflated like a balloon that is blown up ready to fly. Over time this same balloon would know exhalation by either popping from getting blown up to high or be let loose a result that comes from exhaling too much air all at once. Over time this exhalation and inhalation dichotomy would get old fast.


{size:3)From Inhalation to “(Exile)ation”: my time at Glenside:
         My main goal at Glenside was to become fuller of myself almost to the point of bursting. I had already had my temper tantrum on the way to the hospital and I am sure that my escorts were glad to see me go. I was spewed out of the Christian church van into a place where I could hopefully find myself. (That was certainly my hope). My biochemical makeup said otherwise. I spent much time trying to make others shine in the light of God’s glory. I saw myself as one of God’s two witnesses portrayed in the book of Revelation chapter 11. The girl that I obsessed over was the other part of my “solution” to doing God’s work. Together we were going to save the world. I was inhaling all kinds of hot air in a ballooning revelation until I was forced to let it all out.
         I walked on to the ward that I was sure was on the highest floor of the facility convinced that I could understand and speak any foreign language I wanted. My gibberish sounding intonations proved it. It did not take long until I realized I was not going to leave this place any time soon. I was higher than a bird in flight and yet I felt lost. How could this happen to someone as wonderful as me-the one who was going to save the world?
         I went from this way of looking at things to a malaise that felt it would hang on if I did not kick it to the street. I yelled loud and clear that I wanted to see my father, who as it turned out worked close to where the hospital was. I yelled and screamed as loud as I could and they threw me into a seclusion room until I would settle down. They let me know that they would call my dad. I wanted him right now. I pounded my hands on the floor and writhed on the floor until I had nocturnal release. I calmed down and was released. The first night/day was hellish. My dad never came. I recall more than anything a woman (I thought her a patient) took me over to the sink and washed my hair. It was one of those profound moments. In my effort to close everyone out in a grandiose expulsion I let someone in. It was as it to know that someone cared.
         The next day I can recall singing "Kum bay ah" over and over with the music therapist. It was another connecter in the midst of increasing self-alienation. I was full of myself, but was not so full that I could not let events from the outside come in. I took pride in being able to care about other patients that no one else could help. I recall seeing the tear in the eye of a patient who I deemed devoid of feeling and social connecting. I saw myself as one who could save her and another like her. It would not be long until I was cast out of the Glenside experience due to lack of funds to pay for the hospitalization to another place that help me to recover some semblance of who I once was before I became “mentally ill”.
{b}Self-imposed exile{/b}:
         I saw my opportunity at New England Deaconess as an opportunity to get back to the place at college that I left behind. I was equally convinced that this could only happen on my own terms. I got myself in a shell and waited for the day of my escape. It was half way funny to see mental health attendants try to figure me out as if I was some kind of puzzle. For instance they were asking me questions about my love life, family and life before my time in the hospital. If felt invasive at times, especially when they prodded about sexual matters. What business was it of theirs?! Yet here I was caught in the web of mental illness wanting nothing more than to get out.
I am not alone:
         I was in a place where I began to see people for the first time and know their names:
Gus was my roommate and was a boxer by trade. I thought he was something else. He showed me how to hit the speed bag. He was there for me as a brotherly figure. I do not recall talking much to him. I do remember that he was depressed about something personal. They gave him shock therapy and that seemed to do the trick for him. He was gone from the hospital soon afterwards.
         There were a couple of other personages that had a major impact on my healing process. One girl was around eighteen with dark brown hair, and very attractive. Around her wrists were several markings along with bandages that seemed to cover up cuts. I felt awful that here was a young person who did not want to live. I felt helpless in her presence. There was another woman who impacted me in an even greater way. I can still see her. She was very attractive and in her twenties she had a husband who kept visiting her with two small kids. She could not stop thinking about committing suicide. She visibly depressed and this was deeply disturbing to me. How could someone who seemed to have so much going for her not want to live?
         I left these situations feeling lost. They had still not found the magic medicine t o quell my moodiness. I was getting out more. I had been captive for about a month and a half, with little or no contact with the outside world. I had been a runner and it was stressful to not use this bolt of energy. I often wondered later on if this inactivity contributed to my evolving depression. I felt numb inside, quite a contrast to the person who was wired and wanting to save the world. On one occasion I was given a tray of food and dropped the tray on the floor. It was no accident. I felt that awful, lethargic and hopeless. I heard in the background persons say to others that it was okay, I was sick. I was not so sure.
         I got a visit from friends in college. They were the first people of any familiarity that came. I was feeling so much shame and guilt at the time. In those days Christians were not supposed to be depressed like I was or so I thought. They came on to the ward wanting to cheer me up. I played some ping pong in an effort to be with them. I would learn later that they saw me as totally out of it. It was as if they came all that way for nothing.
         Dr. Fleming was my doctor. He was a Harvard graduate. He was kind of the big man on the hospital campus. He had coal black hair, was tall and wore glasses that looked right into you. He came across as the man who was going to help you whether you wanted it or not. He hooked me up with Lithium Carbonate. He was certain that this was medicine that would help me get back in the world, back to college. I admittedly was not so sure, even if I did notice my mood leveling out a bit. Besides I was glad to hear that I would get to go home for the holidays. Christmas was a short time and I had not seen my family since I was hospitalized. (If my memory serves me right). I was sent home with the hospital’s blessing and looked forward to better days.