CATHERINE MEARA - GALLOPING BY

Catherine writes because she can't not write. Her fiction, nonfiction and poetry has appeared in Torrid Anthology, All Things Girl, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Anti-Heroin Chic, 100 Voices Anthology, Carlow Literary Journal, When Women Waken, and other places that she can't remember right now. She lives in Pittsburgh with her cat Daisy.

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GALLOPING BY
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         Talia causes me great resentment. A schizophrenic, she sets up foam cups pointing from the TV to the bookcase on the other side of the lounge, then stands there watching, waiting for a laser beam. She is friends with everyone on the unit; I think this is what bothers me the most. Sitting at one of the tables in the lounge, they laugh and talk about people, about me. She shoots me dirty looks for no reason. I have no empathy in my heart when she falls victim to her disease, screaming about the voices that tell her to kill the purple frogs jumping around her. I snicker and stand in her doorway smiling, watching her descent into madness with glee, knowing that she got hers.
           When Talia gallops by me, which she does every morning at 3 am, I stick out my foot and trip her. Her hands take the blunt. Talia gets up and I do the same with evil gracing my lips.
            “You tripped me, bitch!” Her hands move to slap me. I assume the fighters stance my Grandpa taught me a thousand years ago. Before her hand gets a foot from my face, I clock her in the nose – blood surges everywhere. Talia screams very loud. I would if someone had just broken my nose. Instantly, I put my arms around her, oh, help my friend please, I just popped her with my fist.
            Techs leak from the walls and quickly race her off to the nurse’s station. Dirty looks apply as their necks crane to look back at me. Two techs that didn’t haul her screaming ass to the nurse’s station tell me to go to my room. I go, hoping that obedience will get me off the hook. I sit on my plastic bed. Crunch. I can feel my madness circling me like sharks. I put my feet up; my bed is sinking. I stand on it. God, not again. Why do they come? I’ve never even been to the ocean. Mom went with her boyfriends and left me with the strangers next door. It didn’t matter who they were. They (not all) were bad. One neighbor had two kids and they took us all to the zoo. So many animals! I’d never seen a real tiger. They were big and exquisite with that slow walk and penetrating eyes, I never saw the biggest cat blink once.
The sharks will bite, rip, eat pieces of me, in front of everyone. While I’m standing on my bed, trying not to be eaten, two techs infect my room.
            “Talia says you punched her, Lauren.” They stand just inside my doorway with arms folded and feet apart, a wall, from which there is no escape.
            “NO! She tried to slap me! So, yeah, I punched her!” I say this way too loud.
            “How did she fall?”
            “I don’t FUCKING know! She runs around day and night! She tripped, I would think!” Can’t they see what’s swimming around under me? Can’t the see the fins zipping by just under the mattress?
            “Her nose is badly broken.” Seeing what is happening to me, their voices relax, but their physical position strengthens.
            “I don’t FUCKING care.” My face is hot; my mouth filled with spit like I’m going to barf.
            “Why are you standing on your bed, Lauren?”
            What a stupid question, “Sharks! Everywhere! Don’t you see them?”
            As they try to heave me off my bed, I kick as hard as I can, my foot nails one of the techs in the side of his face (unfortunately, it's Fred, he is the only one I like.). I know where I’m headed, the strapless bra room, I like to call it. I am required to jump around as they restrain my arms and legs. It takes a while. I am young and strong. Here comes Nurse Nancy with a big shot. Ouch. She can be rough. Three minutes later I begin to sink, my mind quiets, the sharks swim away, not willing to bite someone they can’t scare.
            I am at the bottom of the sea, floating, the water is thicker down here, more like gel. Strange fish slowly flutter by me, stopping to eyeball me, then continuing on. I am still. Breathing is unnecessary, the fluid fills my lungs. I am not drowning, just quiet, quiet. It is my wish to remain here for the rest of my life. But drugs wear off, I hate that. I start to ascend as the water thins and flows over me in soft waves, tenderly lifting me. The closer I get to the surface, the more I can feel the anxiety scratching my face. The leather bands on my wrists hurt. At least my head isn’t tied down; that bites shit. Fred is sitting at the door as they do with everyone tied down. It’s so stupid. Where am I going to go? If I yell and scream too loud, they can just shut the door. My opinion counts for nothing. No one listens.
            I look at Fred with half-lidded bloodshot eyes, “Can I have something to drink?”
            “Sure honey. You want Ginger Ale?”
            “Yes, please. And can you see when I get out of this fucking room?”
            “I’ll see. In the meantime, Ginger Ale.” I feel so bad about kicking him in the face. I apologize when he returns. He smiles at me; his soft eyes say it’s okay.
            “No letting you out of the restraints, not until the sharks are gone. The nurse is coming with another shot.” Fred lets me out of the hands and I drink my Ginger Ale. I sip then gulp as Nurse Nancy walks in with a HUGE shot. She doesn’t say a word as she shoves my hip over to expose my ass and sink that sucker. In about three minutes, I wither down and gently sink back to the bottom of the sea.
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            I remember safely down here in my depths, a terrible-bad nightmare.
After Mom died and the detention center let me go, I was sent to Grandpa and Grandma’s. Mom had long ago cut them out of our lives. I was ten when I went to live with them. I got off the bus and they double-hugged me as soon as they saw me. Standing there, stiff, I wished I could have hugged them back. They had a huge house, and it was clean! So that’s what carpet looks like, I thought. I had my room, with my dresser, and my bed. No more sharing a bed with Mom and her stinking boyfriends, whose hands always seemed to find me as soon as she passed out. A closet too! Grandma asked me what I liked to eat and I said, “Macaroni and Cheese.” She made it with real cheese and cooked the noodles in a different pan. It was the best food I’d ever had.
             Grandma and Grandpa were so nice to me. They eventually melted the ice I was living in – all the pain returned as my thick, frozen skin thawed. I wondered why Mom cut them out of our lives. They never abused her in any way, yet she abused them, for no reason, I think. I knew what Mom was, just by the way she treated me: She was selfish, uncaring, a total bitch. One time, when I was seven, she was gone for three days, leaving me in our apartment alone. I got hungry and tried to make something out of moldy cheese and hard bread, burning it and setting off the fire alarm. As the apartment manager was waving a towel at the buzzing machine, Mom stumbled home – looking strung out, smelling of booze. She politely thanked the manager, asking him to leave. As soon as the door shut she started screaming at me, grabbing me by the hair and shaking my head, hard. I had stopped crying when she did things like this. Instead, I just looked at her. She never met my eyes; she didn’t see me at all. I couldn’t understand why she got so mad. All I wanted was some food. Then, watching her in the bedroom closet pulling out baggies filled with white stuff and some plant, I figured out that she had illegal drugs in there. She wanted not to be caught more than she wanted me to eat. So she started leaving me with the neighbors, making me stand outside their door until they arrived home, sometimes for hours. My hate for her flourished like a tree sprouting in a rainforest.
            I hadn’t gone to school for a while, so Grandma got me a tutor. I went through two grade levels in four weeks. I heard the tutor, Mrs. Garcia, talking to Grandpa and Grandma, she said I was one of the smartest kids she’d ever taught and that she wanted to have my IQ tested. I’ll never forget the smiles on all of their faces. That next week I was taken to The Children’s Center for my IQ test. The guy who timed my test said to Mrs. Garcia that my IQ was 151. At ten years old, I was put into the tenth grade at The Children’s Center.
            I was learning just fine, but I couldn’t get along with the other kids. I heard them whisper about me, laugh and point their finger: She’s a filthy scumbag, no one wants her and she gets all her clothes at Kmart. I got mean when I didn’t mean to. The Powers That Be spoke with Grandma and Grandpa quite often, finally suggesting therapy. So, off I went to Mr. Richardson, twice a week. He was a nice guy, with his cardigans, khakis and really big feet.
            For two months, I refused to talk. He was considerate and gentle, but he was a man. Except Grandpa, I practically bit any man that came near me. He tried many tactics. It was when he asked me the tenth time about how mom died that my tears suddenly jumped across the room.
            Through a caving chest and lost breaths I told him how it happened, “Mom and this guy she’d met at a bar invited us over to his place. He told me to sit on his filthy couch and not move, or he’d hit mom. Then he started screaming at her. At first, she screamed back, I was hoping someone would hear them, I was so scared. He went back to another room, mom grabbed me and we ran to the door, we hadn’t seen him lock it. He walked out and across the living room with something black in his hand, caught mom by the hair and…” I had to stop. I curled up on Mr. Richardson’s couch, howling into a pillow.
            “It’s okay Lauren, I’m here – I’m not that man, I’m not your mom. You are not in that room. No one is going to hurt you; I won’t let that happen. I will protect you.” He moved to sit next to me and I twitched so hard the couch shook. “Go on if you can. If you can’t, that’s okay.” He moved slowly back to his chair.
            I figured I’d come this far, there wasn’t much left to tell, “He pulled mom’s head back and shot her. He stared at mom lying on the floor for a few minutes. I didn’t mean to, but I peed my pants. He looked at me, then shot himself in the head. I sat down on the floor. When the cops showed up, I heard the one say ‘Oh God. Look at her. She’s covered in blood.’ The cop knelt down and put his hand on my head. I tried to bite him, but he was too quick. They took me to a sort of home for disturbed kids while they called Grandma and Grandpa. Then I was on a bus. Now I’m here.”
I had to go, get out of there, run as fast as I could from the memory. Grandma was waiting outside in the chrome chairs reading Jane Austen. I crashed through the door to Mr. Richardson’s office and stood against the car. I turned and began to beat the car with my fists, screaming like a wild hog caught by a Lion.
            Mr. Richardson and Grandma came running. They grabbed my hands as I fought so, so hard. Blood scattered the trunk and when they looked at my hands, my pinky finger just hung there, a bone jutting out. I felt nothing.
            At the hospital, with my hand all wrapped up, my eyes unglued themselves, sewn shut by my tears. A lady appeared with a needle. I jerked away at first. She smiled and said, “This will help you feel better.” Then she poked it into the tube that led to my good hand, and, all pain left. Physical, emotional, psychological, real and imagined, all left.
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I am in the tides, ebbing and flowing, still trying to sort through reality and the fish. God, I’m hungry. The doctor walks barefoot on my beach, “Are the sharks gone? Are you going to slug anyone again?”
            “Not for now. It all depends on who fucks with me.”
            “I am putting you on Thorazine. It will calm you down considerably. It’s just temporary, to change your frame of mind.” The doctor always seems to tell me what he’s going to do to me, I, as a person, don’t matter. He matters, his choices matter, his “professionalism” matters, his results matter. I am merely a lab rat they stab with a needle then monitor to see whether I live or die.
            “Can I have a print out on it?” He rolls his eyes. I always ask for a printout. I want to know what they are shooting me up with – I’m mentally ill, but my God damned IQ is 151! I know they know this. Ten minutes later, Nurse Nancy walks in with some paperwork and another shot, which she administers immediately. The words blur as I try to read them. Duly subdued, I am free (to what? Walk the earth as a zombie forever? I hope it’s not forever. I don’t want to be here anymore). I shuffle and sway back to my room where I find my bed stripped, my things packed. Up at the nurse’s station, I ask with mumbled joy, “Am I going home?”
            I don’t know how long I’ve been here – a month? Three weeks? I sleep and sleep and sleep, my shoulders ache from turning side to side. Then my nose gets stuffed up due to that fucking air conditioner. As my eyes finally force their way to slits, as my mind awakens and clobbers around my brain, I slowly sit up and take a look around. I have my own room – with a chair, a desk bolted to the floor, my bed and a bathroom. In the bathroom, there is a toilet, a shower with an inadequate curtain, a faucet with handles you pull or push and a metal mirror that distorts my face. Not that it matters what I look like, hell, I look a whole lot better than some I’ve seen on the various psych wards I’ve had the privilege of attending. There is nothing I can tear off its hinges to hit another patient. Nothing from which I can hang myself.
My head peeks out my door. Through my confused and shadowed eyes, I see the nurse’s station. I know they’ve been coming in my room at 5 am to give me one of two shots a day – I grumble around, cussing at them. I walk up to a nurse, my mouth opens, but nothing occurs.
            “Can you see me, honey?” She bends down to my level, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Are you getting back to the living?”
            “Where am I?” I barely understand my words. But she understands me fine.
            “You’re at Mayview, sweetie, the State Hospital. You’ve been here a week and a half. You awoke yesterday and kind of roamed around, crashing into walls. So we had a tech walk beside you to make sure those nasty old walls did not injure you. The doctors have been lowering your Thorazine dose a little bit every day, hence your bit of clarity. You haven’t eaten yet. Are you hungry?” She has love and concern in her eyes. Never, in all my trips to psych wards, has anyone shown me such care. Well, except Fred, I wonder how he is.
            “Yeah, I’m hungry, very hungry. Do you have any Ginger Ale?” I keep falling asleep in my food, yet some get down my gullet because that feeling like my tummy is eating itself goes away. I go back to bed, and I dream.
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            I “graduated” high school at fourteen. It probably would have been thirteen, had I not spent about a year of that time in Juvenal Detention and psych wards.  But The Children’s Center never kicked me out. I caused so much trouble; they had to be happy to get rid of me. I’d been to the detention center twice, two months each time. I went to the psych ward a bunch of times. That’s when the medication started. None of it worked. They tried so many pills, which made me dead, manic, twitching, nervous, sleepy and very, very high (the only result I didn’t mind).  I think I broke Grandma and Grandpa’s hearts when the cops dragged me away. I got beat up pretty bad the second time I was there. I still had a swollen jaw and a black eye when I came home. Grandpa took a look at my face, and, after Macaroni and Cheese, took me out to the garage and taught me how to fight. He was a Golden Gloves boxer before he married Grandma.
            “Now Lauren, hold one hand down under your chin with your arm bent vertically, your fist in and close to your body. Hold the other one up a bit, again vertically, in front of your face and your fist in. When you make fists, tuck in your thumbs, so you don’t break them. Keep your chin down, your head low and look at me like a snake. Intimidation is a big part.” He demonstrated the stance, weaving around, his hand shooting out. He was so fast. “Punch up to the gut, with the whole side of your body and then strike out. You want to strike quick, be relentless. The slower you go, the more time someone has a chance to hit you back. You have to be ready to hit again immediately.” He held up his hands to either side of his body and said, “Hit me! Hard!”
            We practiced every day. I got better fast.
            After a year at home with no other incidences, Grandma asked me if I’d like to focus my attention to college. They couldn’t afford a university, so, at fifteen, off I went to Community College. At first I wanted to study chemistry or physics, math of some sort. I’d always been able to draw well, impressing Grandma and Grandpa with my copies of pictures I found in books. Then, after getting a book from the library which interviewed abstract artists, I found my voice through my hands and acrylic paint. I wouldn’t show anyone but my Grandparents my artwork. I began art classes. We had a show at the end of the semester; we could bring whoever we wanted. So, Grandma and Grandpa came. I had four paintings and one illustration hanging in the studio for all to see. Pride glowed in my Grandparent’s eyes.
            Some of the other students were jealous; I could tell. They whispered and eyeballed me all during the show. I could feel the anger rioting in my chest, my face hot, and according to Grandma, red. She knew the look. “What’s happening Lauren?” she asked.
            “I want to leave! They are talking about me! I’m going to jump on that bitch over there! Let’s go!” my voice got louder, people turned to look. The teacher walked over to us. His eyes were concerned, but I saw judgment, meanness, he was coming to get me. I shoved him as hard as I could. He fell and I jumped on him, beating him with the fists that Grandpa taught me to use. What happened next was predictable. What a bitch that was. They put me away for eight months.
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            We have a picnic! Out on the lawn, a huge lawn. Techs barbecue hot dogs and burgers. I am awake now. I don’t know if they are still shooting me up with Thorazine. Every two days I get a shot, so maybe I am still on it.
            This place is like no other psych ward I’ve ever been. I get therapy every day. I see the psychiatrist every day. They don’t roll their eyes when I ask for printouts on the drugs they are giving me. And they are giving me a lot, trying to find that magic talisman that will deliver sanity to my addled mind. My psychiatrist, Dr. Flick – a very smart man who speaks to me at my level, not treating me like a fucked up child – gives me an anti-depressant, a new one I’ve never tried. I take it and go to sleep for a few days. When I wake, I feel new and shiny, clean. The demons that live in my memories are gone, almost. I attack tasks and therapy with zeal and curiosity. I open my mouth, it all pours out.
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            At eighteen I’d probably been in twelve or so psych wards. I stopped going to jail because I didn’t belong there. Home for three months, locked up for three months, over and over and over. I acted fine when they released me. Then, slowly, things would start to happen. I would stay up all night drawing, stop eating and talk very fast with my hands flying around. Then I’d start breaking things, my things. I never broke anything of Grandma and Grandpa’s; I couldn’t do that. They would hear me up in my room shattering the air and come running. I would lock the door, so my violence was contained to me and my room. Grandma beat on the door, “Lauren! What’s happening? Are you alright?”
            “I’m fine Grandma!” Crash, bang. “Just a little worked up! I’ll be okay! Just leave me alone!” I could never cuss at my Grandparents, or hit them, shove them, attack them. They meant too much to me.
            Then the razor would emerge. Lines up and down my arms, it felt so good to cut. I had to bleed me out of me. I was always much calmer after I was done. The cuts got deeper and deeper. I was in the bathroom doing my thing and Grandma walked in, I had forgotten to lock the door. She screamed and tears surged from her whole face. “Lauren! Lauren! What are you doing? Why are you doing that? Stop! Please, Stop!”
            “I can’t. I can’t stop. It feels good.” My voice was calm, quiet.
            “Stay right here! Don’t you move!” Grandma, barely able to see through her tears, ran to the bedroom and called the authorities. Again, two cop cars showed up. Again, they put me in an ambulance. Again, all the neighbors were outside watching. Again, I saw Grandpa holding Grandma; her body racked with sobs.
            The cuts took stitches, but they healed, leaving angry red scars. I wore long sleeves all the time. In the summer, when it was too hot for long sleeves, I stayed inside. In fact, I never went anywhere. I was afraid of hearing people talk about me – whisper, whisper – look at her, she’s the crazy one they haul away all the time. I knew what would happen if I thought I heard someone and I was frightened of what I might do. I tried in hopeless attempts to keep my craziness away from me, shoving it down, down where it intertwined with all the memories that, I knew, made me crazy in the first place. Even the heavy sedating drugs that made me lifeless didn’t work. I still freaked out.
            I celebrated my twenty-first birthday on a psych ward I’d been to many times. Grandma and Grandpa brought a cake and gifts. All the nurses and a few patients who just wanted a piece of cake sang happy birthday to me in one of the conference rooms. My face smiled while my insides melted into the black pit of my damaged soul – why does it have to be like this? Why can’t I have friends to celebrate with, go out and have a beer or something?  I went into a deep depression later that day. I would not get out of bed, eat, speak or take my medication. My kind doctor threatened me, “We can’t help you unless you help yourself. So get out of that bed! Do something! This is not a hotel!”
            I sat straight up and shrieked, “Yeah! Like people get help here! They are zombies when they arrive and zombies when they leave! You can’t help anyone because you’re a shitty doctor! All you care about is your God damned Jaguar and five hundred dollar suits, paid for with our desperation! You walk onto this unit, throw pills at us, and leave! Now get the fuck out of my room!” After the doctor had stated that he wouldn’t treat me anymore, the patients who stood outside the door listening clapped and howled as he walked away. Never saw him again.
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             Even though this place is different, it looks the same as all the other psych wards. In the lounge there is a small TV covered with plexiglass, little holes communicate the sound, which no one can hear. The couches are hard plastic, no armrests, they make my ass ache if I sit there too long. There are pages and crayons that one can color with, no pens or pencils, stabbing risk, I think. The pens they give us are a short, bendy thing that is hard to hold on to, but it works. I spend most of my time reading, writing and drawing with the felt tip pen I stole from the nurse’s station. I don’t show anyone my artwork. Hence, they’d confiscate my pen.
             I discover Occupational Therapy. It involves crafts, cheap ones, but I can relate. After three wallets, two trivets and eight refrigerator magnets, I detect some acrylic paints in a drawer. Further inspection reveals brushes and canvas. I fly around the table, jumping over Ben and assault the therapist.  I teeter on the edge of each word that leaves my excited mouth, “Can I paint?! I found this stuff! Can I use it?! Can I take it to my room?! Can I please, please paint?!”
            “Sure.” She steps back, wary of my delight. “You can paint whatever you want, within reason. No sex, no killing, no drugs, no abuse. So get to work! We only have a half hour left! No, you cannot take these things to your room.”
             I paint for the next three days in OT. The therapist keeps walking by and when I show my painting to the class, they are silent. The therapist asks me to show it to the staff. They too are speechless.  “All I see is mistakes.” I say. The more I paint, the fewer mistakes I see.
            Unlike every other psych ward, we are allowed to go outside whenever we want. Trees, grass between my toes, the sky with big fluffy clouds slipping by on oiled glass. Rain, snow, the intense heat of summer are all experiences we are allowed to have. Unless you get into trouble, the outside world is yours. I sit out there most days, in any weather, and draw, read or paint. Currently, I’m reading “Love in the Time of Cholera” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It’s the best book I’ve ever read. The elegance of Fermina Daza enchants me. The engulfing desire of Florentino Ariza, which colors his entire life – no matter who his is with – Fermina Daza is steady in his mind. I’ve never been in love, in fact, until recently, I’ve never felt love.
             Dr. Flick has me on less and less medication, “Too many meds and you’re not you anymore. I know for a fact that the Lauren inside you is kind, gentle and wonderful. We see how you sit down and talk to other patients who are in peril and how you taught the Asian lady how to play basketball. She could barely move when she got here; the depression was so bad. Within an hour after her arrival, you had her shooting baskets and smiling.”
          “No one, in my whole life, has ever referred to me as kind, gentle and wonderful,” I say. “I beat people up for no fucking reason! I can’t get along with anyone! You make it sound like I should be working here – that will never, never happen.”
“Yes, you are. Yes, you can. Maybe you should think a little harder about it.” His thin lips give me that wide grin that always makes me giggle on the inside. Something is changing, something is different.
            Grandma and Grandpa come to see me once a month. We have visiting hours Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 10 am to 4 pm. Neither of them sees too well anymore so their neighbor, Mrs. Gibson, has to drive them out. I am always so, so happy to see them. We exchange lots of smiles and tears. I ask them for forgiveness. They tell me I don’t need to be forgiven, that it’s not my fault, I only did what I was taught to do given my circumstances. Then they tell me how much they love me, and I believe them. The Big Bang Theory happens in these realizations. One day I can give and receive love, whereas they day before I couldn’t.
            I am, however, still rather violent. Donna – who is diagnosed anti-social and oppositional defiant disorder (meaning she doesn’t like anyone and gets angry about it) – is one with whom I regularly clash. We just don’t like each other. She is nasty to everyone. I refuse to let her get away with it, fighting other people’s battles for them, as I have come to hate injustice. We’ve gotten physical a few times and have screaming matches quite often. Dr. Flick moves us across the ward from each other, hoping that we won’t have more encounters. Doesn’t work. We still eat together, hang out in the same lounge and walk by each other through the hallways early in the morning when neither of us can sleep. I give her dirty looks as obscenities roll from her tongue. Then we are blaring at each other and techs come running. I stop yelling when I see the techs coming. I stand there with a smile on my face while she befouls the air. They drag her away most of the time.
            I have a surprise visitor: It’s Fred! I run up to him, jump in his arms and plant a kiss on his lips. That moment, when something you didn’t expect happens, or emotion you didn’t know you have shines though, is one of the sweetest I’ve ever known. We look at each other, his face inches from mine. We sit at a table.
            “What are you doing here?! Why are you here?!” I am barely breathing.
            “I looked at your records to see where they sent you. I miss you so much. I had to see you. How are you Lauren?” we are facing one another, each sitting on the stupid plastic chairs, pulled close. His hand reaches out and pushes my hair back behind my ear. We talk and laugh for three hours. He says he finally sees my beautiful smile; he knew it was there all along. He tells me that he’s gone back to school for his masters in Psychology. He wants to keep working on psych wards for the time being but hopes to get his doctorate as well. He’s got about three years of school left. He comes to see me every Monday and Friday after that, always at noon, right on time.
            I am learning about myself and I don’t like what I’m seeing. Such bad behavior! I think I shouldn’t have acted so badly. How embarrassing. I belong in a psych ward for the rest of my life, for fear I should see someone I attacked and they get mad and repay me. Good thing I know how to box. I had a bit of a skirmish with Donna the day before last. She was wearing my shoes.
            “Where did you get those shoes, Donna?” I asked casually.
            “My ma brang ‘em in. What’s it to you?” she spit back.
            “They are my fucking shoes you fucking bitch! Give them back or I’ll tear your feet off!” She jumped on me. I pushed away and assumed my fighters stance, right hooking her in the gut. I was not about to break anyone’s nose – way too visible, way too much blood. She yelped and tried to grab my throat. I saw the techs running down the hall and I let her grab me. Jumping on her, they yell and force her to the ground, heaving her away screaming.
            “Are you okay?” a breathless tech asked.
            “Yeah, I’m fine,”  I said, rubbing my neck for added drama, “She’s got my shoes. I want them back.”
            “We are getting her into a hospital gown and your shoes are sitting right outside the door. Although this shouldn’t have happened, it’s kind of nice to know that you are not the perpetrator. Good to see, Lauren. Good to see.” He half smirked and jogged back down to the strapless bra room to attend to the still screaming Donna. Is that how I looked? Yes, it is. I could see myself like I’m looking through a security camera, whaling on anyone who came near me; it was how I reacted to everything.
            I get better by stopping and starting. Some days I feel like I’m making great strides toward sanity. Some days I feel as though I’m sliding very slippilarly back into insanity. They diagnosed me with bipolar and a personality disorder, that’s all. I am apparently not schizophrenic, psychotic, obsessive compulsive, dissociative identity disordered, anti-social disordered, avoidant personality, attention deficit disordered or anything else I’ve unfairly been labeled as before. Dr. Flick gives me specific examples of each illness and explains why I’m not all that fucked up. I still have those days when the sharks peek around the corners and my monstrous memories return. When these occurrences creep out into the light that shines around me, I either sleep for a few days or go a little bit crazy. The good doctor ups my Klonopin by a lot. I like that stuff way too much, counting the hours until the next dose is due, sometimes I save the pills and take three or four at a time. Then I float around. I am free, unencumbered, with a wispy smile on my face. I know this is not helping me, but I tell myself that it is, that I need it, that I can’t relax without it. I lie to myself. I’ve always lied to myself. It’s a matter of survival, at least it used to be.
             My therapist, Mrs. Furguson, an older lady who has seen it all and is very intelligent, focuses my attention on things I don’t even know exist within me. I loved my mother, but it was a resentful love, a “why did you do that if you loved me” love. She abandon me for bars, men, drugs and just because she could. I work very hard to accept her for what she was and let go of who I wanted her to be. I wrap her up tight with paper and place her at my feet with the full knowledge that I’ll never get what I needed from her.
            Fred doesn’t come for a week. He doesn’t call; he doesn’t write. Fear ceases my heartbeat. What if he doesn’t want to see me anymore? What if he’s found someone new? He has abandoned me, I decide. Oh well, I'm used to that. No big deal, right? So what. But these feelings exhaust me. I pick a fight with Donna, flipping her off as she walks by me. Her wild eyes stare at me, then she turns to attack grabbing me and shoving me into the wall. I pound her with my fists. We are rolling on the floor by the time the techs get to us. As they scrape us up, Donna starts screaming with that voice that short circuits mine and everyone else’s head.
            “She give me the finger! She ain’t got no reason to do that! I was just walking by! I don’t take her God damned shoes! She got no reason to give me the finger!” Her face is red and pulsating; I can see her temples throbbing.
            “She jumped on me!” I yell. “I didn’t do a motherfucking thing!” Unfortunately, another inmate saw what I did and gleefully informs the responding tech.
            “Yup. She flipped Donna off when Donna was just walking by. I saw it! I saw it!” I want to bite his stupid pointing finger off. It doesn’t earn me a trip to the strapless bra room, but it does bring some hard questions from Dr. Flick.
            “Why did you do that Lauren? What was the purpose? What are you angry about?” Dr. Flick leans forward in his chair, semi-demanding answers. I begin to cry.
            “Fred hasn’t come this week.” I bawl. “Where is he? He doesn’t want to see me anymore.”
            “Think about this realistically, Lauren. He’s very busy with school; he works full time and he has to drive an hour and a half to get here. It seems he cares for you very much and those feelings do not disappear so easily. Sometimes we have to wait for things. The waiting is hard, but hard times can lead to great fulfillment.” His voice is, as usual, quiet and calming.
            “I’ve been reading that philosophy book you gave me.” I was reading it; it’s a good book. “One of the arguments in there is that happiness is only felt in the absence of unhappiness. So what’s in the middle? Placid life? I am still up and down, will I ever achieve placidness?”
            “Maybe. Maybe not. The ups and downs seem to keep you quite busy. I know that it’s not the busy you want to experience, but that’s the way it is for now. You’re doing so well. You do, however, still have to make a great effort to do better.” Dr. Flick touches my mind in a way I can understand.
            I get out of here in a week. Fred finally calls and says that he is coming with my Grandparents to pick me up. How does he know my Grandparents? He is aware of the full extent of my bad behavior, and apparently, also what my Grandparents have no doubt told him. I suffer through that last week – afraid of the outside world, afraid of myself.
            It takes me a week to pack. Grandma and Grandpa have brought me lots of clothes, some of which I want to leave here, in the case of someone who is just coming in and has nothing. I walk the unit and take a good look at everyone there. I want to tell them that they can recover, that there is a whole world out there where they can live. Lots of people are walking around all fucked up and they get no help. But these people in here can get help, they just have to embrace it.
            I also apologize to Donna, “I’m sorry about all the fights we got into. I guess our personalities were too different for us to get along. I wish you the best and I hope that one day you’ll leave this place and hopefully have a good life.”
            “Fuck off and die.” Well, I expected that. I have learned in here to clean up my side of the street. The only thing I can control is myself, no one else. I am not responsible for the actions of others, even if I’ve been a bitch. I was the bitch and I have to remember that. Besides, being a bitch gets me nowhere.
            I see Dr. Flick for the last time. “I have never seen a patient come as far as you have. I was not sure that you wanted to change at first. Then I saw a slow luminosity begin to shine in your eyes and I knew you were ready to get well. You were able to use this place as it was intended. You are not completely well; you never will be. But you now have an opportunity to live a full life, so live it. Use the techniques you’ve learned in here – mindfulness, radical acceptance, accumulating the positives, retreat, rethink, respond – all of it. Good luck, Lauren. Good luck.” He gives me a tight hug; I hug him tightly back.
          The day comes. I’ve been here for a year and a half. In here I’m a different person, but out there, I don’t know, I’m scared. Dr. Flick and Mrs. Furguson both give me their home numbers and hug me profusely before I step outside to wait for my family. While I stand there I feel an inkling of freedom. It swells and grows until it threatens to overwhelm me. Slow, deep breaths. Slow, deep breaths.
            “Lauren!” Grandpa, Grandma and Fred leap from the car and hug me so, so tight. We all exchange excited words as we drive away. “We are going to the Outback for dinner, does that sound good to you?”
            “Wow! Real food! Can I get steak and shrimp?” I didn’t eat breakfast, too nervous.
              “Of course!” says Grandma. “You can have anything you want.”
              When we get to the restaurant and are seated, the inevitable questions start.
              “Are you better, Lauren? Do you feel normal?” Grandpa asks.
              “Well, I feel different. The person I used to be is still there, but she’s not ruling my life anymore. I did some hard work in Mayview, dealt with some hard things. Dr. Flick and Mrs. Furguson showed me how to have a life worth living. I don’t feel so damaged, worthless and angry.” I make eye contact when I’m saying this.
              Fred says, “You were never worthless or damaged. Angry, yes. As I am looking at you right now, I see the real Lauren, the person deep inside that you always were.”
We order our food and Fred begins telling funny stories about his classes. Like how his teacher got his back pocket caught on the ledge of the chalkboard and ripped a big hole in the back of his pants while giving a lecture.
              “We all tried not to laugh, but it was impossible,” says Fred with a huge grin on his face. I smile, laugh and eat like a starving lumberjack. The restaurant is strange to me. My mind wants to be nervous in this long forgotten setting, but I won’t allow that. Nope. Won’t let it happen. I am in a nest with my family, a baby bird, almost ready to fly.
            When we get home I prowl about the house, looking behind the TV (and turning it on to make sure I can hear it), checking each room and all the things in it, make sure what I kept in my mind is right and correct. I save my room for last. I walk in and plop my duffle bag on my bed. I stand in the middle. My furniture is not bolted to the floor. My mattress is not plastic and, therefore, does not crunch when I lay down. I open my closet. There are shoes with laces, belts, pants with drawstrings – everything is where I left it, nothing has been touched. I walk into my bathroom. A shower with an adequate curtain. A sink with cupboards underneath that open and close. A real toilet. My eyes avoid the mirror. I go back into my room and unpack. I find that I’m very tired, so I go downstairs to say goodnight to Grandpa and Grandma. As I walk out of the family room, I say, “I’ve never been so happy to be here, to be anywhere. I love you both. Thank you. Goodnight.” I kiss and hug them both. Their eyes follow me as I walk out, I can feel their smiles warming my back.
            I can’t avoid it. I go into the bathroom and look in the mirror. The same face – eyes, mouth, nose, hair, ears – peek back at me. Then, I begin to morph into something else. Instead of the obvious, I see confidence that replaces fear, a calmness that replaces violence, beauty that replaces ugly. In my own eyes, I see the whole universe, waiting for me to discover.