So this is a personal essay about my hospitalization in 2004. It was my main "manuscript" for my creative writing workshop last semester, and it's probably one of the pieces that I am most proud of writing. Other than that, I think it pretty much speaks for itself. -Maggie
(Maybe I'm Not There Yet But There's Always) The Promise of Tomorrow
Sometimes I’m afraid that I’ll forget what it was like; the taste of stale air on my tongue and the muted sunlight in the plain, sterile room. The plastic feel of the cheap tan sheets and the layers of iron and wire and glass that held the outside world at bay are razor sharp but sit at the periphery of my memory, as if waiting for the day that they can slip off quietly into the abyss.
And sometimes I worry that I’ll forget how it was I used to see things. How that abyss wasn’t just a carefully crafted and strategically placed word, but an all encompassing darkness that clouded my emotions and created an unexpected heaviness in my limbs. The way I seemed to be dying decomposing fading from the inside out is falling away from me and though my head swims with the liberation it leaves in its wake, my fingertips burn with the desire to pull it back to me. My arms ache to hold it tightly to my chest and not yet not yet pries at my dry lips. Relief dances through my veins when my fingers snatch it back and my disappointed mind soothes itself with promises of tomorrow.
Because tomorrow means a lot of things. It means hope and moving forward and being one day stronger. It means waking up and letting go and love and happiness and life. It means getting one step farther away from that day where the world seemed to hit fast forward while I switched to slow-mo. Then it was like falling sinking drowning and reaching out for someone whose name I had never even known. But now, after over a thousand tomorrows it plays like a movie. I blink rapidly to stop the encroaching dizziness and every time I open my eyes it’s a different scene.
There’s me on the hospital bed as nurses flit in and out like hummingbirds and the clock hands spin aimlessly. My mom’s hand is curled tightly in my dad’s and the stark contrast in skin tone is only emphasized by the beams of fluorescent light. Their shadows crawl up the wall like mountains. Black. I open my eyes.
“Ouch,” Mike-the-nurse says when he sees my leg, the worse of the two. The wet lick of rubbing alcohol on the inside of my calf would tickle if it didn’t burn so much. My breathing shudders from the cool trail that lingers and I try not to look at the lines and arcs, red and angry and swollen, that create words and wrap around my leg. My mom sniffles. I cringe at the pain—foreign but all too similar and my heart breaks because this was never meant to hurt them. My lashes kiss the tops of my cheeks, squinched up and ugly in my grimace, but I open my eyes.
Deep breath. The scratch of gauze on my arms and legs keeps me restless. My father’s gaze does not help either and I think it’s because he can’t believe the extent to just how fucked up I have become while all the while pretending to be his perfect daughter. Perfect perfect perfect and then he reaches out and grabs my hand and says “I love you,” and tears, big fat hot drops, leak from my eyes and my voice catches and squeaks when I say “Daddy,” and then my mom slides the door open, arms laden with juice and sandwiches even though it’s 12:45 in the morning. I blink away the tears. It’s quick this time. Close and then I open my eyes.
The squeak of the wheelchair on the polished tile makes me wince and squeeze my mom’s hand tighter as we travel down a dimly lit corridor. I’m tired but I’m scared I’m so scared because this is strange foreign daunting and I’m convinced now that I’ll be okay as long as my parents are with me. There’s no need for this no need no need don’t make me and then we’re at the end of the hall. It’s brighter here and the quick change is too much for my eyes—still sensitive and raw from salty tears. I close them and try to make myself better, make myself happy, make myself enjoy life, make myself forget that I tried to end it all some odd hours ago. My dad’s hand rests on my shoulder then and my racing heart stammers at the soothing touch. I push the futile thoughts from my mind and try to be brave. For Dad, for Mom. For them I open my eyes.
“I need to check the extent of your injuries,” this woman says and I beg her no but she shakes her head so I plead with her to wait until morning but she shakes her head again cruelly and says “Now. For our records.” So with shaking hands I disrobe and squeeze my eyes shut. Courage can only get me so far. I count to 2047 and then she says “Okay,” but I wait until the door clicks shut and I know I’m alone before I open my eyes.
“This is your room,” the same woman says and I pause and fear races through my veins and I say, “I need to say good-bye to my parents,” but she shakes her head again and the bile starts its fiery ascent before she even tells me they’ve already gone. I close my eyes because I can’t bear to look at this woman anymore. I bite my lip to keep from growling out how much I hate her in this moment. Tears well up and spill out and when it’s too painful to keep them shut any longer I open my eyes.
Flash. They took a picture because I can hear the hum of the Polaroid camera wind itself down. “Stay still, Margaret,” is all the warning I get before a needle is shoved unceremoniously into my arm and I gasp for air but I can’t breathe. It’s too much, dear god this is too much and then suddenly nothing. “What?” I say but that’s all I manage before my eyelids close, intent on returning to dreamland and the voice that warned me explains, “Blood work and a picture for our records. Now go back to sleep, it’s only five.” The door closes and I’m on the brink of slumber when my foot snags a blanket at the foot of the slender and bare hospital bed. It’s soft and warm and familiar and in that instant I know. They came back, my mom and dad came back, and nobody woke me up. Nobody let me say good-bye. Loathing, towards myself and that stupid bitch who only knows how to shake her head seeps from my pores and a scream bursts from my chest when I open my eyes.
No shoelaces no pens no silverware no necklaces no drawstrings no zippers no earrings no jewelry in general. No school today it’s a Sunday. Nobody I know. 20 minutes allotted for journaling but I have nothing to write about that is relevant. Dear Journal, I’m in the hospital because I couldn’t take it anymore and someone finally caught me. My arms itch really bad but if I scratch off the scabs they’ll scar. Is that a bad thing? I’m supposed to put ointment on them but some of these aren’t going to go away just because I put ointment on them. Some of these are permanent. Should that scare me? They have schedules here but I don’t know them, though everyone else seems to and all I want to do is stay in this room and sleep until I’m at home again. Maybe if I close my eyes… but no I can still feel the hard wood chair underneath me and I know that the plain white walls will greet me when I open my eyes.
He’s older, with sadness etched into little lines around his dark brown eyes and he barely lifts the edges of his lips when the nurse ushers me into the small room. I sit in the cushioned chair on the other side of his desk and wait for him to talk. I do not want to be here. I’ve been saying that all day long. This is a mistake this is a mistake this is a mistake I’ve told anyone who looked like they might listen but I’m still sitting here, watching this old dark man who’s watching me and we both just kind of sit for a moment. And then he takes a deep breath and says “Margaret,” and I correct him. “Maggie,” I say, and he smiles a little and says, “I have a dog named Maggie. Golden retriever. Really lively,” and I shrug because I don’t care about some stupid dog that shares my name. “Maggie, I’ve spoken to Dr. Paul, and she says that you’re on 40 mg of Prozac right now. As your acting psychiatrist here, Maggie, I’m going to up the dosage.” I don’t say anything. I don’t care. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be. He frowns slightly when I glance up from my focus on the patterns of the wood. “Do you have any feelings about that, Maggie?” I shrug. “I never had one to begin with,” I say and he frowns. I close my eyes and cross my arms and slouch down and pretend that I don’t exist. He sighs and we sit like that again, waiting for the other person to do something and finally he clears his throat and says “You can leave, Margaret,” and I don’t look at him when I do open my eyes.
“I’m MC Hammer!” Chip says when he bounces into the family meeting room in giant, ugly parachute pants and my face cracks into a grin even as I tug down on my sleeves to hide my arms. He’s 13 but he’s still my brother and he’s still too young to see these kinds of things. I don’t give him enough credit, I know, because he is 13 and he knows what suicide and depression and cutting are. He knows these things and he just doesn’t let me see it. So I smile because I love him and because he makes me laugh and doesn’t make anything of the fact that it’s Halloween and he’s at the hospital seeing his sister instead of participating in the annual shaving cream fight he’s been talking about for the past month. He grabs the legs of the offensive garment and pulls them out. “They’re parachute pants. Dad’s friend Vince lent me them.” My dad reminds him that Vince told him to keep them. I eye the almost zebra-like pattern. “Vintage,” I say. Chip smiles and then says he should go so my mom can come in. Only two people at a time, after all. And no friends. I stand up to hug him and he’s my height now. I bury my head in his shoulder and close my eyes so I don’t cry. His arms wrap awkwardly around me and I know then that he’s older than I let myself believe. I draw back and see him for who he is when I open my eyes.
Three nights. I’ve been here three nights and I’ve seen my family each and every one of them but it’s not enough. I have a panda and a card from friends and there have been phone calls and letters but everything has to be pre-approved and I feel like a very small person here. If I press my face against the window I can almost see, through the layers of wire and bars, Park Avenue. It turns at the stoplight that I can’t see and becomes Second Street and after a block it intersects with Elm. And five blocks east on Elm is my house and my family. But I can’t see that. And maybe that’s a good thing, because it would just make things worse at night when I go to sleep hoping that I’ll close my eyes and that’ll be it. But Jenna left today and I’m in her old room and just the idea that maybe I can leave soon too has me thinking that maybe I want a tomorrow. That maybe for once I’ll want to open my eyes.
Adam lives next door and when he passes by my open door I jump up from my bed and run for the phone because he’s been on it for the past fifteen minutes and there’s only an hour allotted for phone time and everybody wants it but I want it more. Kate rushes up to it, but I’ve got Rici’s phone number already punched in and it’s already started ringing. It’s ringing and I can’t wait to hear his voice and know how people are at school and what new music we’re playing in band and it’s still ringing and then Mrs. Clark picks up. “Hey Mags,” she says, and her voice sounds sad and pitying and I know already that Rici’s not there and that I’m going to have to wait another day to try to hear a familiar friend’s voice. Kate does her best to bite back her smile when I hang up the phone so quickly, but I close my eyes to keep from crying. When Kate’s chatter reaches my ears I take a deep breath and open my eyes.
Empty is what I tell Melissa when she asks me how I feel after four days here in the hospital. Empty is what I felt before and empty is what I feel now except that it’s not the same because what I’m not telling her is that I’m starting to feel something else too, something I thought I’d forgotten about but had been there all along and she sits and waits and doesn’t say anything and I don’t close my eyes, though I want to really badly. “Hope,” I say quietly and she smiles and picks up the exercise we had just finished working on and I roll my eyes because it’s really dumb and I hated doing it. “Artistic,” she says for A and I just hug my arms tight to my chest and wait as she goes through a positive characteristic I put next to each letter. “You didn’t put anything for K,” she says and I shrug. “There isn’t a positive adjective that starts with K.” She purses her lips and I close my eyes to concentrate better on one. “Klutzy?” I offer when I open my eyes.
Balloon volleyball is the name of the game for today and for spectators it’s probably the stupidest activity in existence but for us residents it’s a surprisingly fun time. We don’t move. We sit in chairs that don’t really roll but are almost bowl shaped and really comfy and we set those up as the staff puts the net in place and Jon blows up a balloon. And then we’re off and I think that maybe this is fun because I need it to be fun. Maybe this is fun because we haven’t experienced something so light in a long time. And maybe this is fun because we have our one-on-one sessions later and they want to see us smiling at some point in the day. And that’s when I realize it doesn’t really matter why it’s fun. It just matters that it is. Adam pops the balloon right by my face and I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut at the abrupt sound. But I’m quick to open my eyes.
“Tell me something about yourself, Maggie,” Dr. Johnson says when I sit down. He is my acting-psychiatrist and now I know his name. “I play flute,” I tell him and swing my legs back and forth in the seat. He smiles. “So do I,” he replies and I smile because I didn’t think that my acting-psychiatrist and I would have any common ground. Until this point I was convinced that he was only in my life because he controls how many pills I’m supposed to take each morning. “When can I leave?” I ask him and I’m more surprised by the words than he is. He looks like he was expecting this even though the idea of asking it wasn’t even in my thoughts when I entered his office. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see his face when he gives me the most likely disappointing answer but then he says “Soon. Really soon,” and there’s a smile on my face even before I open my eyes.
“I get to come home soon,” I tell my mom as she deals out the Kerry cards for another hand of gin rummy and she smiles. Bush was re-elected today they told me, and I have both the Bush and Kerry decks of cards but I like these better. My dad rubs my back and says that’s good and that they miss me a lot and I don’t cry because I don’t need to. This is a good moment. This is a happy moment for me. This is real and I am here and I can feel. And that’s something new. Something to remember and hold onto for a long time. And it doesn’t matter that I’m not all better and that the cuts on my arms and legs are still scabs and not scars and that there are still a lot of pieces to put back together before my life is whole again, because it’s all okay. Because those things take time. But I can work through it and I can get to the point where the scars are just scars and this week is not titled The Hospitalization but is just another week in my life. I can do this because everything seems so much easier now that I’ve opened my eyes.
