All three of us—Dr. Doller, Dr. Fischer and I—were close in age. Dr. Doller was a few years older; Dr. Fischer was probably about my age, or maybe a little younger. But Dr. Doller seemed much older than I, not just in years but in experience and wisdom and accomplishment. Her manner was motherly and, while she didn't feel like a mother to me, she did feel like a big sister, the big sister I never had.
Dr. Fischer, though, seemed much younger. She was petite and pretty, a perfect size four with long curly black hair. She was chic, always wearing fashionable clothes. Dr. Fischer wasn't my sister. She was me. She was the me that I had left behind ten years ago. She was the me buried deep under these pounds of fat. She was the me cowering in terror under the Voices’ assaults. She was the me I wanted to reclaim but couldn't. She had everything I wanted but didn't have. She was everything I wanted to be but couldn't be. Everything she was, I was the opposite. I couldn't stand her. I hated her. I loved her. I wanted her to die. I wanted her to like me. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to be her.
After that first day, I would only meet with her on the unit and insisted that a comfortably large male mental health worker sit nearby. I could only feel safe if I knew there were someone nearby to stop her from killing me or me from killing her.
Even so, I couldn't meet with her for the whole forty-five minutes we were assigned. Even sitting next to her was almost more than I could bear. I tried to talk to her, to answer her questions, but the Voices flooded my mind. At the same time, her face began to play tricks on me. I started to talk to her and her face contorted. Her normal face twisted into a leering grin, and then the whole face shifted. Her mouth and nose and eyes all changed positions, and she became a threatening horrible monster.
Then I looked down at my own hands, which were oozing blood and poison. I tried to warn her but I couldn't make my voice heard over the Voices. Once when we were sitting together in the hall of the unit, my anxiety was so great and so painful that I could barely sit still. I leaped to my feet and ran for the bathroom, where I stayed, heaving my guts out, until she left.
For weeks Dr. Fischer and I battled to find a way to meet together. Rather than trying to meet on a conventional schedule, Dr. Fischer had to throw the rulebook out completely for me. She came to the unit twice a day every day to meet with me for five minutes at a time.
Mostly I spent the five minutes we passed together trying to stay in focus, trying to ignore the taunts of the Voices, to rein in my terror, and simply sit still with her nearby.
I knew she was trying hard to help me. I wanted to work hard for her, to do what she wanted me to do. I fought hard. I fought to stay in control. I fought to focus on her face as it twisted and contorted there before me. I fought to concentrate on her words.
After a time, when I had relaxed a bit around her, there would be moments when I was lucid and not quite so frantic. Then I would try to tell her about who I used to be, about the me who would have been her friend if things had been different. I tried to tell her about the me who would have been her peer, not her patient. I tried to tell her about myself in high school, and in college, and about the life I had before I became part of hospital life.
When I began to tremble, and shake with fear, Dr. Fischer gently asked me to tell her what was on my mind.
“Tell me what you are hearing, Lori,” she said.
I hated telling anyone about the Voices. They were too terrible, too frightening. They would kill anyone I told about them. They would kill me if I told. I couldn't tell her. But I wanted to tell her. I wanted her to know. I wanted to please her. I wanted to do what was right.
So I decided to write to her. Over one evening I wrote it all down. I wrote down everything that was in my head, all the sounds and noises and meaningless phrases. All the endless repetitions of “To die!” All the hatred, the bile, everything foul the Voices had said to me and about me. The next morning I stuffed into her hands the transcript of my head.
And now she knew. I waited for her to die. I waited for her to laugh. I waited for her to turn on me in disgust. But she didn't. Instead, she was grateful.
“This is wonderful work, Lori. You've put so much effort into this. Thank you,” she said.
If I couldn't talk it, then at least I could write it.
All through my various times in the hospital, people had been urging me to keep a journal. This time I decided to listen to them and try. I had always loved writing. Back before I had gotten sick I had been good at it. All through my younger days I had kept journals off and on. I loved the fat spiral notebooks and the feel of the pen in my hand.
This time, though, the journals meant much more to me. In my journals I could tell myself all the scary things I could tell no one else. I could use the journals to keep a record of how I felt from day to day, or even from hour to hour and bring some order to the chaos of my mind.
On May 10, 1988, I began my first journal with a scream of pain and rage:
May 10, 1988—I feel like I'd rather kill myself than fight it out here … I have come to terms that I'll never lead a normal life again. I'm a crippled loser with no future. I hate everybody. It's everyone's fault that I'm sick and I'm not going to pound my head against the wall blaming myself all the time for my illness.
May 11, 8:10 A.M.—Everyone hates me. I'm ignored, made fun of, despised by all — patients and staff. I have no one to talk to except Dr. Fischer & even she is getting sick of me.
May 11, 6:05 P.M.—I am feeling very paranoid, very afraid of people especially the staff. I feel that they want to hurt me bad because I am an evil person. The voices give me headaches sometimes.
May 11, 7:55 P.M.—Please dear God take me. I feel bad again. I wish for relief Oh boy, I can't breathe.
May 14—They started in on me in the night, and now they're bothering me a lot. They say I have to die, that I must die, and that I'm a worthless piece of shit. I'm scared again. It was really quiet and then they exploded. It's hell. HELL!!!
And then one sunny spring afternoon I ran away.
I had been doing pretty well, actually. I had been allowed to go off the locked ward to visit the library with a group of other patients. When the Voices started urging me to run, I tried to get the attention of the group leader to let her know I needed help.
I guess she didn't understand what I was saying. Or didn't realize that when I started punching the air that I was fighting off the Voices. Or that when I began yelling “Get the fuck out of here!” I was yelling at the Voices—and that I was echoing their commands to me.
I was getting more agitated by the second. The Voices were shouting, egging me on. I couldn't stop them. They took control … and I bolted.
Running felt good. For so long I had wanted to run as fast as I could. I didn't know where I was running to but I did know where I was running from. The hospital is laid out in campus-like buildings on fifty acres. I headed through one of the parking lots and out toward the back hospital driveway. I headed away from the main hospital gate that opened out onto the busy Blooming-dale Road. Instead, I headed for the back entrance at the south side of the complex.
When I got off the hospital grounds, I suddenly had no idea where I was. It wasn't a route I normally followed; besides, it had been so long since I had been out on my own. My heart was pounding and I could barely hear the screaming Voices over the sound of my own panting. Still, the sun was strong and the day warm. That seemed like encouragement.
I was wearingjeans and my blue and white shirt. My suspenders were hanging down by my sides. I had been given back my shoes for the trip to the library, so I was wearing my white high-tops. I just decided to keep walking with no plan in mind, feeling more and more confused and uncertain. “What the hell do I do now?” I began to think. The landscape was unfamiliar. I couldn't find my way. I didn't know what my next step would be. I walked and walked.
Finally I came to a church I vaguely recognized. Maybe we had passed it driving when I was younger, or had gone by it without paying
it much notice when my parents came to take me out on pass. Our Lady of Sorrows Church—a particularly fitting name, I thought. At least it was a place to sit down. I walked in and dropped down into a pew.
The Voices were quieter now. I had a chance to think. What were my options? I could think of three, and I pondered each one: I could return to the hospital and turn myself in. I could walk to the nearest overpass and throw myself off. Or I could walk home and beg Mom and Dad to let me stay there with them. I didn't know what to do.
I began to pray. I begged God to tell me what to do.
In my childhood I hadn't given God much more thought than I had hell or the devil. Sometimes I prayed to Him for things I wanted—like good SAT scores or a date to the prom. But other than making such utilitarian demands, I didn't see much use for Him.
That changed the sicker I got. My dad always said that each of us determined our own destiny. I wasn't sure. I had been tormented for so long, I needed something outside me to believe in, to guide me and to help me. I began to whisper little prayers in the hospital, prayers that God would help me fight off the Voices. God was different from the Voices. The Voices were demons I heard tormenting me, who spoke to me, who ordered and directed me. God was something I thought about and felt in my heart.
Sitting in that church, I prayed as I had never prayed before.
Please dear God — help me to make it through
this wretchedness in my life. I need relief and I'm feeling weak.
I must persevere, but I'm running scared.
I'm so sorry for all the bad I've done in my life.
I've tried to be helpful to others before myself.
I'll try harder — I promise
I'll never be evil again.
If you want me to listen to the Voices, I wil.
If you want me to die, I will.
Just don't send me to hell.
I've been there already.
I'm sorry for all my ugliness, for all my badness.
But please —/ want to be saved
Please dear God, answer my prayers.
I sat in the church for two and a half hours. Somehow the prayers made me feel better. When I left the church, I turned down the road that I thought led toward home.
When I finally arrived after a seven-mile walk, I was trembling big-time. I walked in and surveyed the house where I had once been so happy, and tried to figure out if it was here that I needed to die. I stood in the kitchen looking at the block of knives on the counter, paralyzed with fascination.
Then I saw a car pulling in the driveway. My mother jumped out and came running to me. I ran to her and we embraced. I begged and pleaded with her to let me come home but I knew she couldn't do it.
I knew I had to go back.
22
Lori New York Hospital, White Plains, New York, June 3, 1988-June 9, 1988
June 3, 1988, 8:25 P.M.—I ran away today. I'm back now. And, I feel like a real loser … No one will believe me anymore. I made the mistake of not stabbing myself in the stomach 4 times like I thought. I guess I was too chicken — or maybe too tired … I'm confused. I'm scared. Scared of myself and what I might do if enraged. The voices bothered me a lot today. They in fact inspired me to run. Next time I run, I'm doing myself in.
June 4, 3:05 P.M.—I know now at this moment that when I'm discharged I'll kill myself. So what will they do? Put me in a state hospital. So what will I do? Convince the state hospital that I won't. And upon good-bye to the SH I'll be dead. DEAD DEAD DEAD. No one cares about me anyway except Mom and Dad, and they didn't even rescue me right away … I want to cry, like I did in church yesterday. I want relief. Oh, Dr. Fischer, Dr. Doller: Why did you have to be away now?
June 8, Noon—I feel that therapy with Dr. Fischer is too slow. At times I feel like murdering her. The voices tell me to strangle her to death. At other times, I wish I could say I love you to her.
June 9, 3:45 P.M.—I know deep in my heart despite my cries to leave the hospital that I really do want to get better.
23
Lori New York Hospital, White Plains, New York, June 1988-December 1988
Over and over I ricocheted from one extreme to another.
Sometimes I felt like a helpless pawn in the real battle that was going on around me and about me. On the one side were Dr. Doller and Dr. Fischer and the rest of the hospital staff. On the other side were the Voices and my own crazy out-of-control emotions. I was in the middle. I was the one they were fighting over. Which way would I go?
Sometimes, though, I felt like a fighter. I would seize control. I would fight the Voices and win. Enough of this bullshit.
The more I tried to reach out to people, the more I found myself caught up in a crazy excess of emotion. I couldn't find a gentle way to let my feelings out. Instead, I damned them up until my strength gave out and they came gushing out in a wild, uncontrolled outpouring.
I even swept my mom and dad up in the flood.
Most days I could barely wait until Mom and Dad arrived. Their visits were the high point in an otherwise bleak day.
Every night just after dinner I waited by the window. From my bedroom window I could see as Dad's car turned off the long curving drive and into a visitors’ parking space. I watched the car roll to a stop. Sometimes nothing happened for a long time. Sometimes I would just watch the car sitting there for what seemed like forever, waiting for the door to open and my parents to emerge.
When they finally appeared, I waved to them from behind my safety screen, and shouted down to them. It seemed like the time would never go by as they climbed the stairs to the third floor. Even when they finally arrived at the door to the unit, the wait wasn't over. No one but the nursing staff could unlock the door. Sometimes the staff were so slow in arriving with their jingling keys I felt I was going to jump out of my skin in anticipation, my parents waiting on the other side.
Then they were inside, full of smiles and cheer, and all the energy they brought in from their lives on the outside. They almost always brought something. A new sweat suit. A bagel and cream cheese sandwich with tomatoes and onions, the way I liked it. A rock tape I had requested. Batteries for my Walkman. Cigarettes. A Chinese dinner. Often they brought things not just for me, but for other patients as well. They brought clothes for patients whose families never visited. They brought little gifts for the nursing staff. Once Dad brought a lobster dinner—complete with melted butter, claw crackers and bibs. When they brought food for me, they often brought enough for everyone on the unit.
I loved them so much. I was so proud of them. I was so glad to see them. And I couldn't wait for them to leave. They stirred up in me a whirlwind of violent emotions that I didn't understand, and had to struggle mightily each and every visit to control until they were gone.
Much as I loved my parents, I felt like I was on stage for them too. I fought so hard to seem normal before them. I didn't want them to know how sick I was. I didn't want them to see me out of control. From the moment they arrived my struggle to keep control battled with my fear of losing control. I knew how much my illness hurt them. I knew how much they suffered for me. As much as I could, I wanted to keep the worst of it from them. I wanted them to be proud of me. I didn't want to cause them heartache.
As soon as they arrived, I herded them into my room. I didn't want anyone watching us. Mom and Dad seemed so out of tune with the world I lived in. My mom liked to stretch out on my bed with her shoes off. I lived in dread that someone would come in the room and see her there like that. There weren't any rules against it, but I knew that the staff disapproved of her making herself quite so comfortable. Meanwhile my dad sat on my desk chair facing the center of the room. I paced. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to act. They seemed to be expecting something I couldn't give.
Their visits were short, usually no more than half an hour or an hour on weekends. They seemed endless to me. We talked about their friends and the country club and about my playing racquetball once a we
ek, and tie-dying T-shirts in therapeutic activities. We talked about Mark and Steven. Everything they had to say seemed so unimportant to me. The world I lived in— a world of medications, nurses, regulations, passes, Voices and buzzers—seemed so monumental, and the world they lived in seemed so far away. I was so self-involved it was nauseating even to me.
Mostly I struggled to conceal the Voices from them. They each wanted so badly to see me well. If I told my dad about some out-of-control episode, he'd retort immediately: “Well, that was yesterday. Today you're fine. And tomorrow you will be too. And if not tomorrow, then the next day.” He was always so positive about everything. I fought to make the picture match. My mother, on the other hand, just couldn't take it. She was always escaping to the smoking room. Sometimes it seemed that the smoking ritual was the only thing I shared with her. I wanted so much to be the daughter she dreamed me to be, but couldn't. It was all I could do to simply put on a normal face for them.
The fire built up inside me. My impatience became anger, my anger became rage. I hated them. I blamed them. My rage bubbled up, then spilled over the walls I had erected. Out it poured with terrifying intensity.
“I hate you! I hate you!” I screamed at my mother. “It's your fault I'm sick. You've done this to me. You're the unbalanced one, not me.”
“Get the fuck out of here!” I screamed at my father. “Get away! Get away!” I couldn't breathe. I thought I would explode into a million pieces.
Then they left, my mother in tears, my father white-lipped and shaking. And then I did spin out of control, ranting and shrieking. Terrible thoughts swamped me, making me feel like a lunatic. I wished them dead. I wished them murdered, or blown to pieces in a plane crash. I wanted to murder them myself. As I looked on helplessly my own raging brain concocted terrible, horrible fantasies. I would stab them. I would shoot them. I would sneak out of the hospital, pour gasoline around their house while they slept and fling out the final match, giving them no way out.
The Quiet Room Page 21
