After I am warm, I decide to find the little chapel. I head in what I think is the right direction and, surprisingly, walk straight to it. No one is there, and I slip in and sit somewhere near the middle. I bow my head and just sit there for a bit, thinking I should be praying. Isn’t that what people do in a chapel?
But I am distracted with uncomfortable memories of my previous experiences in a church sanctuary. I hear Pastor John’s raised voice and see his brow furrowing deeper and deeper as he chastises his listeners about sin. I hear his fist pounding on the pulpit, and I cower down in my seat, wishing I could just disappear in a puff of sinful smoke.
I tell myself that this chapel is different and that Pastor John is not here, but I’m still not sure what to do with myself right now. I think that something must be expected of me, and yet I know I am unable to do it. My life is a shambles, and I have nothing to give.
Finally I look up and see the stained-glass window in front. I study Jesus and the children, and I read the words inscribed below: “Unless you become as a little child, you will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
It sounds so simple, and yet it’s so foreign to all that I learned as a child. As a child I was taught that I needed to “grow up” and “become mature” and “do good works” and “be a disciple” and most of all “to sin not.” That was always the hardest part because it seemed like everything I naturally wanted to do was considered sinful.
So trying to grasp something like this—that it’s not only good to be a child, but that it might actually be required—is fairly confusing to me. I’d like to believe in something that sounds this simple and good, but it goes against everything in me. Or almost.
Once again I try to pray. Now I am unable to form any actual words in my head. I tell myself that it’s just talking to God, like I’ve been doing the past few weeks. But something about being in a church setting brings back all the old prayers that I learned as a child. It’s as if all these prayer words are mixed up together—like every one is a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that’s been shaken in a box.
So I just sit here and wonder what I am supposed to do. Surely I should do something. I become anxious again, then remember the CD that instructs on the practice of controlled breathing—an exercise that’s supposed to reduce anxiety. I take myself through the steps, inhaling slowly, deeply, filling my lungs to capacity, then slowly exhaling, emptying all the stale air out. I do this again and again. And as the recording suggests, I imagine that I am breathing in God’s truth and God’s love. I imagine they are becoming a part of me and that I am exhaling old lies and confusion, blowing them away from me.
I continue this exercise, feeling more and more relaxed. And it’s not long before a strange sensation begins to wash over me. Warm and unexpected, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, and yet familiar somehow, like something I experienced without really knowing it. Yet how can that be?
Then it occurs to me; I am experiencing peace. A quiet yet substantial peace. And I believe it’s coming from God. Part of me wants to grab hold of it and cling tightly, but I have a feeling it will vanish like a vapor if I do. And so I just sit there and breathe it in, hoping it will simply become a part of me.
I sit there for a long while, as if I’m on the edge. But it’s not the bad sort of edge where I’m afraid I will fall or leap to my demise. This is the edge of something new and good. It’s a beginning, a door, an entrance. I want to walk through it, but I’m not sure I can. Already I hear the voices again, mumbling and grumbling as they threaten and scold me, warning me to avoid this dangerous passageway at all costs.
When Alice stepped through the looking glass into a different world, it turned out to be a twisted and crazy world, not unlike the place I have wandered these last few months. If only I could pass through this new entrance, I believe I would find myself in a better place where life makes sense. For the first time I sense a wave of real hope washing over me, and I want to hold on to it, savor it, even if only to remember this moment. I slowly inhale and exhale—breathing in the good clean air of change, blowing away the bad smog of my disease. A small sense of control returns to me. And it feels good.
Then I hear a bell and suspect it is for dinnertime. I slowly rise to my feet, reluctant to leave. But as I stand, I tell myself that even if this feeling, this experience, is gone in the next instant, I will remember what it felt like. And perhaps more important, I will expect to experience it again.
chapter THIRTY-SIX
Waking
A full month has passed since I entered the Golden Home. It hasn’t all been easy and wonderful, but I will never regret coming here. Never. As Dr. Golden likes to remind us, we have to work out our sanity as much as we have to work out our salvation. For the first time, I believe the two go hand in hand.
I’ve found the greenhouse to be my favorite place. Sometimes I think I could live in there. Maybe it’s all the oxygen the plants put out, but I always feel more alive and energized after spending time among the green growing things. I love the smell of fresh dirt and have become especially attached to the orchids. They’re so strange and mysterious, so fragile and delicate, yet it seems to take so little to keep them alive—as long as you keep their environment perfectly balanced.
Margot says it’s like making bread, which I’ve been learning to do this week.
“You need the right balance of flour, water, sugar, and yeast,” she explained as she watched me sift the flour. “Remove or mess up any one of these vital ingredients, and the bread ceases to be bread.”
I nodded, remembering the pasty glop I had thrown out the previous day.
“It’s quite philosophical, really,” she continued in a serious tone. “Don’t you think?”
I considered this as I carefully measured the salt. “I guess so.”
“It’s like our lives. When one part of us, like our body or mind or spirit, isn’t right, it knocks us completely out of whack.”
I eyed my yeast-and-water solution, worried that I might’ve gotten the water too hot, and I know this can ruin the yeast and consequently spoil the bread. “You’re right,” I told her. “It’s all about balance, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” Margot looked at my yeast mixture and smiled with satisfaction. “Mess up your ingredients, and you cease to be who you were meant to be.”
As it turned out, the water wasn’t too hot, and my bread came out just fine. Now if only I can keep my life ingredients as well balanced. I feel more hopeful with each passing day.
It took more than two weeks for Amelia and the others finally to depart from my life. For the most part I think they are gone, although I can sometimes still hear them nattering away in the back of my mind—especially if I am overly tired or stressed. But I try to tune them out. I am still taking the meds, but Dr. Golden says I probably won’t need to take them indefinitely. However, I am not so sure, and the idea of quitting frightens me. I don’t want to go back to my “old ways.” It’s ironic, considering how opposed I was to medication at one point. Now I fully appreciate that it’s more important to function than to fret over taking a little pill each day. The only side effect I’ve experienced is a little dry mouth. Small price when you consider the large picture.
Medication is one of the many areas where Dr. Golden departs from some of the “old school” psychiatrists who still believe that “once on meds, always on meds.” He is quick to admit that a few of his patients are still on meds and may always be, but he and his staff continue to monitor them carefully, and he stays up to date on the latest advancements in medications.
“I never give up hope, and neither should any of you,” he says fairly regularly. “The science of medicine is constantly changing. We must all be willing to change with it.”
Dr. Golden makes it clear he’s not afraid to try new methods, but his greatest interest is in therapy. Most of all, he wants what’s best for his patients, and he wants his patients to be actively involved in their treatment and healin
g. “You’re in control,” he’s always telling us. “It’s your life. How do you want to live it?”
Regaining control over my life has probably been more healing to me than almost anything. Or at least an important first step. I remember how helpless I felt at Forest Hills. I felt like a complete victim, totally at their mercy. I had no control over anything. I couldn’t even use the bathroom without permission. This only reinforced my belief that everyone there was plotting against me. It’s no wonder so many institutionalized patients grow paranoid. Who wouldn’t under those circumstances? I love knowing that I can walk out of here anytime I please. The funny thing is, other than visiting Simon in the hospital during the first couple of weeks, I rarely want to go anywhere now, but at least I know I can. I don’t understand why medical professionals would think that removing a patient’s right to think and choose would help that person to get healthy again. It certainly didn’t help me a bit.
I’m so thankful that I found Golden Home and wish that everyone experiencing schizophrenia could come here. I realize it’s nothing less than a miracle that I got to come. And as I look back on the string of events that led me here, I’ve come to believe that God was watching out for me the whole time. Oh I’m sure there are those who wouldn’t agree with me, especially during the hard times when I was on the streets. I’m sure they would think I was in great danger, and maybe I was, but I can’t help but think something or someone was protecting me.
Naturally, my mother claims this has to do with the prayer chain in her new church. And I have no reason to doubt her, although I think there’s more to it than that. Just the same, I do appreciate those little old ladies taking the time out of their day to pray for me. My mother continues to be involved in her new church, and she seems to be getting stronger all the time. I derive this from her letters since she’s only been to Golden Home once, but that has more to do with me than her.
At first I was excited that she was coming to visit. I’d been here about two weeks and felt eager to show her my progress and take her on a full tour of this amazing place. But shortly after her arrival, I realized that I wasn’t quite ready to be around her yet. Like it or not, I guess my mother and I have a history that will take some time to heal. It’s not that I blame her for my childhood, exactly, but I think a lot of her decisions, particularly in relation to the church, affected my life in some negative ways. She’s a good-hearted woman, and as much as I love her, I realize that some of her attitudes aren’t conducive to my recovery. And, as Dr. Golden says, my recovery is my top priority, and I must take responsibility for anything that’s not helping. My mother was not helping. Whether she can see it or not, I think she’s still affected by her church-controlled past. Or maybe I’m just overly sensitive.
After I finished giving her the tour, she got this funny expression and said, “Goodness, this place is certainly into New Age.”
The way she said “New Age” sounded like it was a contagious disease. “What do you mean?” I asked her.
“Well, all this focus on art and music and growing things …” Her brows lifted as she shrugged. “I just expected there would be more Bible studies and such.”
“Dr. Golden has a Bible study group,” I said defensively. “And Julie has a prayer group.” Even as I spoke these words, I wished I hadn’t. Not that those things aren’t important, but they are just one piece of the package.
She nodded and smiled. “Well, that’s something then, isn’t it?”
Her tone sounded condescending, and I didn’t feel the need for that right now. I told Dr. Golden about it during our session the following day.
“Don’t worry about it, Alice,” he assured me. “Eventually you’ll get strong enough to be around your mother without being adversely affected. In the meantime, give yourself some time and space.”
“But I don’t want to shut her out,” I said. “I mean, she’s been through so much too.”
“No, don’t shut her out. But perhaps for the time being you might communicate through letters. Writing can be quite therapeutic. Your mother might enjoy it too.”
I’m pleased to say this is working well. My mother is opening up more and more, and I’ve discovered I can more adequately explain my feelings and progress through the pen.
Now Aaron is a whole different story. He’s been here numerous times, and I have no problem visiting with him. We both laugh and joke a lot, and that feels pretty good. He asks some thought-provoking questions too. I can tell he’s dealing with some of the same things that I am—things like negative childhood memories, false beliefs, old wounds, and weird family traditions. I had suspected that he was carrying a lot of baggage of his own, but now I think he might actually be recovering vicariously through my treatment. I think that’s great. And I certainly hope that Aaron never goes through anything like I’ve experienced. But if he does, I will be the first one to leap to his aid and get him good help.
Simon returned to work last week. He still walks with a cane and a limp, but he says that he should be free of both in a month or so. Everyone was so glad to have him back that we decided to throw a big surprise party. He didn’t expect that at all. I was so excited to see him again that I even helped Margot bake and decorate the cake! A real first for me.
But having him here hasn’t been as wonderful as I’d imagined. I know this is my own fault, and it’s a little embarrassing to admit, even to myself. But before I came to Golden Home, and even during my early days here, I liked to imagine that my relationship with Simon was special somehow. We talked on the phone almost daily, and I went to see him at the hospital a lot, and I suppose I developed something of a crush on him.
Now that he’s here, I can see that he’s closely involved with most of the residents, and everyone seems to love him. As a result I don’t feel nearly so special anymore. At first I was pretty bummed, but I am trying to accept that he simply has this amazing rapport with almost everyone. I think he’s gifted that way. It’s probably just as well I don’t have any individualized counseling sessions with Simon. Fortunately, I still meet with Dr. Golden. Simon leads my therapy group, though, and I think he’s much better than the previous leader, Dr. Schlatz. Not that she wasn’t good, but Simon has this easygoing manner and a really sweet way of drawing people out.
After I recovered from my disappointment over my dashed romantic expectations with Simon, I realized that I should be thankful for the whole thing. Naturally, this realization only hit me after I confessed my feelings to Dr. Golden yesterday.
“Can you see how this was a good problem, Alice?” he asked me.
I shrugged. “Not really.”
“Do you think you would’ve come here if Simon hadn’t been involved?”
I considered this. “Probably not.”
“I don’t mean to sound trite, Alice, but perhaps God really does work in mysterious ways.”
So now I believe that the whole thing with Simon was no mistake. Oh, my heart may still ache a bit. But even so, I will always care deeply for Simon. And I’m grateful that we’re such good friends.
Last night we stayed in the common room just talking for several hours. I’m amazed at how we have similar interests in literature and movies and all sorts of things. He loves Emily Dickinson almost as much as I do, and he’s seen Casablanca more times than I have. He’s even an Alice in Wonderland fan, although he admits to preferring C. S. Lewis to Lewis Carroll. It makes me appreciate the value of being able to carry on a “normal” conversation that isn’t twisted by my paranoia or psychotic delusions. I’m so glad that Simon is getting to know me as I really am, especially since he’s been through so much and seen me at my very worst. I’ve done a decent job of hiding my heartache from him, I hope. At the very least, my relationship with Simon has shown me the kinds of qualities I might look for in a husband someday. Not that I’m looking or even should be right now. I still can’t believe that I actually thought I was in love with a guy like Shay Reynolds last fall. But I was on the verge of losin
g my mind back then too. Guess it all just figures.
I preregistered for spring term yesterday after Dr. Golden assured me that I’m ready, even though I’m not totally convinced.
“What’s the worst thing that can happen?” he asked.
“I suppose I could drop a class or two or perhaps even fail them all.”
“Would that be the end of the world?”
I smiled and shook my head. He likes to say this a lot. And so far he’s been right. Besides, I’m only taking nine hours. I think I can handle it. And I get to continue living here. That will help a lot.
Faye has been coming on Tuesday afternoons and teaching five of us how to knit. Already I’ve completed a mohair scarf for my mother’s birthday next week and am now attempting to make Cheshire a sweater, but I doubt he’ll need it by the time I’m finished. I guess I’ll just save it for next winter.
Right now we’re getting ready to move the hardier plants from the greenhouse to the gardens. Julie says I have a green thumb. I have decided that when I leave—and I hate to even think about leaving—I must have a place where I can keep my own little garden. Even if it’s nothing more than a few terra-cotta pots of herbs and flowers. I agree with Julie that there’s no activity as therapeutic as helping plants to grow. But that might just be me. Brad says that’s how he feels about painting. I am a lousy painter, and yet I absolutely love the feel of soil between my fingers, not to mention that clean earthy smell and the warmth of sunshine on my face!
However, Julie has helped me see there’s something else I love doing too. I guess Margot was right after all. It’s funny I didn’t figure this out sooner, but Julie said that’s usually the way it goes when you’re gifted in a certain area.
“Think about the things you do and totally lose track of time,” she told me one day when I was frustrated about not being good at anything.
Finding Alice Page 28
