“Working in the greenhouse,” I said.
She nodded. “And that’s great, but I suspect there’s something more, Alice. You’re a very intelligent woman.”
I thought about it long and hard. “I’ve always loved books,” I finally told her. “And writing.”
“Bingo!” she pointed her finger victoriously in the air.
I realize now that I love to write. Perhaps I was experiencing this to some degree when I was keeping my crazy journals, which seem to have disappeared off the face of the planet. But it’s just as Julie said; every time I sit down to write, the time just seems to vanish. That’s a good sign.
I suppose my English lit major wasn’t too far off the mark from this goal, and Julie assures me that any good writer is usually a good reader, too, but I’ve decided to try out some journalism classes. And who knows? I may even change my major, but I’m not sure yet. Right now I’d be happy to have a degree of any kind. Dr. Golden keeps reminding me that I don’t need to have all the answers to all my questions at once. It’s enough that I simply keep moving forward, one step at a time.
So that’s what I’m doing. Sometimes I imagine myself as a little kid who’s learning to walk again, just putting one foot in front of the other. And if it’s rocky or rough, I envision God walking alongside me and holding my hand. It’s amazing how this simple mental image frees me up and helps dissolve my anxiety. I’m not saying I never get scared or worried, because I still do sometimes. But I get stronger every day, and I’m not so afraid of what lies ahead anymore.
chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
Finding Alice
It’s been nearly ten months since my first experience with psychosis and schizophrenia. As the other Alice once said, “I could tell you my adventures … but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”
Part of me can echo her sentiments completely because I was a different person then. Most of the time I would just as soon forget or even suppress those dark and confusing memories when I was experiencing psychosis and paranoia on a daily basis. And yet, unlike the other Alice, I believe there is some use in going back to yesterday. As long as you don’t choose to dwell there too long or put down permanent roots, I think the willingness to open your eyes and look back can be helpful sometimes. If nothing more, it can ensure that you never pass that way again. And I certainly don’t plan to go back there, at least not willingly.
I’m midway through my summer term, and it’s because of my journalism class that I’ve chosen to retrace my steps. For my term project, I want to create a documentary of my own experiences in crazyland. So I have decided to go back and examine a few things about my life. My hope is to document my strange experiences, and perhaps this will prove helpful to someone else who is moving through those same dark passages. Sort of like Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland with a schizophrenic twist.
In this documentary I will interview a number of the key characters, the ones I can find anyway. Dr. Golden approved of the idea but warned me to take it carefully and to gauge the amount of stress it might create for me.
“You must remain balanced and in control,” he said finally. “But I think you’re ready for this.”
I decided to start at the beginning or as close as I can tell. So last week I made an appointment with Pastor John. Naturally Mary Cates wanted to know the exact nature of this appointment, but I managed to keep my answers vague. Today I return via stuffy Greyhound bus to my hometown, Warren. I go home first, where I plan to spend the night—the first time I’ve been home since last fall. My mother’s pleased that I am visiting, but I see the look of alarm in her eyes when she hears that I’m going to see Pastor John.
“Oh, Alice!” she exclaims, clasping her hand over her mouth. “What are you thinking?”
“That I need to do this,” I calmly tell her. “It’s part of my documentary.”
“But Pastor John!” She shakes her head. “He is so, so domineering.”
“Only when we let him.” I smile as I pick up my backpack. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be just fine.”
“Well, I’m calling my prayer group right this minute,” she says as she rushes for the phone.
I nod and head toward the door. I can understand or at least respect her fear. Even though she has physically escaped the grasp of that controlling church, I sometimes think they still have a hold on her.
I begin to grow nervous as I wait in the dimly lit church foyer. Mary Cates, as usual, is sitting behind her gray metal desk, sneaking bites of some hidden, probably forbidden, pastry when she assumes I’m not looking. She appears to have put on even more weight. Or maybe I just hadn’t noticed before. She glances anxiously at me, probably preparing herself for the likely event that I might need serious exorcising again. But I remain perfectly calm. My questions are written down in plain black and white, and my goal is to keep this interview as professional as possible.
Of course, that turns out to be impossible. Instead of answering my questions, Pastor John persists in hammering me with his own.
“You are a lost lamb, Alice,” he tells me with a serious face. “You have wandered from the flock and been deceived by the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
“I just want to ask you a few questions,” I persist, wondering if I’ve come on a fool’s mission.
“We’re very worried about your eternal welfare,” he continues, ignoring me. “You and your mother must return to the flock immediately, Alice. It’s your only hope for salvation. You must repent of your sins—”
“I just wanted to ask about—”
“No, it is I who must ask you. Are you contrite for your sins? Are you ready to perform an act of penitence?”
I look down at my neatly printed questions. They are primarily about his ability to recognize the signs of mental illness in church members and how the clergy might be able to help them find adequate care. But he is going on and on, launching into a complete sermon about sin and repentance. I can see that he won’t play according to my rules.
“Please, John,” I try one more time, purposely deleting the title of “pastor,” which I feel is undeserved. “I need to know if you understand anything about mental illness.”
“Mental illness”—he stands now, puffing out his chest—“is nothing more than a New Age word for demonization, Alice.” Now he leans forward and peers at me. “I think you and I both know that.”
“You are wrong. Mental illness is very real and treatable—”
“Enough!” he shouts as he moves toward the door. “I will not listen to such blasphemy in God’s holy house. You must leave, Alice. Unless you repent of your sin and rebuke Satan from your life, you are not welcome here.”
I take a deep breath and stand, recalling an old Bible verse from my childhood, probably one learned in this very church. “Fine,” I tell him. “And I will shake the dust from my feet as I go.”
To my complete and utter relief, he has no response to this, but Mary Cates sputters as I catch her listening at the door.
“Have a good day,” I tell her as I leave. Despite his lack of cooperation, I think I got the answers to my questions. Still, I find I must breathe deeply to calm myself as I walk toward my mother’s house. I admire the neat lawns and colorful flower beds as I go. I hear the birds singing in the lush green canopy of trees overhead. I think how God has made a spectacularly beautiful world and am sorry that people like John Campbell go through life focusing on demons and shadows and just totally miss it.
My mother is anxiously waiting for me, and I confess that my mission was basically fruitless. Then I tell her I’d like to ask her a few questions. This naturally makes her even more nervous and anxious. So I try to keep my questions simple, direct, and somewhat clinical. My intent is not to lay blame, but merely to enlighten.
“Do you recall anything unusual during my early childhood?” I ask.
“No, you were perfectly normal.”
“Did I ever receive a blow to the hea
d?”
“No, never.”
“Did I ever do anything different or—”
“I don’t know why you’re persisting in this, Alice. You were perfectly normal. Oh, perhaps a bit precocious at times and a little too smart. But perfectly normal.”
“What about your birthing experience with me—anything unusual?”
She shakes her head now. “Normal, normal, normal.”
Then just as I close my notebook, she says, “Wait a minute, Alice. I guess there’s something that wasn’t completely normal about your birth. It’s funny how mothers forget these things once they’re over with. But now that I think about it, you were turned around backward during your birth. Not that it’s so unusual.”
“Do you mean backward as in breech or backward as in facing the wrong way in the birth canal?” I ask quickly. I’d spent some time reading up on these things in Dr. Golden’s library last winter. Various forms of birth trauma can mean something.
“Not breech, but facing the wrong way. Several church ladies came to the hospital and fervently prayed that you would turn around. But time just kept going by, and you didn’t. Finally the doctor insisted on using forceps to turn you.”
“I was a forceps delivery?” I ask, slightly amazed.
She nods. “But that’s not such a big deal. Why is that important?”
I sigh. “Well, it might not mean anything, but one of the connections to schizophrenia, along with genetics, is head trauma during the birthing process.”
“Oh.”
I think she’s about to cry now. “But don’t feel bad, Mom. You couldn’t help it. It’s just good to know these things. Knowledge is like power, you know.”
She nods, but I’m afraid she’s not convinced. So I go over and hug her and tell her not to worry, that I’m just fine. I think she believes me. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that she is an extremely fragile woman. For a pleasant change, I’m so relieved that she’s in a better church now, with some really nice friends who seem to love and support her. They may not be my cup of tea, but they seem to be good for her. Besides that, she’s still wearing pants!
I return to the city feeling slightly disheartened. Other than the bit about the forceps delivery, I wonder if my trip home was a waste of time. Then I think about the time spent with my mother and figure that was worth something. Perhaps I needed to be reminded of John Campbell’s true colors. In case I’d forgotten, which seems highly unlikely. However, part of my healing process at the Golden Home is to forgive anyone who has hurt me in the past. This is so they can’t continue to hurt me in the future. Naturally, John would top this list, as well as many of the church members, particularly the leadership.
As I go over my encounters during my crazy era, I write about my brief visit to the commune and the anarchist rally. I think about the girl with the baby. I can’t recall their names, some kinds of flowers I think, but I do remember thinking the baby was the Duchess’s pig baby. It makes me laugh to realize that I honestly believed that! I wonder if I could find the commune but finally decide it’s not that important to my documentary. Still I hope for the best for that girl and her baby; I hope she finds what she’s looking for. I also remember the guy who gave me the ride back to Portland. The Mock Turtle. Poor guy, he probably had no idea he was transporting a crazy person. Still, I am thankful for his kindness.
I return to my old apartment and look for Mr. Scoggins. It’s weird to be there, and I almost expect Amelia to pop in, but, thankfully, she doesn’t. I can tell the old manager doesn’t recognize me when he opens his door. When I tell him why I’m here, he looks a little uneasy; perhaps he thinks the crazy girl has returned to harm him in some way. I try to appear sane and businesslike as I explain that I’m working on a documentary and I want to get his perceptions.
“You mean I’ll be on TV?” He opens his door wider now, stepping out into full view, glancing around as if he thinks I might actually have a camera crew with me.
“Well, it’s just a written documentary right now.” I pause. “But it’s possible that it might be filmed someday. You never know.” I don’t think this is untrue because our professor mentioned this is how many television documentaries begin.
So I get out my minirecorder and ask him a few questions, and Mr. Scoggins turns out to be a pretty interesting witness, although I’m not entirely sure if he’s telling me real facts as he remembers them or just getting dramatic in case the cameras actually show up someday. He tells how Linda next-door was terrified of me, how she complained and wanted him to give her a new apartment. “She gave her notice right before you left. She said she didn’t want to live in no nut house.”
I tell him I’m sorry about all that and thank him for cooperating.
“No problem, little lady. Looks like you got things all worked out.” He smiles now, and I notice he’s got a gold front tooth. “Fact is, I think we’re all a little crazy sometimes. It’s all in how you look at things.”
I tell him that I agree and then leave. I’m not sure how helpful his observations will be, but at least they’re colorful.
Next I decide to head down to the river-front park, to the area where the homeless folks hang out, the corners and pockets that “normal” people tend to avoid. I notice how these spots seem a lot more crowded than last winter. I guess there are more homeless people in the summertime, or maybe they just come out of their hiding holes when the sun’s out. I walk along for a bit, scoping out the riverbank in search of a pair of bright orange parkas, before it occurs to me that the Tweedles wouldn’t be wearing winter coats on a warm, sunny day like this. Still, I figure they might be around here somewhere, or maybe I’ll see someone who knows their whereabouts. I wish I could spot Betty Grable rambling along with a grocery cart. She’d be an easy one to recognize, and I’d really like to thank her for the red slippers. I still wonder what made her do that; it meant a lot to me at the time.
Finally I notice a guy who looks a lot like the bigger Tweedle, but he’s sitting by himself on a park bench, and I’m not too sure. If I could remember his real name, I’d call out to him. I decide to walk over and get a better look, although I doubt it’s really him. I can’t imagine him without his quiet buddy at his side. But suddenly the guy glances up and actually seems to recognize me.
I can tell by the slightly goofy smile that it’s him. I wave as I approach. “Do you remember me?”
He nods. “Alice.”
“Yeah. I remember your face, but I forgot your name …”
“Martin.”
“And your friend?”
“Cal?”
“Yeah. Where’s Cal?” I glance around.
Martin looks down at his dirty feet, now clad in cheap rubber flip-flops, and frowns. “Cal’s gone.”
“Where’d he go?”
He looks up at me with damp eyes. “Cal died about a month ago.”
Now I sit down on the bench next to him. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Martin.” I shake my head wishing for something better to say.
“That stupid AIDS virus!” He leans over and pries a stone from the dirt, then chucks it into the river.
I put my hand on his arm. “But what about you, Martin? Have you been checked for the virus?”
He shrugs. “Who cares?”
I look into his eyes. “I care, Martin. You were a good friend to me when I needed it. Really, have you been tested?”
“Nah, what’s the use?”
I’m not so sure myself, but somehow it seems important. “Can I help you in any way?”
Now he seems to peer at me as if he’s really seeing me. “You’re not homeless no more, are you, Alice?”
“No, I got some help. I was pretty crazy, huh?”
“Yeah. We kind of thought so. At first we thought you was just high. Then we figured you was pretty whacked. But you made us laugh a lot.”
I’m not so sure about that, but I suppose I did provide some comic relief with my delusions. “You guys were good to me.”
“Hey, what happened to your cat?”
“He’s fine.” I smile now. “Thanks to you guys and the cat, I stayed on with the Cat Lady. Her name’s Faye, and she’s really nice.”
He nods. “Yeah, we thought maybe she was.”
“But what about you, Martin? I’d like to help you—if you want help, that is. I realize it would have to be your choice.”
That’s when Martin starts pouring out his whole story about how his mom ran off with some guy when he was fourteen and how he lived with his dad for a while, but when his dad found out that he was gay, he threw him out of the house, and he’d been on the streets ever since.
“How old are you now?” I ask. It’s hard to tell beneath the layers of grime.
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen?” I am shocked. “I thought you were about my age.”
“Yeah, I was always big; people always took me for older.” Then he tells me how he met Cal, who actually was older, twenty-five, and how Cal taught him to fend for himself and survive on the streets. “I would’ve died out here without Cal.”
“But what about now, Martin? How are you going to take care of yourself now?”
“I been trying to get a job, but it’s kind of hard when you look like crud.” He holds out his filthy hands, and I can see his point.
“What about the mission?”
He firmly shakes his head. “No way. Cal always said they don’t help people like us there.”
“Like you?”
“You know. Gay.”
“Oh.”
He smiles again, revealing the missing tooth. But his smile doesn’t look convincing. “Hey, don’t worry about me, Alice. I’ll be just fine.”
I’m not so sure. I think about his situation for a moment before I speak. “Okay, Martin, this is what we’re going to do. I’ll give you some cash today. Use it for whatever you need. And then I’m going to speak to a friend of mine and see if he knows anyone who can help you. Okay?”
Finding Alice Page 29
