I now suspect that Joseph had schizoaffective disorder; untreated, the person may experience delusions and paranoia, and when he hid for days in his cabin he was probably suffering a period of depression.
After we’d been at the commune for a couple of months, Aaron had a vision in meditation about how he could reach a higher state of consciousness and asked that the sweat-lodge rocks be heated longer—they were always heated in the fire, placed in a pit in the lodge, then had water poured over them. He entered alone, saying that he didn’t want anyone else to get hurt, in case something went wrong. He stayed there for hours, while we all waited outside, anxious, with water and fresh fruit for him. When he finally emerged, crawling on his hands and knees, flushed and disoriented, he ranted and slurred about finally reaching nirvana. Then he collapsed.
The members had rushed to him, soaking his body with cold water, trying to drop his body temperature. It took them a while to bring him back. When he was lucid again, he stood, refusing help from anyone, though he was swaying on his feet, and said, “The most amazing thing happened. I died and crossed over to the other side. I did it, I really did it.” He broke out laughing, but in delight, like a man who couldn’t believe his luck. The members were just looking at him in shocked silence, confusion in their eyes. His voice rose, still giddy. “I felt myself lifting, then I was standing beside you all—I even saw Joy drop a cup.”
Joy gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “It’s true!”
“I saw each of you, could hear you talking, like I was inside your minds. Then I felt my body being pulled up to the sky, through a tunnel. At the end there was a bright white light, a glorious spiritual being. My body was filled with so much love and peace.” His face now reflected the pleasure he’d felt, his gaze rapturous and his voice almost awestruck with the memory.
Aaron said the Light asked him what knowledge he’d gained and how he had loved, showing him scenes from his life. Aaron said he could see some souls still stuck in the tunnel and that the spirit explained they hadn’t learned enough and wouldn’t be able to transition, so they’d be sent back to Earth, doomed to repeat their lives. The spirit also told Aaron that anyone who committed suicide wouldn’t be able to cross over until they healed—they needed more time to understand the error of their choices, same with drug addicts. The Light then told Aaron that he had to share what he’d learned. Aaron said, “I felt a pulling sensation, and I was flying backward through the air, then I was in my body again.”
When he was done speaking, there was silence. Everyone was amazed, awestruck that we had this person among us, someone as special as Aaron.
One of the male members said, “Did the Light say what we needed to do so that we could go to the other side when it’s our time?”
Aaron revealed that we needed to share all our belongings, to live as one and let go of society’s quest for material possessions. We had to dedicate our lives to awakening our spirits, so we could become whole and help others. Then he asked members to donate some money for our cause, only those who truly believed, but everyone wanted to prove how committed they were and donated everything they owned. Some even contacted family members, asking for loans.
At the time, Aaron’s vision of the other side had amazed and astonished me, but now, with an adult’s wisdom, I see it for what it truly was. Many people who claimed to have “crossed over” came back with a renewed belief and a deeper feeling that they were put on Earth for a certain purpose, something that was certainly true of Aaron. But in my opinion, most near-death experiences are just a series of physical reactions as the neurotransmitters in the brain shut down. In Aaron’s case, his so-called near-death experience was likely nothing more than hallucinations caused by heat stroke. His vision of Joy dropping a cup could easily be explained by an auditory reaction. He was delirious and might’ve passed out, but his subconscious recognized the sound.
But back then, I believed. We all believed.
* * *
My mother, who used to take little white pills to help her moods, saying as she held the bottle in a shaky hand that she couldn’t “deal with us,” had stopped taking them when she began to have healing meditations with Aaron. Now she seemed to be perpetually high, going off with Aaron to his cabin for hours and coming out spacey, like she was in a trance, her eyes half-closed as she wandered around, stopping to pick a flower or a leaf, gazing at it dreamily. I didn’t like how disconnected she’d become, living inside a bubble that I couldn’t touch, but it was better than her dark moods, when I lived in fear that she would hurt herself. I didn’t know if it was the marijuana, being away from our father, or the meditations, but she finally seemed happier. Robbie had also changed.
When we’d first arrived at the commune, he’d watched out for me, just as he had for years. With parents like ours, we’d frequently been left to fend for ourselves. When my father was away fishing, and my mother was sleeping all day, he’d make me dinner, and often my lunch for school as well. He’d also bring our mom food and do all the chores around the house, feeding the animals, chopping firewood, keeping things going until she finally crawled out of her room. I’d help as much as possible, but being older and stronger, a lot of it fell on his shoulders.
If our father was in a rage, Robbie would make me hide, or once even took the blame for something I’d done, saying, “I knew he’d use the belt. I’m tougher than you. I can take it.”
At the commune, he made friends quickly, but he also made sure I was never sitting alone, and when he’d done his chores, he’d help me finish mine. In those first weeks and months, when the members would gather for Satsang or a campfire meeting, I’d look up and see him keeping an eye on me. He was my raft in an ocean of uncertainty, my only safe person in this new world, where all the rules had changed. But then he also started to drift away from me, spending all his time with Levi or the teen girls in the commune—a new one in his tent every night.
More and more, I was on my own.
* * *
We were starting to expand. Aaron wanted the young people to go into the village to sell produce we’d grown in greenhouses at the farm market and find other people who might be willing to join our group. It wasn’t hard. The members were fresh-faced and wholesome-looking, our vegetables, herbs, homemade jams, baking, and eggs were always a hit. The members would explain that everything was organic and our chickens roamed free, while they handed out pamphlets on social consciousness. If someone stopped to listen, we’d tell them about the commune, how cool it was, how joyful and free we all were. We’d also pick up hitchhikers, and teenagers hanging around the corner store.
Aaron often went with us, and he could always sense right away who was a good target. Complete strangers would be telling him their heartbreaking stories in minutes. He’d hug them, reassure them, then bring them back to the commune, where we all greeted them with a plateful of food and a seat by the campfire.
While we ate, Aaron would talk about how we were all connected to every blade of grass and seed, and that it was our purpose to spread love and awareness. Everyone would be nodding and agreeing, passing a joint around, hugging each other. After the meal, he’d ask the new people to do a small task; they always agreed. They’d end up spending the night. The next morning, Aaron would ask them to help with something else, moving some equipment or planting, which would take all day, so they’d end up spending another night. Before they knew it, they were living at the commune.
No wonder people stayed. The commune was the perfect place to be if you were lost, afraid to take control of your life. It was the opposite for me. Something about Aaron made me shy and nervous, and I was frightened of Joseph. Looking back, I now understand it was because I was a child of abuse, too, and could sense volatility in others. Aaron was intense, and for a child who’d grown up with a manic mother and an alcoholic father, intensity equaled danger.
By the end of May, we’d swelled to sixty members, and the commune was a constant hum of activity. Aaron had handp
icked two male members, Ocean and Xavier, to be Spirit Counselors to work with anyone Aaron felt needed more help, or whom Joseph had gotten a bad feeling about. Maybe that was when the tide started to turn, when things stopped being so simple. Ocean and Xavier would stand there, eyeing us and whispering to each other, as we waited, sick with tension, wondering who wasn’t living up to their potential. Then Aaron slowly began to implement a system of punishment.
At first the infractions were usually something simple. If a member had taken an extra share of food, they wouldn’t be allowed to eat our next meal. If someone broke their meditation to go to the bathroom, they’d have to sit away from the group. Then things grew more serious. If a member argued with another member, they were tied together and had to work in the fields side by side. When a few members went to town for supplies, one later said he’d seen another use some of the commune money to buy a newspaper, something Aaron had strictly forbidden.
Hearing this, Joseph flew into a rage and started to whip the man’s legs with a branch, screaming that he’d bring evil influences into the commune. We watched, horrified, until at last Aaron intervened, and it was decided that the man should be made to drag the plow through one of the fields for a day. We were all upset, but not at Joseph. We were angry at the man for disrupting our peace and harmony, and even after Aaron declared him rehabilitated, we ignored him for weeks.
When a young man smacked his girlfriend in the face because she’d been flirting with another member, he was told to pack his belongings. He was driven a mile away and left to find his own way back to town. No one ever checked to see if he’d made it.
Then Aaron created a small group called the Guardians, who were to patrol the commune at night, watching for wildlife or anyone trying to steal our supplies, especially once we started growing marijuana and magic mushrooms. Robbie was ecstatic to be chosen, along with Levi, for this task.
The women didn’t have many roles—caring for the children, cooking, and working in the fields or greenhouses mostly. But they did a lot of hard labor, and our mother’s arms became tanned and sinewy, her hands rough. I saw less and less of her that spring. Late in April, Aaron had decided that children over five years old should be kept in separate cabins, near another small building that was used for the school, and raised collectively. He said, “Children belong to everyone. We’re all their mothers and fathers.”
Some parents balked, but Aaron explained that this was necessary for our spiritual growth as we needed to connect to our true selves and not our earthly attachments. I remember being confused by this and ashamed. And so the parents agreed, terrified that if they didn’t, their children wouldn’t achieve the perfect state of spiritual insight and tranquillity that we were all trying to attain.
* * *
One morning, after we’d been there for several months, Aaron gathered us together after breakfast. The air still smelled like coffee and baked bread, fresh mint and sweet fruit, but I’d barely eaten. I was upset at my mother that day. I’d asked her if I could see some of my old friends from school, and she’d drifted away with a vague smile, saying, “We have new friends now. Just be happy.”
Aaron warned us that it was easy to grow apart, even in a large group, and said we needed to practice a “sharing” exercise, to bring us closer. He asked us to write letters, confessing any wrongdoings and negative thoughts, no matter how shameful or darkly hidden. He said it was to seek our own truths, an inner examination that no one will see, but when we were done, he’d gotten another vision. We needed to read them in front of the commune, to let go of all separation, even in our thoughts.
When people protested, he said, “It’s the only way to clear yourself from your past. If you aren’t ready for this step, then you shouldn’t be here.”
The crowd quieted. No one wanted to leave.
Aaron pointed to the young man who looked after our horses, and said, “Billy, I know you’re ready.”
Billy stepped forward, his face flushed, and read from his letter, admitting that he’d experimented sexually with a cousin when he was a teenager—a male cousin, and that he still had fantasies about men. We listened, embarrassed, as he stammered through it. We waited for Aaron’s reaction, and when he reached out to embrace him, we all breathed with relief. Other people ventured forward to share their sins, and each time Aaron praised them. It was painful. People were sobbing, or silent, heads downcast. Others stared around with glazed eyes, looking shell-shocked.
Then it was my turn.
I confessed that I’d snuck food to the animals and had angry thoughts about other members. My hands shook, and I was crying so hard I couldn’t finish. Aaron grabbed the list and read my final confession. Then he handed the list back to me.
“You’re not done.”
“I can’t. Please, I don’t want to.” I met his eyes, begging for leniency, but he was impassive, his only expression one of disappointment.
“Don’t you want to be like the group? Everyone else shared theirs, and if you don’t, you’ll disrupt our harmony.”
I looked around at the angry faces, Heidi touching her belly, her face scared. I read my last confession, my voice quavering. “I love my mom, but sometimes … sometimes I hate her. I wish she was more like my friends’ moms. I wish she was normal.” I searched the crowd, finding my mother, her blue eyes filling with tears. I held her gaze, my own tears dripping down my face. Trying to convey my thoughts: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just angry.
She turned away.
* * *
By the time we’d been at the commune for five months, I had retreated into myself, barely speaking. I spent all my time with the animals and began to have fantasies about running away. I might have tried if it hadn’t been for Willow, a pretty, doe-eyed teenage girl, with caramel-colored hair that hung to her waist, who joined the commune that June. She told me about the places she’d hitchhiked to, the people she met on her way. She also told me I was going to be beautiful when I grew up. She gave me a beaded necklace, draping it around my neck, teasing me with her husky laugh for being shy. That day she’d been wearing faded bell-bottom jeans and a man’s cinnamon-colored leather vest with tassels, which hung on her small frame, her feet bare, and one toe sparkling with a ring. I didn’t know if I was going to be beautiful or not. I just knew I wanted to be like her. I wanted to be free.
CHAPTER SIX
Before I started my rounds, I consulted with the nurses. Michelle told me that after Daniel left the day before, Heather had gone back to bed and slept through the night—she had to be coaxed out for a shower and breakfast. Then she’d gone back to the seclusion room and had been sleeping ever since. She was only responding briefly when spoken to and was still lethargic. I wasn’t surprised that she’d retreated into herself after our initial meeting, as patients’ moods often ebb and flow. When I entered the seclusion room, I found her in the same position as the day before—curled into a ball.
“Heather, can you come out for a little bit? I’d like to talk to you.” We can meet with patients in the seclusion rooms, as I had her first morning in the unit, but we try to encourage them to come out because it’s better if they stay active.
She shook her head, mumbled something.
I kept my voice cheerful. “I know you’re tired, so I won’t keep you for long. Then you can go back to bed and have a nice snooze.” When patients are first admitted, we focus on their basic needs, making sure they’re drinking lots of water, eating, and showering, because they usually just want to sleep. Once they’re more alert, we begin to work with them on a care plan. This conversation would just be a quick assessment to see how she was settling in.
Heather finally rolled over and slowly got to her feet. She didn’t bother putting on the robe Daniel had brought, just shuffled behind me, her head down and her hair concealing her face.
In the interview room, I started off with some basic questions.
“How are you sleeping?”
“I’m tire
d.” She looked it, her head drooping, body slumped in the chair.
“You can go back to bed soon. Maybe this afternoon you’d like to come out and watch a little TV. What do you think?”
She didn’t answer.
I asked a few more general questions: How are you managing? Are you still having bad thoughts? Is there anything you need? And got the bare minimum answers: Fine; yes; I want Daniel.
I said, “I’m sure he’ll be up this afternoon.”
“Can I go back to bed now?”
I ended our session at that point and led her back to the seclusion room. Based on her current state, she was still too depressed to do any real emotional work, so we wouldn’t be able to discuss her care plan for another few days, which is when we’d also increase her antidepressant if she wasn’t suffering any side effects.
* * *
Over the next couple of days, there was no change in Heather’s condition. The nurses told me that she was still sleeping a lot, though she would come out for her meals, which she’d pick at. She’d show some signs of life when Daniel came to visit after work, and they would sit and watch TV together, her head on his shoulder. After she’d been in the unit for three days, she was more alert, so they moved her over to the step down unit, on the other side of the ward, but still part of PIC. On her fifth day, we increased her Effexor, and when she’d been in the hospital for almost a week, she was finally more communicative.
In the interview room, I said, “How are you doing today?”
She was still rubbing at the bandages on her wrists, but I noticed that her eyes seemed brighter, and she was sitting up in her chair.
“Better I guess … still kind of tired.”
“When you have more energy, we have some excellent groups you might like. Painting, life skills, relaxation exercises, crafts.”
She laughed, and though it was weak, it was the first time she’d showed much reaction to anything I’d said for a few days. “Sounds like River of Life.”
Always Watching Page 5
