melting down to nothing

the deinstitutionalization of debbie

It gets so lonesome out there when you realize you have given up on life. Anchoring yourself to the fear and allowing it to gain control of your soul. So desperate for help, but at the same time unable to allow those who love you to see you this way. Pushing them away, praying they go away, and save you from your demons all at the same time. So many people, all crying for help, yet who really hears them?
I met Debbie at a party that had gotten pretty wild. She was well past drunk and had poured herself into my trusting arms for safekeeping. I carried her to my truck and drove her back to my place. This was after asking everyone that was not horizontal if they knew where she lived. Nope.
I took off her pants hoping she was wearing panties, seeing that they were soaked with beer I thought it was the right thing to do. I managed to get an old pair of PJ’s back on her and tucked her into my bed. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted, having that entire good vs evil angel shoulder experience but in the end I’m a nice guy. I retired to my study where I wrote until dawn. I finally crawled on the lazy boy and caught some z’s about 5:00 am.
I awoke to the smell of bacon and a song. I remember she was singing a Jimmy Buffet tune that I could not place at the time. I opened an eye and tried to look into the kitchen. She was wearing one of my dress shirts, which is movie love 101 in my book. Sexy does not cover this apparition. We made small talk and ate some pretty tasty food, during which I could help to notice her eyes. Deep green that beckon every part of my being to know her better.
The next month was spectacular. If a movie of my life could be made this was the stuff. Pan in, fade out, laughter, love, passion, it was all here. In a word, it was perfect.
We moved her stuff in on July 4th and the explosions in our bed were beyond belief, bordering on earth shattering, they still make me smile after all these years.
The first time it happened was right before Thanksgiving, she was excited that she’d be cooking the dinner and finally meeting my parents. It was Wednesday night and I was running late from my teaching position at Purdue but had stopped for flowers. When I came in to the house it was eerily silent, and that never happened. A rock and roller, the stereo was always on loud whenever she was home alone. I called for her but heard nothing. I walked room to room and found her curled into the fetal position, rocking back and forth with wide eyes. I rushed to her and took her in my arms, and tried to get her to communicate. But only tears could be returned. I begged her to tell me what had happened. It was as if jolts of electricity would hit her causing her body to pulse. I held her in my arms until the sun came up and she never could tell me what had happened. The next day I awoke and she was in the shower, I went to her and she looked me deep in the eyes and said, “I don’t want to talk about. I’m fine now, trust me”.
Over the next few years these “events” repeated and grew in frequency. I had searched the web and found what I suspected was the cause. Even though she would not allow me to bring the subject up I believed she was suffering from panic anxiety and depression. I had no one in her family to ask question of, they had all past on. Other then these bad days our life was complete, and good. Later I would learn she was bi-polar and a host of other things.
The night I had her committed was a battle but not as you might think. It was not I wanting her to go; she made me take her to the Western Institute which we had always called the nut house as kids. She answered their questions as I sat holding her hand; the only surprise was when she answered yes to the question of whether she had ever been committed before. They placed her in a 72 hour lock up and told me I should bring some extra clothes tomorrow when I came to visit.
Its lonesome out there when you push away those who care, repelling all attempts by friend or family to reach out. It is a self made prison to which one holds the key, only without comprehending it or perhaps for lack of desire. It can go from minutes to months, years to a lifetime and each day is as horrible as the day before. The comforter on your bed often lives up to its name far longer than the suggested eight hours a day. You screen your calls, imaging you know just what the caller will say should you fall for the trap and allow them in. Messages pile up in the voicemail until they are months old. Later when they stop communication you grow sad or angry that they have turned their backs on you. These were all things I learned over the next four years. She spent more time institutionalized than at home and our lives were shattered. I tried to explain where she was too many times to friends that grew weary and vanished. My days were spent thinking of her and my night viewing macaroni pictures she had made in art class.
The days melted into years and I found myself facing the truth. Debbie was not going to come home. She told me she felt safe having other make up her mind for her. I kept up the visits but the sadness of seeing her like that effected me to the point that I felt as if I was becoming like her, and that scared the hell out of me.
On my last visit I watched her from the hall as she interacted with the others, and she was happy. I left a picture of us with the charge nurse along with a note telling her that I wouldn’t be back, and that if she ever wanted to come home I would come for her.
She never called and my life filled up with living, choosing for myself to enjoy, not fear this life we have. I miss her but understand that she needed something I couldn’t give her.
Today marks the 14th anniversary of our meeting and she is still locked up, wasting away but safe.

Quoting Ms. Garland

"For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul."

-Judy Garland

nightime

The neighborhood slows as the cover of darkness glides over us, and in the distance the last call for children is sounded. Families regroup in varying degrees of unity as the exterior world yields its hold. Porch lights, one by one began to flicker on, casting shadows of doubt while lighting the known. Like a snowball gathering speed, the boundaries of time pushes forward, and with it the night meal comes and goes. Children busy themselves brushing and praying as this bedtime waltz is danced with parents of every silhouette and size. Rapidly, every head shall be cradled in the safety and softness of a familiar pillow and this neighborhood shall be silent.

Or will it? For if you listen, there is still one sound in the lonely darkness here. If you hold your breath, you may hear it. The beating of a heart filled with hope. Filled with love to give. Filled with the possibilities of new moments yet to come. Beating solely because it knows that somewhere, out there, is the heartbeat of a girl that knows my ways, but not my face, who has touched my life, but not my skin, and that my dear friends, is all one can hope for tonight in a place called life.

The Day Thomas Pierce Changed

Henry Yost was a nice man. He didn’t drink, take drugs or chase women, but that all changed after he met me. My name is Thomas Pierce and this is but a small serving of my life.
I first encountered Henry Yost while he was jogging past my home. I had fallen from the steps leading out to my mail box and although not amusing then I do find it some what humorous now. He was the third person that had seen me laying there and the first to offer help. At 83 years old I’m not as agile as I once was.
He started dropping by to check on me a few times a week after that and even though I was a royal pain in the ass he seemed to enjoy my company. It wasn’t long before we became friends. That would be my first one in over forty years. People and I don’t see eye to eye, and I’m set in my ways not wishing to disprove the old dog principle.
The truth is I’m a writer and after my first book was published I saw a noticed change in the way people treated me. My wife of 18 years began to spend money as if her very life depended on it. The day I got a bill from McManus Men’s wear for boxer shorts was the last day I spent with her. Being a briefs sort of fellow she was kicked to the curb. Then there were the children, yapping at my heels like small useless dogs, seeking to gleam the treasures of my work. Both had good jobs but quit after hearing I had been given an unprecedented advance for my 2nd novel. Even my friends treated me different, especially the their tempting wives, and I suppose in looking back I shouldn’t have bedded so many of them.
“Ruins of Helen” sold over 12 million copies and changed my life forever. I had once taught history to spoiled children whose parents spent far too much time inventing free love. With names like “Freedom” and “Rainbow” I checked out and started writing full time. Screw those people was my mantra.
My second book “Low Tides in Spring” stayed on the New York Times number one spot for 32 weeks, another first. Life was busy fighting off the fame they desired to heap upon me. I was a private man and wished to stay that way. I had to drive to another town to buy groceries for Pete’s sake. This happened just as Helen was being shown on the big screen. It won best picture that year. That caused me to move again and I have a lot of books so packing isn’t much fun.
I finally ended here, on Juniper Street in a quite town where everyone believes I’m a simple retired History Professor. I had started using fake pictures on those silly dust covers on all the rest of my books. Seventeen in all, eight made into movies and the public clamors for more. I watched “Field of Dreams” and ended up buying a gun.
I haven’t published now for 8 years, although, what I feel is the best thing I ever wrote is finished and sits in box on the floor. It’s completely different from anything I ever did. My worry is that when it does get published the public shall start seeking me out again. Screw those people.
Any way, I’ve gotten off track; I wanted to tell you about Henry. He was as pure as the driven snow, what ever the hell that’s supposed to mean. Had a good job as a CPA, he even did the books for the local Homeless Shelter pro bono, a real gem. Maybe it was just that I was lonely and let my guard down, but I don’t think so. He’s one of the finest men I had ever met. He didn’t date; to shy if you ask me, so one night I told him I wanted him to drive me to a local watering hole for a cocktail. He agreed on the condition that I not compel him to drink, so I lied. He sipped the first drink like a girl, but once it was down the second was gulped.
The next day we woke up in a hotel suite, both of us had a little pay for play friend lying next to us. I was afraid he’d be angry with me but smiled and thanked me for the best night of his life. I believe I had a small tear form.
From then on we’d spend a few nights a week running with women that aimed to please, he even smoked some pot with me one night. We talked until dawn about the world, about history, life, love and even some strange ideas about connect the dots food products for children.
Henry had come out of his shell and shined for the very first time. And he could roll a joint like nobodies business. We shared many a fine time in the lost art of social intercourse. He had some many ideas trapped inside, good ones worth exploring. It was during this time that I found out I had cancer.
Henry knew all along who I was but never brought it up, so I did. He had many questions of why and what it was like. Would I ever write again? He even showed me a few of the things he had written, though rough, still very good concepts. He just couldn’t grasp why I had hidden from the public and laughed at the things he would have done. Curious lad he was. He kept my secrets and I his, he was instrumental in getting me through my radiation treatments without the public finding out.
My prognosis isn’t good they tell me. But I have lived a full life and even though it’s been one full of regret I am satisfied. Henry moved in to keep an eye on me and I truly appreciate what he does for me. Christmas was coming and I hoped to survive long enough for my last one. I did. Henry got me a new dictionary and I gave him a letter.
The novel “Green Hues on a Blue Day” was published before I died. It was declared the best new work of the century and everyone is talking about it. The world wants to know everything about its author, Henry Yost.
That was my gift to him on my last Christmas. My publicists helped me get my “discovery of a talented new writer” rushed into print after many hours of convincing Henry that this is what I wanted. I argued that even if he never wrote anything of his own he would be set for life and could lead the life I had shunned. He could see first hand the what and whys of a writer’s life. I finally won his reluctant approval by telling him I’d burn it if he turned me down. The only two people in the world that know the truth of this novel are Henry and I, and half of that equation died, taking his half of that secret to his grave.

Thomas Pierce 1923-200_
(how should I know Henry, fill it in when it happens!)