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.
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