CRAZY DAYCARE
It’s been so long since I showered, I can’t even say when it was. I do remember feeling pelted with pebbles instead of droplets of water. But this is Day Four of IOP—Intensive Outpatient Program—and yesterday Bing Bing wrinkled her nose and gave me the side-eye. So, I’m going to give myself a hobo bath and towel off in the sink.
IOP wouldn’t be happening if my psychiatrist hadn’t suggested we try something after I balked at ECT, aka having my brain shocked with an electric current. Since I wasn’t willing to be jolted, maybe I’d be more amenable to immersion in a little mind-body therapy. If I wanted to get better. Because, I mean, I want to get better. Right? And, we’d gone through antidepressant cocktail after cocktail. Ha, I see your fluoxetine and up you with lithium! So what? The world’s still black. My normal is to sleep on the sofa all day to a Criminal Minds marathon backdrop. There is only one day out of the week when some station or another isn’t airing a marathon—Sunday. That day sucks. On Fridays, I order a large Meatasaurus™ pizza and eat one slice a day until I run out. When I do, I eat Grape Nuts.
I tried combing my hair but ended up not able to get a comb through it. Plus, my arm got tired. So, I just pulled it back into a bun. If I let it down, I’d look like a wildebeest, anyway. IOP starts at 9:00 a.m. prompt. Having taken so long getting ready, I’m running late. This means less time with my individual counselor, Josh. He’s the only reason I’ve been returning instead of lining my pockets with rocks and walking into the ocean. He gets me. He’s the only one.
***
Taking the connecting express bus, I score a seat all the way in the back, far from the ones you’re expected to give up to those in need. I need to lie down. If only people could see how hard it is staying upright. Stretching out on the tacky bus floor inhaling the smell of spit and street funk isn’t so gross if it means I could lie down, which is all I want to do but can’t without getting kicked off. It’s only now that I think of Michael, which is amazing; he’s usually my very first thought when I open my eyes in the morning.
Michael jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. And lived. I probably shouldn’t have watched the documentary with him in it because I became obsessed with his story. A sea lion kept circling him to keep him afloat until he was rescued. He broke dozens of bones and punctured his lung with his fall. He talked about his continued struggle. So, this is my first thought every day: Is Michael still alive? Did he make it another day? Or, did he attempt again—and succeed? It’s a day-by-day, minute-by-minute existence. And, somehow, I feel our fates are aligned. I do and don’t want to know if he’s alive. Because it’s like how if you die in your dream, you’re dead.
***
Counseling Room 5 is where I’ll start my morning by having a session with Josh. Josh with the hazel eyes and John Lennon glasses and strawberry blond hair that just brushes his shoulders. Josh who could be my husband if I were well. Josh who gets me. But instead I’m greeted by Karen, the IOP administrator. She tells me I need to come to her office. Asks me to sit. Then, with her elbows leaning on her desk and her hands clasped like a steeple, she explains that Donald will be my individual counselor going forward. How she hopes this won’t be too disruptive, blah, blah, blah.
My face wants to melt. Hot water fills my eyes. Karen plucks a Kleenex from the box on her desk and whisks it at me. She says that she understands it is an adjustment, but it will be okay. That it’s not uncommon for patients to grow overly attached to their counselors. She adds that my new counselor, Donald, is waiting for me in Room 5. Then she stands and gestures at the door like a restaurant hostess showing me to my table.
I decide on my way to Room 5 that I will tell Donald nothing. He will not get to know me. I will not tell him how I feel now. I will not tell him what led me to this place. I will not say to him how, as I had told Josh, I think I was abused at Tiny Tim Kindercare as a child but will never know for sure. For one, it was decades ago. For two, Hurricane Katrina washed Tiny Tim off its foundation and drowned my chance of ever uncovering any evidence under twelve feet of floodwater. Don’t ask me what evidence. In my daydreams, all I know is that there is some. Even just the names of workers who were there when I was.
Josh is the only person I’ve ever confided in. I’m hoping he didn’t write any of this in my file and that it will stay that way. So, for half an hour, Donald’s questions go from the driveling How are you feeling today, Veronica? into the womp-womp-womp-womp of Charlie Brown’s schoolteacher. When he looks at his watch, I realize it’s time to go to Movement, which is really yoga for people used to sleeping all day.
We’ll lean forward in our chairs and hug our shins. Then, we’ll work our way to the floor and sit on pillows and practice breathing. I keep my eyes slit open in case. Of what, I’m not sure. But I do know that I sometimes forget to breathe. We finish Movement by stretching our arms to the sky. “This will be cleansing,” our leader Daisy says. We need to oxygenate. Daisy wears harem pants and has to be in her sixties. She also must own shares in Birkenstock because that’s all she ever has on.
After Movement, I go to Group Therapy. It’s held in the rec room, and there are six of us, all led by buck-toothed Winston. I let Bing Bing claim her seat first so I can sit farthest away. I choose to sit next to Poor Irv who I call Poor Irv because four months ago he lost his wife of sixty-three years. If someone ever could die of a broken heart, it would be Poor Irv. No surprise if he didn’t show one day because he decided in his sleep to join his wife.
When Tréchelle comes in, she has her “resting, shit-eating grin face” on. What she finds so amusing will have to remain a mystery because I’m too afraid to ask her. She has on an oversized T-shirt with “Tréchelle is CoOl” written on it in what looks like fuchsia nail polish. She parks herself between Bing Bing and Winston. She and I do have one thing in common: not to overshare in Group. She’s here because her troubles have troubles. She’s been 5150’d—involuntarily put into a psychiatric hospital—almost a dozen times. Tréchelle admitted this on Day One. When Mary Ellen, in her pink sweatshirt with kitten appliqués on the front, asked her what a 5150 was, Tréchelle told her. But not before calling her a dumb-ass housewife, crossing her arms across her chest, and rolling her eyes.
I cringe when Mitchell sits next to me. He asked me for my phone number at the end of Day Two because he thought we should have coffee. His breath could peel the paint off a wall. I didn’t have the energy to smile when I said, “No. Thanks.” Besides, Josh was standing nearby.
Cole is the only one who truly never speaks in Group. He just stretches his legs out in front of himself, leans back, arms folded in his lap, chin to chest, and listens. If he pulled an AK-47 out, I’d say, “I knew that was coming.”
Micki, like me, was laid off from her last job. Somehow, though, I think she may have sucked at whatever peon-sounding position she had and was actually fired. As the last one in, she closes the door behind her and takes the last seat in the circle.
Winston starts by “checking in” at the start of each session. When he gets to me, I say I didn’t start the day off well but was otherwise the same. Then he pauses. Breaking routine, he asks if I’d thought of Michael that morning. I curse to myself for having revealed my morning Michael thoughts on that first day. I admit that I had—but not until I was brushing my teeth. Winston bobs his head and says that’s progress. What he doesn’t realize is that I’m lying about brushing my teeth. If I had, that would have been progress.
Winston says, “Today, we’re going to talk about how we’ve been using our coping tools to get through the day.” He scans our faces to see who wants to start. Micki speaks up.
“Last night.” She looks sheepishly around the circle. “Instead of eating a whole pint of Haägen Dazs, then barfing it up . . . I ate one spoonful. And kept it down.”
“How do you feel now?” asks Winston.
“Like I gained five pounds.”
“But you were able to fight the urge to purge.” He swings his fist in the air. “That’s great.”
“Yeah,” I say.
Now everyone’s eyes are on me, and I recognize the mistake I’ve made of speaking. I feel the need to add, “No way you could even gain a pound from one spoonful.”
There are nods all around. I catch Tréchelle grinning extra hard, and I fold in on myself.
Winston says, “That’s true. Very helpful, Veronica. So. What did you do to manage some of your feelings of depression yesterday?”
I shrug, but he prods me to think hard about it.
“Nothing new,” I say.
“What do you do? Have you had any more thoughts about . . .” He twirls his hands in circles as if churning thoughts into words. “. . . not being here anymore?”
“I dunno. I mean only for, like, a second.”
“And what did you do.”
The tips of my ears are hot. “What I always do.”
“Can you share what that is?”
I scratch my tingling scalp. “I mean, it’s not for real, but I cut my wrists. I mean, mentally. I imagine doing it, like, I have a flash in my mind—”
Tréchelle shoots up from her seat. “Fuck you. You don’t know nothing,” she spits. “You think you so cute—Oh, I think I’ll kill myself. I’m gonna cut my wrists. I hate all of you. None of you know. Fuck this. I don’t need none of y’all. You can have your little group sessions in your little crazy daycare.” She turns and flips her chair over. On her way out, she calls, “I hate all of y’all . . . Nothing but a rec room full of bitches.”
Then she’s gone. But not before body-checking the doorframe on her way out. The air in the room is vibrating. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing. The only noise is the buzz of the overhead lights.
Winston blinks a few times then looks around the circle. “How do you all feel about Tréchelle’s outburst?”
I look down. I feel like I want to break her teeth and watch her swallow them. Should I tell him that, as she was yelling at us, I was mentally slitting my wrists? I just shrug again.
“How does everyone else feel? Is anybody feeling anxious or afraid?”
I slink farther down in my seat.
“Okay,” he says. “Anyone?”
Bing Bing bursts into tears.
***
We file out of Group like we’re headed to a stoning in the town center. Mitchell is behind me and taps me on the shoulder.
“Hey, Veronica,” he says. “Do you wanna join me for lunch break?” Now he’s in lock step with me. “I’ll treat you to some Jell-O.” He smiles, trying to be clever and nice. But at this moment, my mind is on finding Josh.
“Sorry, Mitchell. I was going to go outside and grab a smoke. Clear my head. You know?”
He gives me a baffled look. “Oh, I didn’t know you smoked.”
Because I don’t. “Yeah. Only when I’m stressed. But thanks.” I peel off toward the elevator vestibule. Mostly because I don’t know what I’ll say to Josh if I do see him. Also, to escape Mitchell, who has stopped in the waiting room. When the elevator arrives and I get on, I catch a glimpse of him raising his hand in good-bye.
Bye-bye. I’m flooded with thoughts of why I shun the people who are kind to me, halitosis or not, and I’m overwhelmed. Having forgotten to push a button for the ground floor, I go up before heading back down. We stop at the floor where I got on. But when the doors open, Mitchell is gone. I finally reach street level and cross the wide lobby. The hydraulic doors open and exhale me onto the sidewalk. Across the street is a supermarket. I decide that today I may actually have lunch instead of skulking around the third floor like I usually do. I’ll eat more than my evening slice of cold Meatasaurus™ pizza.
When I enter the market, I have no idea where to go find “lunch.” So, I wander the perimeter and come upon the hot bar. I scope it out. There isn’t much that seems appealing. Hojo potatoes. Sausage with peppers. Beef Stroganoff. Before realizing that I’m doing it, I’m slipping a fried chicken drumstick into my hoodie’s pocket. A calm comes over me that I haven’t felt in ages. Not since my five-finger-discount-loving teenage years. I know that I can’t walk straight out the door. So, I walk around the corner to the dairy aisle. I pick up and inspect an array of individual-serving yogurts while alternating expressions of dismay, displeasure, disgust, and frustration.
After what seems a suitable amount of time (was it two minutes or ten?), I head for the exit. My heart is doing the Mexican Hat Dance. From my jeans’ back pocket, I pull out my bus transfer. Miraculously, I have an hour left before it expires. Which means the first driver on my way to IOP was either generous or lazy. Doesn’t matter.
I step over the store’s threshold, palpitating, waiting for a heavy hand to grab my shoulder and a voice to boom, “Give back the chicken.” But the doors hiss closed behind me without incident. I decide I’ve had enough IOP for the day and head to the express bus stop a block away. I’m halfway there when I notice the sky. It’s an angry gray. I have no idea if this means rain or not. Since seeing reports of even a simple freeway fender bender leads me to crying, I haven’t watched the news in forever.
A safe distance from the supermarket, I pull the fried chicken from my pocket. It’s still warm. I take a bite. For the first time in I can’t remember how long, food has taste. The chicken is delicious. When I arrive at the bus stop, there is no bus in sight. No matter. I savor—savor—the fried drumstick and, when I’m done gnawing the bone clean, toss it over my shoulder. I glance at the clouds. Not in a million years did the idea of grabbing an umbrella ever cross my mind. My thoughts go to Michael just as the sky unfurls. I wonder if he’s at the Golden Gate Bridge again, perched on a beam in this cold, slanting rain, getting as soaked as I am. I decide he’s watching the storm from his living room’s bay window. Sipping on a cup of French-pressed coffee. Because, you know, his life is A-OK now. And I’m happy for him. The rain droplets are hard and fast and prickling my face like needles, and I just stand, unmoving. With my eyes closed, I tilt my head back and try to register—really feel—every drop. Every. Single. Drop. As if my life depended on it. Today, like it or not, I guess I will be cleansed.
***
T.E. Wilderson is an African American, New Orleans-born writer currently living in the Midwest. She holds an MFA in writing from Spalding University, and is a 2019 McKnight Foundation Writing Fellow.
