The last time I was in to see Dr. Z, he told me I was "recovering nicely". To his face, I flashed him a genuine smile. Dr. Z is just one of those dear men that you can't bear to disappoint. Cory'd had the same problem. His bedside manner was just so cute and charming, you found yourself not wanting to say anything to trouble him. He is an eternal optimist, a pretty good trick for a psychiatrist, I would say.
I remember sitting out in the lobby that day, waiting to be called back, my surroundings all too familiar: the tired stacks of magazines that no one ever really read, just leafed through and peered over, the receptionists who joked and smiled kindly, to them life could still be funny, and they could afford to be kind. The automatic doors that locked after you once you'd been called back reminding you that this was some serious shit, not an appointment with the skin doctor for your dry scalp condition.
All of the times I'd been there with Cory, I had never once imagined that things would end up this way...me as Dr. Z's patient, and Cory gone- no more clozaril clinic for her, no update on her progress, ,no discussing the book she was currently reading for English, just the weary sadness on my face and his- her doctor and her friend.
So I smiled into Dr. Z's eyes- bless his sweet soul- and kept my dubious comments to myself. What constitutes 'recovered'? Because I can string a sentence together that makes sense? Because I remember to wear deodorant these days?
Naturally, I went home and looked up the meaning of recovered, asking myself, if I felt that I had indeed "regained strength" or "gotten better". "Better at what?" might be the real question here.
Was I stronger now because I could say her name without crying? Or was I stronger because I could say her name and smile?
During the work week, I'd like to imagine that I seem half-way put together. I have been busting my ass to focus on my job, and I hope that part of me at least appears better, and stronger. Take me home afterwards, surrounded by her things, and I am anything but.
I spend every weekend in my pajamas, just "recovering" from my participation in the real world for the last five days. People might think it's all depression, and a large part of it may be, this purposeful isolation, but another part is the need to rest my mind, my body, my soul. This looking normal crap is for the birds. Dude, I have no idea how Cory ever did it. I really don't. She is three times the woman I am, because in her place, I don't think I'd had ever gotten dressed again...for anything, no matter what my loving momma with the sparkling personality said to me.
Sleep is still elusive. This past weekend was windy, so in between my catnaps, her chimes played all night long. It's a comforting sound, but after awhile, I wished the wind would die down just a bit...after all, how many times do you need to be reminded that your child is underground while you're trying to escape into sleep? What kind of escape is that?
I've felt for a couple of weeks now that the stress and heartache has been building and swelling to the point that my mind would just break under the weight of it. Like, Okay, chick, look, I've put up with an ungodly amount of ugliness here and kept you afloat, but I am fricking dog ass tired and I just cannot take another step. I'm done. Right then, my mind would fold, and sit right where it was, like every stubborn three year old in the world who uses their dead weight silently, but masterfully- the least amount of work ever needed to win a power struggle.
One of those restless nights, I thought about the term "mental breakdown" and wondered how a body comes to such a condition. What would it look like? Was there a CEO of my mental well-being in a well cut power suit and French twist, who would state, however stylishly in her peep toe pumps and French tip pedicure, that we were being forced to shut down until processes could be improved to the point that the public could be assured quality output and quality interactions from this particular corporation?
I shifted to my side, and grinned in the darkness, charmed, in spite of myself, by this image. If there was a CEO, was there a board of trustees, as well? Had there been a special meeting to discuss the fate of the company? What did that look like?
With Cory's wind chimes going to beat the band outside my window, I closed my eyes, and pictured a long slab of mahagony wood shiny enough to see your reflection in. All my departments of head gathered around this mammoth table in their rolling chairs, busily shuffling their papers, and sitting up straight, ready to report out on their turn. What would they say of my current state of affairs?
Physical health: We're running at half capacity folks. She's not eating healthy at all. She's pretty much back on the Chips Ahoy and milk diet, and I think we all remember how that worked out last time. (Pause here, with a moue of disgust across his face). She's not kicking this flu stuff, either- just not able to recoup with the reserves down as long as they have been. Sleep?
Sleep: Look, I'm not gonna lie. I had to throw some nightmares from the road out there. She gave me no other choice. If I didn't, she'd have been sleeping the clock right around. Besides, I was told she was ready for more details of the accident. Sleep looked both sheepish and defensive before turning to anxiety.
Anxiety: I am on call 24/7. It hasn't been this bad for months. She's even got a new name for me these days: "going wolf teeth". She's started to clench her teeth in her sleep when she's stressed, and she tried so hard to avoid it one night that her teeth started to feel too big for her mouth. It really freaked her out. Full scale panic attack. I had to bring some extra man power in to cover that shift.
Socializations: She has pretty much isolated herself during her free time. I try to get her out there...call someone, get in the car, but it just doesn't work these days. Her thought patterns read: hurt, angry, jealous. She doesn't seem to think anyone else understands, so why bother.
Reality Testing: She's doing pretty well, actually, guys. But I catch her every once in awhile trying to slip back into that "maybe Cory's just gone on a trip" business. And you know we can't have that. I usually put a call into Flashbacks for immediate assistance.
Flashbacks: Not a problem, Reality Testing, that's what I'm here for. She doesn't like me one bit, but over time, I will make sure she has processed this whole disturbing event, small detail by small detail. There's no denial on my watch. Someone's gotta play the hard ass.
Thinking processes: She does well with one problem at a time, and I can keep her distracted for up to 90 minutes, but if I throw too much into the mix, she gets overwhelmed easily. Mistakes are common. This makes her feel stupid, and slow, but hopefully it will pass with time.
Relationships: Not functioning well at this time. She is ready to cut her losses and go it alone, rather than count on anyone who might not be there the next time she turns around. It's a common protective strategy. Sad to say, this has drifted down even to her relationship with her son. She is apt to avoid, rather than try, just in case she gets rejected yet again.
Depression: We are full steam ahead. She is not even painting anymore right now. There is a lot of "never" and a lot of "always". The upcoming holidays are just adding to it, really. The other day, she actually wanted to punch a happy couple walking through a public parking lot with their children. She's hit a new all time low, folks.
Suicidal thinking: Yes, yes, I've been called in quite a few times. The good news is that she's let someone know either openly or inadvertently each time. I think what we have going for her is her split belief system- on one hand she thinks Cory would be disappointed in her if she "got out of this", but she is equally certain that if anyone would understand, it would be Cory. This indecision slows her down...which is good for us.
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