Fight or Flight

Have you ever had that moment where your brain simply doesn’t know how to take in the information it’s receiving?  Have you had that moment when your body moved without any conscious thought…some primitive impulse took over, launching you into motion…good or bad?  This moment for me was shortly after the accident that took my daughter’s life.

My friend and I were riding along in her car when I got a phone call from the insurance company that covered the driver who struck and killed Cory.  They had sent me a couple of requests to send in the necessary documentation to close out the claim.  I had been steadily ignoring it, as Tim and I were conducting our own investigation of sorts, since the police couldn’t seem to find the time to do it themselves.  My sister, Kim, had made up flyers that we posted all over the neighborhood begging any eyewitnesses to come forward with any information regarding the accident. 

The police had witnesses who had seen only part of what had happened, and we had heard from others that there was much more to the story…such as a sudden lane change, which made a lot of sense. The police seldom responded to our phone calls to ask how the case was going.  It was pretty obvious they weren’t going to strain themselves trying to uncover any more of the story that ended with a young girl dead, and the driver walking away without so much as a ticket.

I had had all I could stomach when it came to speaking with them after my first phone call to the officer in charge of the investigation, who was neither kind nor sensitive.  From then on, I put Tim in charge of the phone calls, a task which he ran from daily.  At the time, I was so mad at him I couldn’t see straight, taking his avoidance  to mean he didn’t care about Cory or getting justice. Looking back, now, I can hardly blame him. Really, who wants to be in charge of those kind of calls?

I held out hope that basic human decency would eventually spur the police into action to further investigate the accident that took my daughter’s life. 

It never happened.

So there I sat on the line with Insurance Lady, being borderline harassed because they didn’t have the paperwork they needed to walk away from this case.  As I spoke with her, my friend, Angie, pulled into an empty parking lot for better reception.  As I often do when I am nervous, I kicked off my shoes, speaking earnestly into the phone, trying to explain that my mother’s heart needed the blame to be distributed fairly, not just passed to the body on the ground.  I could not make peace with the fact that the driver that had struck and killed my daughter without so much as hitting her brakes had walked away without a ticket.  She had left the scene, and went on to her home, picking up the familiar threads of her life, while I walked straight into the pits of hell, with seemingly no way out.  Somehow it didn’t seem fair.

Insurance Lady became more and more irate with me as I insisted we were waiting until the police closed the case before submitting any formal paperwork.  She finally hitched in a breath, clearly irritated, and uttered these words, “Mrs. Mansfield, when are you going to just accept that your daughter deliberately stepped in front of our driver?”

My mouth gaped.  On pure reflex, I threw my cell phone across the car, nearly capping off this lovely conversation by creaming my friend in the chest with a heavy flying object.  Before Angie could speak, I grabbed the door handle, and jumped out of her car, barefoot.  Heavy breaths became deep, angry, braying sobs as I began moving fast in the first direction my feet took me.  Angie would later tell me how relieved she was to see I headed down the residential street versus the other direction, towards the busy highway.

So barefoot I jerkily ran, arms pumping, head down, paying absolutely no attention to where I was going…just needing to get as far away from that voice and those horrible words as I could.  It was distance I craved, and distance I got, bellowing like a neglected cow the entire way.  Had there been a cliff in my path, I would’ve walked right off  without missing a step.

Looking back on this incident, it reminds me of when things first got bad for Cory.  She’d been sitting at the dining room table doing homework one night, getting frustrated and hearing voices criticizing her every move.  I had been stirring something at the stove.  One second, she’d been seated, head bent over her studies, and the next she was screaming, up and flying out the front door, and into the night.  Barely able to comprehend what was happening, I had ran after her, steps behind as she cut across the side yard, and into the back.  Screaming, but agile, she scaled her old swing set to gain the roof of the garage.  And there she’d sat, crying and rocking, with her knees tucked up against her chest, and her hands laced around them…a little bird in crisis, roosting on the roof.

So then, picture poor Angie trailing alongside me in her car, at a snail’s pace, trying to persuade me back inside.  It took a while, but eventually I caved, crawling inside like a tired child, and shutting the door behind me.  Angie watched, dumbstruck, as I put my shaking hands to my temples, and just let loose.

Did I scream?  You have no idea.

Angie later told me I had been animalistic.

I don’t remember any of my actions, really.  I only remember my feelings and some of my thoughts.  I remember screaming until it hurt to talk.

 I screamed at the insensitivity of that rude thoughtless woman, whose accusation burned my very soul.  For out of all the times Cory had been suicidal, but fought the feelings and fought the urges, July 5^th had not been one of those times.  I screamed my frustration at the police who were doing nothing to get the whole truth, content to leave it as a fluke, a freak accident- even though Tim and I had found eyewitnesses who said otherwise.  These witnesses stated the driver was obviously speeding, and not looking in front of her.

 I screamed remembering Dr. Z’s solemn, but sincerely relieved, tone as he definitively ruled out suicide, based on the damage being on the side of the vehicle, and the fact that Cory had been thrown to the side of the road.  Cory had obviously been sideswiped.  Someone stepping in front of a car on purpose would be hit head on.

I screamed out my rage at a God who would take a sweet child who had already struggled so much just to have a normal life.  I screamed my burning jealousy at all the parents who take their children for granted every day, just soaking up those precious milestones as their natural right, not realizing some of us never get to see them…the driver’s license, the graduation walk, the first job, the move to college.  Don’t even get me started on the grandbabies.

I screamed for all the hours, all the days, and all the nights that I had watched Cory like a hawk, guarding her moods with my life, because I knew her life could very well depend on my judgment of her mental state at any given moment.  All of that caution, all of that supervision, all of the work we did together…just gone in an instant.  How could I lose her when she was in my every thought? 

I screamed thinking of the steady thought track of my days over the last three years….Cory, did you take your meds?  Cory, did you eat something?  How are you feeling today?  Are you hearing voices?  Do you feel safe?  Cory, did you take your meds?  Cory, are you ok?  Cory, Cory, Cory…

With those carelessly bitten off words, Insurance Lady had pointed a dooming, relentless finger at first Cory, and then at me.  I was Cory’s caregiver, her lifeline… her legal guardian, for God’s sake.  I was in charge of making all her decisions, because there were times she was not able to do it herself.  If it was Cory’s fault, then it was most certainly mine.  Who else’s would it be?

I screamed my guilt, horror, and  self-hatred because of one second-long decision I had made in letting Cory walk to the store, killing her as surely as if I’d pushed her into the street with my own two hands.

Angie endured my ear piercing screams without judgment and without response, knowing I must get it out or die.  She didn’t speak, only watched a little wide-eyed as I burrowed my hands deep into my long hair, and began pulling it out by the roots, without even realizing I was doing it.  She cannot be dead!  She cannot be dead!  Oh my God, please don’t her be dead!

When my screams at last dissolved into gulps and sobs, I began to apologize profusely, feeling ashamed and strangely naked to have just completely lost it in front of another person.  What had I become?

My thought track quickly jumped from wishing Cory wasn’t dead to wishing desperately that I was.  When Angie asked me the big three: 

Are you thinking of hurting yourself?  Are you having suicidal thoughts?  Do you have a plan?

I answered honestly, tonelessly.  Yes, I wanted to hurt myself.  Yes, I wanted to die.  Yes, I knew how to do it.  When she said she didn’t think I was safe to be left alone, my mind marveled at the strange parallel territory I now found myself in- how many times had I had this exact same conversation with Cory?

Angie made a couple calls, arranging a seamless transfer of me from her custody into that of my brother-in-law’s, whom she affectionately called Uncle Bud.  Uncle Bud was now part of the crisis team.  It had gotten that bad…bad enough for a team of people who loved and cared for me to have to work together to keep me safe and alive. 

How did I get to that dark, unfamiliar place? 

 One moment.  One moment in time took me from stability and logical thinking to rock bottom... a danger to myself and others.  Don’t think for one second that I have not entertained dark, detailed fantasies about cracking open that driver’s head just to watch her blood spill onto the ground.  Me…a former preschool teacher, can you imagine?

Thinking about this, I am amazed at the sheer number of people who pass judgment every day on the mentally ill, thinking themselves so superior, and so removed…viewing those who struggle as damaged, weak, or just plain strange.  Don’t they know they are separated by nothing but a mere moment in time?  In a single moment, it could be you on that rooftop, scared and confused…or you running hell bent for leather, barefoot, down the street. 

Please remember this, and remember that those who are struggling need your understanding, your help, and most of all, they need hope.  They need to hear, “You are not alone.”

I got you, girl.  Always, Cory-bird.