“Ten Years” 03.10.23

In March of 2013, I suffered an extreme psychosis. It stemmed from high energy and OCD. It progressed to an eight month stay in several psychiatric facilities around the country, where I could not be cured. There was speculation about whether or not I would ever return to myself and the people who love me.

Pain has many faces.

My psychiatrist at the time was usually easy to reach. He was readily available to his patients via email. This was one of the perks of working with him. I do not know how or why he was not available when I needed him most. He was reckless with my case. This psychiatrist cared only enough to see well behaved people who needed nothing but prescriptions. I do not believe he was equipped to handle tough situations like mine. He decided to replace my anti-psychotic with a mood stabilizer, causing me to spiral out of control. During this disaster, he was not around to monitor my issues. He was on vacation, and unreachable by email or any other form of communication. Everyone is deserving of a vacation, but he left me fragile and unprotected. He never responded to my plea. I understood that I was incapable of dealing with this on my own. Thus, I checked myself into a psychiatric hospital in Savannah, Georgia. This was the first of many, and my negligent doctor never visited.

For years, Vincent Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” has been my favorite painting of all time. Recently I discovered that I have more in common with Vincent and that painting than I had realized. This was the view outside his psychiatric hospital window. My story is much less glamorous, as I did not have a window at all.

I did not recognize my parents. I was starving to death; forgetting the functions of utensils and their relationship to sustenance. I was learning how to eat again. In the breakfast line, I was allowed two helpings of oatmeal in order to develop meat on my bones. The man in line behind me asked the server why I received more food, to which she answered, “Look at her!”

Confined to a seclusion room which felt very much like a small box, my body rested; on the bare concrete floor. No window. A mattress the color of Batman. Blankets had been stripped away, punishment for misbehavior. Refusing medication meant painful shots of sedatives in private areas of my body. I can still hear the glee and laughter from the male security officers who sat on my back, weighing me down so the shots could be administered: Payback for my escaping, attacking, and tricking them. I could not breathe. They were large, but I was stronger. I had the power of a woman who lifts a car to save her child. TWO large men were posted outside my locked door. I kept fighting.

My Granmama always spoke about the “inner beloved.” Each time she mentioned this, I surveyed my surroundings. I searched for the closest boy. As I grew older, it occurred to me that my inner beloved was not a knight in shining armor. I am not a damsel in distress. My true love lives inside me. Granmama helped me find her. I finally realized that my inner beloved is my soul. My best friend, especially when there is no other.

When all hope was lost, it appeared to be the end of me. I struggled in the darkness, climbing toward light and life. It felt as if I had died and risen out of Hell. I fought tenaciously and gradually rose from the ashes, returning to the people I hold most dear.

Several years ago, I read a proverb that described my experience in a few words.

“Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.”

I can certainly say I have earned those wings.

–SJB