I’m probably ungrateful, doubting her. Yes, I’m ungrateful. She often told me so.
She’s never called me a crazy woman before.
Although she’s right. Doctors say I’m schizophrenic. I hate that label. It defines you as a second-rate human being. Like a line of sweaters with production faults they sell in outlet stores. Or a decaying apple that must be removed from an otherwise perfect display.
I don’t even know whether it’s the right diagnosis. I looked it up on the Internet. Some things fit, others don’t.
After going to doctor after doctor and hearing the same result, I gave up fighting. I couldn’t stand the condescending comments when I attempted to question their diagnosis. Doctors are like gods. Not the good ones; the mean powerful ones. They are always right, and the patient is always wrong, or ignorant, or non-compliant, or plain stupid.
Downstairs, they are silent now. I wish they were still talking. The silence is filled with dread and frightens me even more. My body is shaking like a leaf and my head feels light and vacuous. Images float through my mind of people at the funeral, their smiles turning into grotesque masks that melt off their faces like in a Dalian painting. They mock me and stretch out hands that look like barbed vices trying to capture me.
I feel myself slipping away to a dark, scary place filled with monsters I cannot fight. I can’t breathe. Ice-cold fear holds me in its clutches. My room. I have to escape. I have to… the floorboard creaks as I turn around. I freeze and swallow a desperate scream.
“Elizabeth, is that you?”
She heard me. My hand flies to my mouth as I try not to panic but my inside feels like the coast of Wessex when the Vikings first invaded. Panicked people are running around, screaming, howling, and leaving behind nothing but mayhem. Dead bodies and body parts are scattered everywhere and blood seeps into the earth.
Help.
I don’t know any more what’s real and what’s not.
“I’m looking for my pills. I’ve got a diabolical headache. Have you seen them?”
Where did that come from? Certainly not from my frozen brain. Sometimes I say these things that seem to come from nowhere like the surprise gift from the supermarket because you are the one-thousandth person going through the checkout. I hold my breath and wait for her response.
“I put them in the drawer in your bathroom. You should also take a sleeping pill, today was a hard day for you.” Her voice almost has a warm tone, but I’m not fooled. Not after what I overheard a moment ago.
“Thanks. I suppose I need it today.” Always nice, always obedient, always agreeable, always kind. The path of least resistance is my way of dealing with people. The other option would be open warfare, and that’s not me. I’m not a fighter. Anger frightens me. Besides all the things I hate about me, I like that I’m a kind person.
I believe in kindness. Often people think kindness is a weakness and an easy way out. They are wrong. It’s not an easy thing to be kind when the world around you is greedy and hostile.
Back in my room, I slide down the door until I sit on the floor, my head lodged between my shaking legs. Did Helen say she wanted to get rid of me? I must have misheard. Tears are running down my face. I wipe them off and look at my wet hands. I swear those tears are not mine.
Nothing makes sense anymore. Then, as if listening to a recording, I hear Helen’s words repeated in my head. “I want Elizabeth gone… The van from the clinic arrives tomorrow morning.”
A hysterical voice screeches in my head, “That’s not gonna happen.”
I gather myself and try to think. If only I could call Charlotte, but it’s too late in the evening. I wouldn’t dream of exploiting her kindness. Tomorrow is early enough. She’ll help. She always knows what to say to make me feel better. Like when she told me a few weeks ago, I’m not schizophrenic. That was a wonderful session.
She spoiled it by suggesting I might have multiple personalities. I looked it up on the Internet and I’m disappointed in her. Plenty of people don’t believe in multiple personalities, and I’m tempted to agree with them. It’s such a crazy notion. All I suffer from is a terrible memory. All I have to do is learn to pay attention and not be such a scatterbrain.
I go into my bathroom. The box with my pills is in the drawer, just as Helen said. I fill a water glass and take two painkillers. If Helen has arranged for people to pick me up tomorrow morning, then there is nothing I can do to stop her. It’s no use to fight the inevitable. It might even be in my best interest.
“No!”
The forcefulness of the voice in my head frightens me. I wouldn’t mind if the doctors in the clinic could help me to get rid of the voices in my head. That would be wonderful.
After a while, I get up and sit on my couch. Besides this room, I won’t miss this house. Helen and Horace always lived together. They bought the house after Horace became my guardian. Even when he married me eight years later, I felt like a boarder rather than a wife. Helen made all the important decisions for the house, like the furniture, wallpaper, and what goes where. First, I found that odd, but I spend a lot of time being unwell or in mental hospitals. I guess it was only natural for her to take over instead of handing the reins over to me.
It never felt like my home. I couldn’t tell you how it would look if I had a say in choosing the interior. I
