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Visits to My Mind

Naomi Kondo

    The day I was released from the psych hospital my parents picked me up and drove me to my apartment. They offered to come up and help me settle in, but I told them I just wanted to be by myself for a bit. My mom said in that case I should take some food she bought me, gesturing to two grocery bags sitting next to me in the back seat. I thanked her and took the surprisingly heavy bags up to my apartment.
    Everything was exactly how I had left it a month before, but all my possessions felt oddly distant, as though they were from a movie set, rather than objects in a real place that someone lived in. I dropped the two grocery bags and the trash bag of toiletries provided by the hospital on the kitchen table, now unwanted memories of my sad experience. I sighed. It was time to restart my life.
    First I needed to eat, and so I went over and inspected what my mom had provided. I discovered that one bag was entirely filled with cans. Beans, tuna, and perhaps the entire Progresso soup line. This was unfortunate, as I did not have a can opener. The second bag had cereal but no milk, pasta but no sauce and an enormous bag of oranges. I took the Raisin Bran by itself to the living room, flopped on the couch and began eating it from the box.
    I found the TV remote, still partially lodged in the cushions, and turned the TV on. Absolutely nothing appealed to me. I settled for the news, which featured local shootings and international wars, confirming, as I had always believed, that the world is a hopeless mess. After ten minutes I couldn’t stand it anymore and turned it off. I dropped the cereal box on the floor, but I continued to lie on the couch.
    I quickly drifted off into thinking about my stay in the hospital. My roommate would occasionally scream in the middle of the night, abruptly waking me up. Far too often our mid-day snack was peanut butter and graham crackers, which never seemed like a logical combination. Art group was actually kind of fun, because we were provided glitter, but healthy living groups were lame, seeming to be geared towards people who had never heard of calories. If you have a new outfit three times a week, which your parents bring when they visit, people in johnnies resent you.
    These thoughts had a dream quality now that I was home. Just as my possessions seemed unreal, my mind was distant from itself. Maybe I had imagined the past month; maybe these memories were just melodramatic fiction. I slowly let in the truth that this experience was all mine, and that I could neither forget it nor give it away.
    I decided to call my best friend, Cammie, and let her know that I was out. On the first ring she picked up.
    ̶-;Hey Penelope, how are you?”
    ̶-;I’m out.”
    ̶-;Really? That’s terrific. I really missed you. Sorry I never visited you.”
    ̶-;That’s okay. It’s not a pleasant place to visit.”
    ̶-;I’m really glad to hear from you. Listen, we’re going to Scuba tonight. Just us girls out on the town. What’d you say?”
    ̶-;Yeah, that would be fun.”
    ̶-;Great. We’re all meeting up around 9. See you then!”
    Immediately I was overcome with dread. I still felt tender from my month ̶-;away.” I wasn’t really sure if I could handle a night out, but I said I would go, an impulse reaction I would not have made with a moment of reflection. Maybe hurtling myself right into intense social interaction would be helpful, like throwing a child with one leg into the water and telling her to swim. I checked the clock, 5:30. That gave me a little while to stay on the couch. I closed my eyes again, and this time I let pure emotion wash over me, waves of painful memories crashing into each other, haphazardly beating the insides of my mind. Being in a mental hospital for a month, even though it was voluntary, really is a big deal. It means no privacy, no joy, and no ability to trust in yourself.
    At 6:30 I pried myself from the couch. I made my way into the bedroom where I inspected my closet, looking for something suitable. In the back I found a short red Isaac Mizrahi satin dress, a late night QVC purchase, which I worried hugged my curves a little too much, but I had never worn it, and this was as good a time as ever. I chose a pair of sparkly black Prada heels, my treasured and most expensive shoes, which I received as a graduation present, wore all the time, and seemed perfect for the outfit. I headed to the shower next, and after it, I began the process of preparing: makeup, hair, jewelry, the alluring smell of lavendar. At 8:30 I was ready. I decided to splurge for a cab, because I didn’t feel like using public transportation in this outfit, and besides, I had just gotten out of the mental hospital – I deserved a cab.
    The cab pulled up right in front of the club, and I felt a little important exiting it in front of the long line of people. I didn’t see Cammie or any of the other girls, so I got in the line by myself, which made me a little embarrassed, as I didn’t want to seem like a lonely person without friends, or a single girl looking for a hookup. The line was slow, but eventually I got to the front. The bouncer was enormous, exactly as he should be. As I moved to enter the club, he smiled at me, and I felt validated.
    Inside the club, it was pounding electronic music with an overwhelming beat. As was my habit, I moved directly to the bar, keeping an eye out for Cammie and the girls. The bar was swamped with people, but after some time I was able to push myself to the front and order a Cosmopolitan. I wasn’t really supposed to drink on my medication, but once I had a drink in my hand, I felt more confident. Now I fit in. Just as I was easing into the atmosphere, a short, twig-like man approached me with the line, ̶-;Do you have a sunburn or are you always this hot?”
    I laughed at his ridiculous try at wooing me, but I really didn’t feel like engaging with him, not just because he was tiny, but because I didn’t have the energy to play the game, not even to insult him.
    ̶-;I’m sorry. I really need to find my friends. I really need to go. I’m sorry. Good luck with someone else.” I ran away, now hoping to find my friends as soon as possible.
    I decided to circle around the people dancing, as they were too dense a mob to sort through. At the opposite end of the club, I spotted the girls sitting at a booth drinking martinis. Seeing them all together reminded me of our great times in college, both clubbing and binge drinking at frats. We would spend hours preparing our outfits and makeup, not settling until we were all confident that each of us looked hot. I was very relieved to have found the girls, but when they gave enthusiastic waves, I felt a pang of jealousy. While I had been in the hospital, psychotic and terrified, they had been doing exactly what they were doing now.
    ̶-;Hey there, girl!” Cammie said with an affectionate grin and a toss of her perfect blonde hair, ̶-;So glad to see you!” I was closest to Cammie, and she was also our unofficial leader.
    ̶-;Yeah, it’s been way too long!” Terry, with her cute red bob, chimed in. Terry went through men like they were water between her fingers, always ready to scoop up more.
    ̶-;Join us,” Mary added. She had different color hair every few months, and it was currently blue-black. She was wearing a spiky bracelet, which looked fashionable and a little punk rock.
    As they shifted to make room for me, Victoria said, ̶-;You really look good.” Of all of us, she was probably the most beautiful, wearing her long brown hair in loose curls, but she was humble enough never to acknowledge it.
    I sat down in the space they had made for me, but then sighed by accident.
    ̶-;What’s wrong?” Cammie quickly responded to my inadvertent complaint.
    ̶-;Nothing. It’s just....” I paused too long, and Mary asked ̶-;What?”
    ̶-;I guess I feel really tired. This music is a little overwhelming.”
    ̶-;Are you kidding? Little Miss Dancing Queen thinks the music is too loud?” Terry sounded shocked. She was not just teasing me.
    ̶-;What did they do to you in there?” Victoria asked.
    There was a very long silent moment. Finally it occurred to me that they were waiting for me to say something.
    ̶-;I just sat around a lot. I had to go to a lot of groups. There were some really weird people.”
    ̶-;Well you’re out now, sweetie, and that’s what matters!” Cammie said.
    ̶-;I know,” Mary said with a sneaky tone, ̶-;We’re going to get you out on the dance floor, and you’re going to dance away the last month.”
    I really didn’t want to go, but as all the girls immediately agreed this was a terrific plan, I had no choice. In unison they finished their martinis in a gulp but then placed the glasses on the table gingerly. Mary grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor.
    The beat was still bumping as it always did, but I couldn’t lose myself in it the way I used to. In the past, the music would wash over me, and I would feel it pulsing inside me, inspiring me to move, to gyrate, to be alive. But now it felt like an attack. Every boom was an assault, and I felt jabbed from every angle. I could hear the other dancers’ thoughts, which were all telling me how there was something wrong with me, that I didn’t belong. Then the flashing lights started forcing me into a dizzy panic. In the midst of the chaos of moving bodies, I stood completely still, petrified.
    Only Cammie noticed me and stopped dancing, asking me if I was okay.
    I wasn’t. I wasn’t okay. I had to go. That was all I needed. To go. I shouted this explanation to Cammie as I pushed through the hordes of people, eventually reaching the exit, very grateful. Luckily a group of people had just exited a cab, and I was able to flag it down right in front of the club. ̶-;Please take me home,” I said.

**********


    After my shaky return to society, I decided to take some time to recuperate before venturing out again. For about a week I mostly slept, leaving the bedroom only to use the bathroom and to eat occasionally. I ran out of toilet paper and started using napkins from the kitchen. I mostly ate oranges. When I was ̶-;fine” I spoke to my parents about once a week, but after all that had happened, they wanted to check in on me daily. It was a little irritating, but I also kind of appreciated the support. I always told them I was good, and they pretended to believe me.
    When I had first returned home, I found a month’s worth of mail somehow stuffed into the small box. I had had no energy to look at any of it, leaving it on the kitchen table in a lump. However, when I reemerged after that week, my first plan was to look through it. Most of it was junk mail, which I only glanced at and then threw out. Almost all the rest of it was bills. I now remembered I had no money to pay them. I had lost my job at Banana Republic when I went completely bonkers in the store.
    While folding the ̶-;buy 2 get 1 free” printed tees, I was hearing the customers’ and my co-workers’ thoughts. A tiny woman, perhaps size 0, kept telling me in my mind that I was fat and didn’t deserve to work at a clothing store. Then my co-worker started telling me in my mind that I was a bad worker, that I was the worst at folding t-shirts of everyone in the store. People had been visiting my head for some time, but on that day it just became too much.
    To the skinny customer, I shouted, ̶-;Shut up you anorexic bitch!”
    The woman did not react well to this. My co-worker pulled me aside to assess what was going on, and I told her that I was not the worst t-shirt folder ever and she should mind her own business. The store manager then came over, and suggested I go home and take some time off, which I took to mean I was fired.
    Upset about my job and irritated that so many people were saying things in my head, I decided to go to my parents’ house, where I attempted to explain to them what had happened. I guess my try at articulating the situation went poorly, as they brought me to the hospital that day.
    My parents had supported me in a number of ways throughout my life, which I learned was not the case for all people, especially those in psych hospitals. In addition to love, they also helped out with money. Even when I was working, my parents had been contributing a bit. The little one bedroom, plus utilities, was more than my retail position could support. I would probably have to ask my parents for even more money. They had already shelled out money for the hospital, and so I felt bad about asking them. I glared at the unopened bills on the table and chose to ignore them. The only mail of any interest was a catalog for next semester’s classes at a community college, where I had been taking painting classes for fun, and my monthly Vogue.
    I grabbed Vogue and brought it to the living room, where I put on some Coldplay, and then dropped on the couch reading it with enthusiasm, the most I had felt in a long time. Page after page of the newest fashions relaxed me, transporting me back to college, when a successful ensemble was my main concern. Back then I enjoyed studying all the designers carefully, making a mental list of all the newest trends I wanted to show off. Now seemed like a good time to reclaim that pleasure. I studied the ads as much as the rest of it. Everything from Balenciaga to Marc Jacobs. I managed to spend a little over an hour occupied this way, and when I reached the last page, I remembered how great it feels to shop. I still wasn’t sure if I was up to it though. The idea of the mall, once my second home, seemed too much to handle right now. There would be an onslaught of busy shoppers, and it was also the site of my breakdown. I would save that for another time.
    I finally decided to address the issue of apartment maintenance. The mess that a deteriorating mind can create is substantial. Most of it had accrued over the past few months before the hospitalization, when things were snowballing all over the place. My first job was to throw out my neglected spider plant, which I did with some sadness, because it had been with me through all of college and had been the only living being in my apartment other than myself. Next I addressed the layer of floor disaster, mostly clothing, dirty dishes, and misplaced objects. It did not take long to collect all the clothing and throw it into the hamper, which now overflowed. Likewise, collecting dishes and placing them in the sink wasn’t hard. What took me the most time was reorganizing everything else.
    I found my favorite necklace with a ̶-;Penelope” charm resting on the counter next to the toaster. I got it from my parents at the large, wonderful ̶-;Sweet Sixteen” party that they threw for me. My signature pink beret, adopted initially as a joke that then became a habit, was crammed half way under the fridge. My collection of piggy banks from the places I had visited on family vacations was scattered in an almost forced pattern of randomness on the floor. There was a purple sequined belt on the cocktail table and moisturizer sitting in an open drawer in the kitchen. A picture of all us girls was partially covered by my stuffed elephant, Muffy, who I had had my whole life and had also fallen to the floor.
    After an hour of cleaning, I took a nap. I drifted off feeling some satisfaction at my small, but to me significant, effort.
    My mother called me about an hour later. As usual she asked how I was, and I said fine. Then she said she had been giving me some time, but now I should start going to see a psychiatrist. She was paying for this, so I felt an obligation to go. She had already set up an appointment for the next day, and I agreed to go.

**********


    I was scheduled to meet with Dr. Caroll twice a week, which I was not happy about. The psychiatrists in the hospital had been all business, ticking out each symptom with an impersonal nod. The social workers had asked me questions that seemed unimportant, like showering and eating habits. What could this psychiatrist possibly do to make life any better, other than doling out medicine? Dr. Caroll was one of the few psychiatrists that did therapy as well as medication. My mother had done her homework.
    At the beginning, I mostly sat and stared at her, determined not to share anything with a woman I was wary of. I told her there was no way she could ever understand what it felt like to be me, let alone help me. I spent most of our first meetings glaring at her in silence. She told me that she was here for me whenever I was ready to share, which I doubted.
    After three sessions of silence, of Dr. Caroll trying and failing to engage with me, she asked me what I enjoy in life. In an attempt to avoid discussion, I said ̶-;nothing.” But suddenly I reflected on how sad that was, and perhaps it was that question infused with her shrinky magic that made me elaborate.
    ̶-;I sit around my apartment, watching TV, listening to music, and hating my mind.”
    ̶-;What makes you hate your mind?” Dr. Caroll asked.
    ̶-;Because it misbehaves. After a month in the hospital, I have come to understand that people aren’t really visiting my head. It just seems like that. They only let me out of the hospital because I recognized this fact, not because the crazies went away.”
     ̶-;I’m sorry you are still suffering with this. There are a number of medications that might work better for you than what they put you on in the hospital. We can explore this further. I also think talking about these experiences could help them lose their power.”
    I was surprised to realize I wanted to share. I told her how around the time of graduation, when it felt like the life I loved was ending, I had discovered that I could hear other people’s thoughts inside my head, and that at first I was excited to discover I was a telepath. In the beginning it was just my friends’ minds that visited my head, but later I began to hear the minds of strangers: customers at the store, people on line at the supermarket. I managed to live with this for about a year, even holding down a job. Unfortunately, the thoughts began coming into my mind more and more frequently, until I had no idea when or how much they stayed in my head. I told her about my breakdown at Banana Republic. I emphasized that I now know these visits to my head aren’t real, but that they still upset me. I added that I try to do breathing exercises, which the social worker in the hospital suggested.
    Once the floodgates had opened, it all came out. In the following sessions I started telling her about anything and everything that had ever happened to me in the past twenty-two years. Lost childhood friends, bad relationships, an over-protective mother, who I did admit to loving. Surprisingly, it felt good. I reflected that it was exactly what therapy was supposed to be.
    After two months of seeing Dr. Caroll twice a week, she suggested I join a support group. She recommended one that met on Tuesday nights, saying it was called MISC, which stood for ̶-;Mental Illness Support Crew.”
    ̶-;It’s a fun group of people, who I think you would be able to relate to,” she said.
    ̶-;Is it like the groups in the hospital? Because I hated them.” I asked.
    ̶-;No, it’s more informal. Everyone just says whatever they want. There isn’t an agenda, just a chance to relate to people. It can be inspirational to have this sharing experience.”
    ̶-;Okay,” I said. Dr. Caroll had successfully sold me.
    **********
    There were six people the first time I showed up. The facilitator was a friendly middle-aged man, named Bob, who smiled and said ̶-;Welcome to the Miscellanies.” He then explained that everyone in the group had mental illness, including himself, but that everyone had different issues to share. The meeting began by everyone going around and ̶-;checking in” on their lives. There was an array of reporting: sadness, loneliness, boredom, traumatic memories of childhood. Members of the group took turns expressing real support and concern. I observed enough kindness that when it was my turn I said honestly that I spent all my time on the couch and that life sucked. Everyone expressed real sympathy for this. A number of people said that they too had long patches when they hated life and spent their time on the couch. I then felt comfortable enough to confess that for some time I had been having people’s thoughts visit me in my head, but it was happening much less now.
    Billy responded, ̶-;You can read minds? That’s awesome! You’re like a super-hero. Why would you want to give that up?”
    ̶-;Well, it started clouding my whole head,” I explained.
    ̶-;I want to read minds! Even if they’re not real. It sounds fun.” Billy continued, ̶-;Give me that problem any day!”
    Bob interrupted, ̶-;Billy, Penelope had a very difficult time, and you need to respect how hard it was for her. We all have our own challenges, and you need to respect everyone’s issues. Emotional pain is not awesome.”
    ̶-;Okay, I’m sorry.” Billy looked just a tad sheepish, making me hate him less.
    ̶-;It’s okay,” I said, ̶-;It’s just that having people in your head all the time is really exhausting. It makes everything harder. Trust me, you really don’t want this.”
    ̶-;You are so brave,” Cindy said and gave me a large, glittering smile.
    ̶-;Yeah, you are, ̶-;Billy said, ̶-;I’m sorry, and I feel your pain.”
    ̶-;Thanks guys,” I said, ̶-;The meds help, and I’m working on it a lot with my therapist.”
    Over the following weeks, Billy, Cindy, and I became a little group within our group. We only saw each other at the meetings, but we often had mini-conversations within the group, which Bob sometimes politely told us to stop. Rod called us ̶-;The Three Amigos,” which we laughed about. Of course we were open to everyone in the group and were supportive of everyone. We were just especially close, which in part might have just been because we were the same age.
    I reported to Dr. Carroll that the people in my group were helping me feel better. She said that was great and then suggested I might try and find an activity that I would like to do. She suggested something very low pressure. Maybe only a few hours a week. Perhaps a volunteer activity. We came up with the idea of volunteering at the local pet shelter. I have always loved animals, and I had wanted a kitten, but my landlord had said no. I contacted the shelter on my own, and they agreed to let me come in two days a week for three hours. This seemed like the right level of activity for starting life up again.
    **********
    
    My first day at the shelter, a very gregarious woman named Sandy greeted me with a large wave and a loud ̶-;Hello, you must be Penelope.” While I did not have that same level of enthusiasm, I tried my best to match it with all I could muster. It seemed sufficient, as she immediately began showing me around. She began with the obvious, waving her arm where I was standing, explaining ̶-;this is the waiting room.” Then she gestured for me to follow her, moving into the examination room. It felt so much more sterile than the fuzzy brown carpet and red plastic chairs of the waiting room. A man in a lab coat was standing next to a Jack Russell Terrier on the examination table.
    ̶-;Hello there,” he said, ̶-;I’m Frank.”
    ̶-;Nice to meet you.”
    ̶-;Welcome to our family.”
    This seemed too accepting too soon, and so I merely nodded.
    Then Sandy brought me to the cages where the animals were kept. It was a sad thing. These animals, all without owners, were just sitting in cages day after day. Clearly Sandy had already come to terms with the sadness I was now feeling.
     She said only, ̶-;These are my darlings. Aren’t they wonderful? I would take every single one home if I could. I already have four cats and two dogs though.”
    ̶-;That’s a lot,” was all I could say.
    ̶-;Your job will mainly be to clean these cages. I hope that’s okay.”
    In a sharp flash, Sandy jumped into my head and told me I was only cleaning cages, because I too was refuse. This was extremely disturbing, but I immediately took some deep breaths and did some self-talk, reminding myself that it was not real. I hoped Sandy had not been able to discern what I was thinking.
     ̶-;Yeah, that sounds good,” I said.
    ̶-;Great. Let me show you the cleaning closet.”

**********


    I slowly eased back into something like a life. I went to the shelter on two days, the support group on one, and the other two, I went to see Dr. Caroll. It almost felt like a work week, even if it was only a few hours a day. I even began to feel like I was having a weekend, something that disappears as soon as you stop working.
    One day in group, Rod reported that he had been eating even more than usual. He had purchased three packages of donuts and had eaten them all within the span of half an hour. When the visits to my mind got to be overwhelming, I started eating a lot, so I said that I understood and he should not be so hard on himself. I added that ̶-;emotional eating” is pretty common. I asked him if something had triggered him into eating that many donuts. His eyes defocused as if seeing a blurry object far away, and after a moment, he perked up with visible understanding, and he turned to me and said that actually it was his birthday last week. He had blocked that out, as his birthday was a very sore spot for him. Then he thanked me for helping him understand his actions. Bob turned and smiled at me, which I took to mean that he also appreciated me helping Rod.
    Unsurprisingly, making that kind of human connection turned out to be far more rewarding than cleaning animal cages. While I looked forward to my Tuesday night group, I began to dread my two days at the shelter. The staff was friendly enough, but the smell was awful, a combination of animal waste and industrial cleaner. Also something about that place was triggering, people visiting me in my mind far more often than in other places.
    In group one day, Cindy turned to me and told me that my simple Calvin Klein t-shirt with Juicy Couture jeans had real style. I thanked her and told her that her DKNY dress was really cute.
    ̶-;We should so go shopping together!” Cindy said.
    I was still wary of stores, but I wanted to maintain this friendship, as she was the only friend I had who really understood what it was like to suffer. She herself was a victim of childhood abuse. So I replied a vague, ̶-;Yeah, sometime. Definitely sometime.”
    ̶-;Ladies, can we plan shopping another time?” Bob interrupted.
    ̶-;Yes, sorry, Bob,” I said, ̶-;Rod, I was listening, and I think you do have the power to improve your life.”
    ̶-;Thanks, Penelope. I’m not so sure, but thanks.”
    ̶-;You do.”
    **********
    
    After a few more months, I began talking to Dr. Caroll about dreams for the future. For a long time, the future seemed like a gargantuan creature that loomed so completely over my little life that it terrified me. But now I was finally able to peek at it.
    I had finished college, which meant that I should have qualifications for something. I had been a Psych major, which now struck me with sad irony. I had asked myself many times if I had known about my issues somewhere secretly inside me, which had driven me to that major. In general I liked to tell myself ̶-;no,” but the thought persisted.
    I brainstormed with Dr. Carroll what I wanted to do with my life. Now that I had smelled the world of animal shelters, I was pretty sure it wasn’t what I wanted to do. Similarly, I realized that I didn’t want to do anything with my Psych degree. That would mean dealing with sick minds all day, and not in the reassuring context of a support group.
    Dr. Carroll helped me consider what activities I enjoyed in life. I realized what I really liked was art. I planned to attend another painting class in the following month when the semester began. Dr. Carroll was very supportive of that. I identified that I liked fashion and had worked in a clothing store, but I didn’t want my old job back, or any other store in the mall, because I thought it might be a reminder of that incident at Banana Republic. If I wasn’t working retail, there wasn’t much to do with fashion. I didn’t have it in me to try designing, and I didn’t even know how to use a sewing machine. We agreed that I would keep it as a hobby. Dr. Carroll encouraged that hobbies are also important to have. Together we considered if I wanted to do more with art, and we came to the conclusion that taking a class for now was a good start. I didn’t need to fill my life with lots of activities all at once. A gradual process of taking on responsibilities seemed to be the best method of recovery.
    In group, I checked in with everyone about my life plans so far. I would keep cleaning at the animal shelter, because it was something to do, and the visits to my head were manageable. For fun, I would take a painting class. I would see my therapist and come to the group. I received friendly nods after my explanation, and Cindy said ̶-;You are so awesome, so strong, Penelope.”
    Later in that group, Billy and Cindy made a formal announcement. They had fallen in love, and because romantic relationships were frowned upon in the group, they would both be leaving. I was floored. How could I have not known that my other two amigos were in love? I felt happy for them but also a little betrayed. I didn’t let on though, and I congratulated them on their love and told them they would be missed. Everyone else offered similar remarks. With a glint of tears in her eyes, Cindy said to me that she had come to think of me as her ̶-;once a week sister,” and she would miss me so much. I appreciated her warmth, even while being a little hurt. The rest of the meeting maintained the bittersweet tone of their announcement, and at the end we all hugged. As Billy and Cindy left after the meeting, holding hands, I had a flash of desire for love. I hadn’t even considered it for some time. A sick mind has no room for romance. I took this pang to be a sign of health.
    There were other indications that I was recovering. My apartment was cleaner than it had ever been. I even vacuumed. I ventured to the mall and bought a black pencil skirt with the fantasy I would wear it to an important meeting some day. I began studying some art history on my own, specifically the Fauvists for their bold, wild color. I had pleasant conversations with my family.
    I also began considering what would be the best way to reintegrate with my friends. After that failed night out, most of my friends had not made much of an effort to talk to me. They all called at various times, and I had a number of polite conversations, but we no longer had the marathon phone calls we used to have. They were gentle and distant and cordial. At first that was fine. It really was all I could handle anyway. Maybe they sensed that.
    I still did talk to Cammie on a somewhat regular basis though. It wasn’t what it had been, but I could tell she was making an effort, which I appreciated. It became a routine that she would ask me to do things, and I would decline, but she didn’t stop trying. Finally, after about six months had passed, I agreed to have lunch with her. She was so ecstatic at the prospect of seeing me, that I was filled with joy and almost tears. I had a friend who cared that much. This was something undoubtedly good in my life, something lucky.
    At lunch Cammie couldn’t stop talking. We had been in contact, but it seemed that there was a lot I had missed. Her new boyfriend of two weeks, whom she had mentioned to me, had just been accepted to medical school.
    ̶-;I’m dating a man with a real future,” she glowed, ̶-;So much better than those other dead beats. Forget you, Samson.”
    ̶-;Yeah!” I smiled and agreed.
    Then she told me that Terry had gotten engaged.
    ̶-;Seriously! That’s amazing! I haven’t known her to date anyone for more than a few months.”
    ̶-;Well, apparently a month and a half was enough for her. Oh, and Victoria cut off all of her hair. We all tell her it’s cute, but I think it might have been a mistake.”
    ̶-;That’s too bad.”
    ̶-;I know. Anyway Mary is leaving.”
    ̶-;What?”
    ̶-;Yeah, remember Stanley? Her long distance love. Well, she decided to move in with him. All the way in California. I don’t want her to go, but you know, I want her to be happy. We all do. But we’re sad.”
    ̶-;Yeah, that is sad.”
    Cammie paused then, and looked at me, searching for something. Eventually she asked, ̶-;So, how are you?”
    ̶-;I’m good,” I said, and then I reflected and realized this was not a pleasantry. I really was beginning to have a good life, or at least a better one. As bad as things had been, they were at least a little better now. I had a good therapist, a family who loved me, a useful support group, a not always awful volunteer job, and a great friend right next to me, loving and caring.
    ̶-;I’m so relieved to hear that, Penelope.”
    ̶-;Yeah, I am too.”

**********


    Exactly two years to the day that I was admitted to the hospital, I took stock of my life. Everything was genuinely better. I had gone to Xtatic the night before with all the girls and had a great time. I drank, which I wasn’t really supposed to do, but it was fun and nothing bad happened. In fact I finally enjoyed dancing again, rejoining the rhythm I had lost.
    The divide between me and the girls had mostly mended. We never talked about the hospital, as pretending it never happened seemed to make my friends most comfortable. Other than Cammie, they offered zero support around my mental illness, but at least they didn’t treat me differently.
    Things had gone back to normal with my parents too. We talked once a week, every Sunday, like in college.
    I had just gotten a new real job in the gift shop of The Museum of Fine Arts. During my lunch break, I was free to wander the exhibits as much as I wanted. Sometimes the customers would still say things in my head, usually that I was a sub-par cashier, but I was much more used to it now. I had learned how to use self-talk successfully to reassure myself that I was having a delusion and that what I was perceiving was not real. After two years of practice, I had gotten much better at this.
     I still saw Dr. Carroll, but now once a week, who continued to be a great support.
    There was a new issue with MISC, though. Bob had informed all of us that he was moving to Ohio in the following month. He had explained that he always loved the Midwest, had actually grown up there, and he was looking forward to returning. This left the group in question. Would we disband? Everyone agreed they didn’t want to do that.
    Then one day in group, Bob casually suggested that I take up the role as facilitator. The idea of that seemed absurd. I had no credentials. A BA in Psychology was hardly enough. However, Bob reminded me that the group had always been peer run.
    ̶-;I have always been open about my own experience with mental illness. I don’t have a Masters in anything, but I think I’ve been running the group just fine. We are people with mental illness supporting people with mental illness. You’ve been with us for almost two years, and we’ve all seen how much progress you’ve made. I think you would be a great choice. You have always been so supportive to everyone in the group. You’re a good listener, Penelope, and you’re patient. Those are just some of your strengths.”
    All the other members then took turns encouraging me to take on this role.
    ̶-;You’ll be great!”
    ̶-;We believe in you!”
    So I agreed. How could I say no?
    When I got home that evening, feeling really proud, I noticed that my moisturizer was once again in an open kitchen drawer. My first reaction was terror. My mind was falling apart again. This was the first sign.
    Then I took some breaths and used some self-talk. I told myself that things were better and I had achieved so much, that I wasn’t falling apart, that this was just a quirky little thing, and I shouldn’t worry.
    ̶-;Okay, self,” I said to myself, ̶-;You are better, which does not mean you are perfect. You are okay. Don’t worry. You’ve got this.”



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