So, The Second 40 and I are doing this photo challenge for the week. Today is distraction. I am distracted all the time, but the game Disco Bees keeps me distracted between distractions.
I love this game. And one of the members of one of my favorite bands, OK Go is one of the creators.
I was 19.
I remember moving into my dorm room at Louisiana Tech. I remember bringing my Macintosh, stereo, CDs, clothes, and personal stuff, but I cannot recall how I got there. This is very strange because I have the best memory of anyone I know, so I must have blocked it out. I didn’t have a car (I didn’t even have a driver’s license). My parents must have brought me. I met my roommates; they were nice enough. They were best friends from a small town outside of Shreveport and were sophomores. They went home almost every weekend. I would catch a ride with the frenemy once we were speaking again. She conveniently lived next door to me: a constant reminder of the person I wanted to leave behind in Shreveport, the Depressed Kerry. I wanted to go to college and start over, but I couldn’t. Depression isn’t like that.
My classes were ok. I made friends. I would hang out with my dorm neighbors and their friend Hillary, who was quirky and I could never decide if she liked me or not. We would end up being lifelong friends (and birthday twins). She got my brand of quirky. On the other side, the frenemy continued to be a basketcase.
On December 9th, my neighbor friend asked me to walk to the Student Center with her so she wouldn’t have to walk alone to the Christian group The Fellowship. I called ahead and ordered a pizza to take back to the dorm. For some reason I wasn’t worried about walking back alone. I was standing under a neon sign the said Pick Up. A tall guy in a green hoodie came up to me and said “hi, I’m Scott Faler” and I half expected him to hand me a business card. I said “I’m Kerry Branton” and he asked where I lived, where I was from, basically my life story in ten minutes or less. My pizza was ready and I said goodbye to this guy from New Orleans and walked back to my dorm (because pizza is always there for you).
The next night the guy in the green hoodie called. He remembered my name and dialed the Tech operator for my number. He called when I was Christmas shopping with friends in Funroe (Monroe), spending money I didn’t have on credit cards that I applied for in the Tech Student Center just to get a free tshirt. After all, what kind of company gives a credit card to a college student who accurately lists their income as ZERO DOLLARS? Once back in Ruston (the town with only a JC Penney and a Super Walmart), the roommates told me Scott called.
A couple of days later, he would come to my dorm room with a video tape and play for me his segment on the 700 Club. I knew of the 700 Club with that TV preacher who looked like the Keebler Elf and prayed for people through the TV. I was skeptical. My relationship with God at this time was strained at best. Before the depression, I had been a Christian for what seemed like forever. I grew up in Shreveport’s First Church of God, going mostly with my grandparents and my mom. I would go to a few different Vacation Bible Schools each summer. When I was 11 I accepted Christ as my personal savior. After that, I would help with crafts at VBS for a few years before the depression sank in. Depression makes it hard to see God, to imagine that there can be a time when the depression will not be there, that God really does care for you. That ANYONE really cares for you.
So, it turned out that Scott had been in a car accident that left him in a coma and he had to relearn to live all over again. I couldn’t imagine it and wouldn’t have believed him if he hadn’t shown me the tape. Was this guy for real? Who tells a girl all this heavy stuff the first time he comes over? He was nice and smart. A few days later I would see him in front of the Housing Office and he said he’d call me after winter break. I had absolutely zero faith in this.
My grades were not good. I had somehow failed remedial math fall quarter. How stupid do you have to be to fail remedial math. I remember telling Will and him just saying “how?” in disbelief. I went home for the winter break and told my family I was fine. Sure I was fine, I was retaking remedial math and barely leaving my dorm room and had gained enough weight to bump up to a size 18. I told my aunt that I met someone and she said “you never know, you might marry him.” Marry him? Kids and all that? It was kind of funny, I guess, but I never really saw myself as a married-with-kids kind of woman. I’d only majored in English Education because friends and family said there would always be a need for teachers and that breaking into journalism would be extremely hard. But I was going to be a writer. I was going to write for Vanity Fair or Rolling Stone, then write the Great American Novel. I was depressed. I was suffering. All great writers had suffered for their art. This was me. This was what I believed.
I went back to Tech after winter break and was back before my roommates. Scott called and asked if I wanted to go to Wendy’s to get something to eat since the student center was closed (and I didn’t have a car and would surely starve to death). I said sure. We met on the sidewalk between our dorms. He lived in Pearce, the smart guy dorm. He drove an Maxima. He now had a full beard and wore a red plaid flannel shirt. Great, a lumberjack. We went to Wendy’s and talked and laughed for three hours. It was the best cheeseburger I had ever had. We started dating. I started going to Campus Crusade for Christ with him and met more people. I was leaving my dorm room more. I met Dana Frusha. We immediately clicked. She was a bright spot that winter and spring. We were in the same major and would have classes together. We would make fun of our advisor and write haikus in class instead of paying attention. But Dana actually passed her classes. And she kind of dressed like a lumber jack. It was the 90s.
I was taking a new load of classes in the spring. I was out of my element. I was taking college algebra and physics. My high school friend Brandy was in this class with me. We sat next to each other on the first day when Brandy said “but you didn’t take high school physics!” after the teacher of the “easy” physics course said “this will be a continuation of your high school physics class.” Oh, hell no. I immediately went to Keeny hall and dropped that class. So, I was down to taking maybe 9 hours. Pathetic. To make matters a whole helluva lot worse, I had moved in with the frenemy because she talked me into rooming with her because her roommate had moved out and she didn’t want a stranger to be moved in with her. Plus, during winter quarter, one of my roommates AND her boyfriend walked in on me in front of the mirror giving myself a self breast exam. Topless. You just don’t pretend your roommate’s boyfriend saw you naked. So, I moved in with the frenemy. I was a glutton for punishment. Seriously. I didn’t know how to say no. I had never learned that skill. It goes without saying that she was the worst roommate ever. I spent most of my time in Scott’s dorm. Sleeping.
One day while in Scott’s dorm room I was sleeping when three guys came to the door saying Scott was getting a roommate. One of the guys with them, helping carry the roommates belongings, was a guy from high school who was good friends with Will. He saw me half asleep, probably without pants. I can’t sleep in pants, it’s a long story – they’re constricting. Scott was studying. He was always studying because he was in engineering. I was never studying because I didn’t care about my grades. I failed algebra. It was summer. Later, Scott told me he had asked the guy who helped his roommate move in about me, since we had gone to high school together. I was sure he told him I was crazy.
Summer came and went. I worked at Talbot’s in the mall until the manager waved to get my attention when an African American couple walked in and she mouthed “watch their hands” and did jazz hands. You know, because only black people shoplift. It made me sick. I quit.
I was 20.
Fall quarter started and I was retaking college algebra. I had a new roommate, Casey, who was a delightful firecracker who loved The Lion King. We had another roommate who snored and drove us nuts. I also took an education class with Dana. It was fun.
One day I found myself in the Student Center with some people. I was eating a taco salad. Guys were playing dominoes rather loudly. Snoop Dogg was singing “Gin and Juice” on the video jukebox that was newly installed. People were talking loudly. The music was loud. The dominoes were loud. My heart started racing. I started to cry. I couldn’t move for a minute, then I got up from my taco salad and ran toward the doors to get outside. I don’t run. Let me repeat that: I don’t run. Once outside, I walked very quickly to my dorm room to have the heart attack I thought I was having. I was shaking. I somehow managed to unlock both the door to the dorm and my dorm room. A few minutes later I was ok. I didn’t tell anyone about it. Big rooms started to bother me and I spent even more time in my room. Then I lost interest in everything.
I went on a retreat with Campus Crusade that I didn’t have the money to attend. My Resident Assistant, Kim May, loaned me the $40 so I could go. We went to some camp place in the woods. I did not like it. I am a fan of the great indoors. There was canoeing. Scott talked me into getting into the canoe. Almost immediately I started to freak out. I was stuck in the tiny boat on open water with my boyfriend. I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t move. I told Scott we had to go back, that I would drown, that I was having a heart attack. I was crying hard. Each tear burned. Scott kept telling me I was ok and there was no reason to be afraid. But I wasn’t afraid. I was shaking. I was convinced I was going to die. I was going to die in a canoe in the woods where they were having a bonfire that night. I would die and they would be singing and making s’mores. But I didn’t die. I got out of the canoe and went to the bonfire with a tear-stained face and made s’mores for the first time in the woods and I tried to act like I was ok. I wasn’t.
Scott broke up with me over nothing. I went to counseling at the counseling center and talked about that. My counselor was getting her masters. She didn’t ask the right questions. I didn’t say the right things. It was pointless. Right before the end of my second session she said she wanted to explore my relationship with my father as being the root of my issues. My father was the hardest working man I had ever known. We didn’t have this adorable daddy/daughter relationship, but I loved my dad and I knew he was only the root of any sense of being grounded I had. I told the counselor to fuck off and left.
I knew something was wrong with me sophomore year. I never felt awake or energized or remotely human. I went to a doctor who we will just call Dr. Quack McQuackterson. I opened up about how I was feeling and the depression, racing heart rate, and all. He kept me in his office for 3 hours, ran tests, talked to me about the importance of taking care of oneself in college and stds. His office called a few days later and brought me back in. He said I had low iron, then showed me HIS OWN brand of vitamins he suggested I buy (in bulk). I left. He didn’t help me. No one could help me. I didn’t know what was wrong with me.
Scott and I got back together. I was on edge most of the time. I didn’t have any money. I didn’t have a car. I was failing algebra again. At some point that quarter my Resident Assistant, Kim, told me to apply to be an RA because I needed a job. She tried to help. I’m pretty sure she knew I was going through something. I got the job for fall quarter. Summer came. I worked as a sitter for a family that was going through divorce. They had four boys. I would babysit when the mother went to therapy and to see her psychiatrist. She told the boys she was going to the doctor. The five year old said his mommy went to the doctor a lot. It was almost time to go back for fall quarter.
I was 21.
I’ve received lots of questions via email, comments, and Facebook messages, so I thought I’d tackle a few this weekend before we start The College Years on Monday. Yay! New characters and a change of scenery!
Are you using your friends’ real names?
Yes. If I’ve used an aka it will be obvious because most likely I’ll reference something about them. And the akas are akas usually because they were horrible people I’d prefer not take up space in my mind or my blog.
Are your friends going to have any quotes in your piece?
If they would like to comment, I would love it. I’m not asking them to because I respect their privacy and that they have their own lives and stories to tell, should they have a forum. Also, this is my story to tell. It’s from my perspective.
Were the “frenemies” real or your imagination?
Definitely real (I’ve never had a hallucination) and definitely two of the worst people I’ve ever known.
Were you diagnosed with depression as a teen?
No, but it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to know I was depressed.
Who is that with you in the prom pic?
That would be Jason.
What was the event that triggered it all?
I’ve decided to keep that part to myself.
Why not give boyfriends’ names?
They know who they were and some of my friends knew them as well. Mostly, they weren’t the best guys and I didn’t have a long term high school boyfriend. A few months was enough for me. And probably for them as well.
Did you have any fun in high school?
Yes, as I said, depression is always there after you’ve had your fun.
I would go to McDonald’s and to Jennifer’s house practically everyday for a year to hang out and watch Days of Our Lives. We had a blast hanging out in Bossier on weekend nights. We sang along to Wilson Phillips in her car. She was great.
We were often with the other Jennifer watching John Hughes classics back when we had to go to Blockbuster. My friends were fun; they wouldn’t have been my friends if they weren’t.
Of course, I had other friends – Jodi, Amanda, Maq, Brandy, and many more. I wasn’t a clique person and was friends with everyone.
Which psych hospital were you in?
Hey, we’re not there yet.
Are you publishing everyday? What is the schedule?
I’m sticking with two main posts on Mondays and Thursdays, then posts like this thrown in if I get more questions.
I was 17.
Over the summer I realized I wouldn’t be graduating with my class. In April I’d had the flu and the chicken pox and missed three weeks of school. All of my classes were incompletes for that semester and there was no way to make up the work I’d missed. I wouldn’t graduate with my friends.
I settled into a new level of depression during my second junior year. I stayed in this kind of depression purgatory I couldn’t escape. In the previous year I learned how to turn the Old Kerry “on” when I needed to. I could turn on the spark that was underneath the depression for moments at a time. Newspaper and art class got the “on” Kerry.
Selling homecoming tickets? ON Kerry
Art piece in the Congressional art competition in which I got to miss school and attend with my art teacher who drove a Mercedes? ON Kerry
Date? Maybe half “ON” Kerry
Volunteering at ArtBreak or the Red River Revel? ON Kerry. A the Revel that year, I was given a box cutter and contemplated suicide for the first time. Each time I opened a box I thought it would only hurt for a minute – I would do it in the bathtub – it would be neat and clean – I could do this – no one cared anyway.
It’s amazing how much you can not care about anything. I was in my own battle of who could care less. Thank you, Ben Folds. And no one knew how much I was struggling daily, hourly, minute-to-minute just to live.
At this time I had two frenemies who were instrumental in beating down my self-esteem. They were the devil and angel on either shoulder, but of course, they were both devils in my case. One would say “oh, you’re too fat for him – you’ve seen his exgirlfriend!” when I mentioned crushing on a particular guy. I was a size 10. Huge, right? Somewhere in that time I started to gain weight and would be a size 16 by my graduation. The other frenemy expected me to be there to pick up the pieces of her failed relationships and issues with her mother. She was truly a horrible person. A pathological liar who slept around, made terrible decisions, and then wanted my advice (which she never took). She would be drinking Robitussin for the alcohol in classes during school by our senior year.
My friends graduated. They were off to college. I was alone. Will went to Arkansas. We would write and call occasionally call (long distance was for real expensive in the 90s), and see each other when he was in for holidays. One of the Jennifers went to Centenary, the other to LSUS and were still in town. But I was alone.
I was 18.
For my birthday, Will and I went to a pet store and he bought me a black and white kitten I would name Figaro. We went to a restaurant called T.S. Station to celebrate my birthday. A restaurant that isn’t there anymore. Like so many other things.
Again, I put everything into my writing and art. I wrote an editorial that was extremely critical of our new sex-ed curriculum, “Sex Respect.” There were graphics of a dog that read “pet your dog, not your date.” It was insulting to teenagers attending a Magnet school. Someone from The Shreveport Times got a copy of it and I was summoned to the principal’s office. I had never been to the principal’s office (except in middle school to have my skirts measured by the skirt police). The principal told me that The Times thought my article was impressive and The Powers That Be were deciding to run a monthly “Teen Times” section in the newspaper. I was as happy as I would allow myself to be.
I started writing for The Times. It turned out they only wanted puff pieces like album and movie reviews, what fads were in, and school profile pieces. Not the editorial hard-hitting stuff I was sold. I was dating a guy, just a guy. At the same time, my art teacher submitted me for a parish-wide extra curricular art class that would end with our art in a museum showcase. We learned new techniques and I loved it. It was a rare bright spot in a black year. Literally.
For the entire year I only wore black. I don’t remember it being a deliberate decision, but it was all I wore. Only my prom dress was green. On Halloween I dyed my signature red hair black. My red hair – the only thing I loved that made me unique – I turned black. I was practically unrecognizable to myself, but no one seemed to notice. I was imploding and no one knew.
At some point in my psychology class we were given raw eggs (to represent babies) to decorate and keep in a basket for a week and bring everywhere with us. How could I take care of an egg baby when I couldn’t take care of myself? I felt as delicate as those eggs. Except my outer shell was becoming more fragile.
Graduation came and went. I was accepted to Centenary, Milsaps, and Ole Miss. I decided on Centenary and their $20,000 scholarship. Jennifer and my friend Christi were there, I would room with Carrie. We would have matching comforters. Things seemed to be looking up, but I was still down and only ON when need be. Then it got worse, much worse. The pathological lying frenemy took something I said as a joke and warped and twisted it into something terribly malicious and told Will and his girlfriend. It drove a huge wedge between our friendship. I wanted to die.
It was my birthday. I was 19. I spent that birthday alone. I was alone.
It was Prufrock:
I was afraid. I hadn’t the strength to force the moment to its crisis. I was in crisis. I had seen the moment of my greatness flicker with my last newspaper editorial and museum showcase. I was afraid.
At the very end of July, a letter came from Centenary saying my $20,000 scholarship was now a $2000 scholarship with no explanation given. That meant I couldn’t attend my school of choice and it was too late to get accepted anywhere else. Except Louisiana Tech University. I applied there on the very last day of admissions. I got in. It was an enormous disappointment. I was an enormous disappointment. I felt as thought I disappointed anyone left who remotely cared about me. Even the frenemy wasn’t talking to me.
I thought about the box cutter. No one was home. It would be easy – just two cuts – I would hardly feel it and then I would be gone. Gone. I just couldn’t cut myself. I just couldn’t. I opened the family medicine cabinet, then a cabinet in the kitchen where my mother kept medication, then went through my parents’ dresser looking for any type of medication that would harm me. I lined up medications on my vanity – sleeping pills, pain pills, whatever else I found. I got a glass of something from the kitchen and sat on the seat of my vanity. Just take one. I took one. Take another. I took another. Take another, you’ll fall asleep, you won’t feel anything, you’ll be gone. I didn’t want to feel anything. I wanted to be gone. I took another. Take one more. I took one more. The phone rang. I closed my eyes and breathed in. I exhaled. I answered the phone. It was Will. He told me he forgave me for anything I said, that we were friends regardless, that it was forgotten. Suddenly I wasn’t alone. I didn’t take another pill.
I slept and I woke up.
I was 19.
Friends (and I think of all my readers as friends),
The warm responses I’ve received from my recent posts have made me very thankful to have each of you. Your comments, texts, and Facebook messages have been amazing. Your words of encouragement have made me absolutely positive that telling my story is not just for me. I thank you for that. And I made y’all a little picture to say “thanks.”
So, how did you end up in a mental hospital is the question, isn’t it?
I’ll say a few things first. This is MY story, by no means am I speaking as an authority on mental illness, but I am an authority on myself. I’ve lived and struggled with mental illness before I knew what it was.
Before people talked about it. Before friends joked about taking their “crazy pills.” Before practically everyone knew someone with a diagnosis. And long before I was ready to write as raw as I plan to in this series. All my life I’ve used humor to hide my feelings. That’s mainly what my blog has always been: an outlet for me to post about whatever was on my mind — be it a new band, a story from my life, blog challenges, and crafty stuff. For the next couple of weeks or however long it takes me to tell this story, this will be a place to read my story. If it’s not your cup of tea, don’t worry, I’ll be back to posting about bands and silly stuff soon. For those of you who will continue to read, thank you for spending a little time with me.
I was 15. I had all of the normal teenage issues – school woes, boy woes, parents that didn’t understand me – all the regular stuff. I had a best friend who became the brother I would pick if you could pick family members. He was wearing an INXS tshirt when we met in Mrs. Mim’s English class the second week of freshman year. I told him I liked his shirt. We always had a musical connection. Will was there for me through all of the good stuff and the bad stuff. He was there on the phone with me until 2am when I was stood up from Homecoming in 1990 by The Most Evil Person in the World. Will was my honorary brother and still is. This was us then.
And then I was 16 when a Very Bad Horrible Thing happened and I was never quite the same. I came home and called Will.
Maybe I’ll write about that one day, but today is not that day.
I had insomnia, my grades were beyond pathetic, I felt this vast nothingness inside. I was depressed. I stayed up journaling and watching 120 Minutes on MTV. I got through each day at school, writing notes to friends and zoning out in class. Except for journalism and art. I poured everything I had into the school newspaper and my art class. Other than writing, art, and music, I had turned off all emotion. I remember writing my name on the front of an algebra test, turning it over and writing the lyrics to “The Killing Moon” by Echo and the Bunnymen on the back of my test. My teacher called me up to her desk after class and asked if everything was alright. It was probably the first time I lied and said “I’m fine.”
My report card would come home and I’d change Ds to Bs before giving it to my parents and I got away with that until now, I suppose. Sorry, Mom and Dad. I didn’t care about anything. I dressed up for school each day and put a lot of emphasis on my outfits and accessories. Nothing shook me anymore. Nothing really phased me. I was just going through the motions of life.
I had good friends who kept me going. I had Will and the two Jennifers. Will and I would discuss the things of the day and crushes we had. He always lent me his jean jacket when I was cold. We would go out and eat Chinese food. I had fun with him. I had fun with the Jennifers and other friends. Depression doesn’t suck out your ability to have a good time, you are capable of it, but it’s always there as a shadow waiting. It’s always there when you go home alone and journal your good time, then buts in and says, “yeah, it was fun, but what about now? What about tomorrow?” You tell depression to leave you alone, but that is exactly what it wants – for you to be alone with it.
I had boyfriends. I dated. I never felt what love was supposed to feel like with any of my boyfriends. I was either with or on the phone with Will or the Jennifers practically every moment outside of school when I wasn’t asleep (or trying to sleep) or out babysitting. I wrote. And I wrote. Writing was the only thing that could save me.
I was 16.
Before we dive into the history of my depression, my diagnoses, and breakdown, I needed to give you, dear readers, a reference point. “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock,” written masterfully by T.S. Eliot is a long poem that I have nearly committed to memory, as well as quoted at different times and wrote my junior year research paper on, and told by a teacher I greatly admired that I understood Prufrock like no one else.
And I do. In fact, it would have served as my suicide note. But we’ll get to that later.
The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown
I’m starting a blog series about my recent mental breakdown, hospitalization, and history of my mental illness on Monday.
It’s going to be emotionally raw and honest and the hardest thing I’ve attempted to write, but it’s my story and I have to tell it. I’m the only one who can tell it. Hopefully, it will shed some light on a much misunderstood topic and help someone out there who is struggling. I’m not a doctor, I’m not a therapist, but I do have a unique experience that, as a writer and all-around creative person, I had to put it into words and get it out there.
Join me Monday, as I begin to peel back the layers of many years of things a lot of you can relate with or know someone who is fighting their way back from the edge (or teetering on that ledge) right now.
Love,
Kerry
Scrapbooking this weekend. This was 9 years ago.
