Every Day, for Three Years

My hands tremble again as I try to open a prescription. More Valium.
It’s the same as it always happens—the complete fear, the loose-jointed-hanging by a thread over a large hole. And then the sweat, the racing heart, the distorted perception of my peripheral, and I can no longer feel. Self-mutilating is often the cure for this, but I’m becoming too heavy in the drugs. I shake more as suicide creeps into the back of my mind again. My psychiatrist calls this dissociating. I call it Thursday.

Jillian Audrey Design
Jillian Audrey Design

Another day in these rooms, pacing (lots of pacing). I spend most of my time alone. I say it’s because of this and that, and this, but the truth is I’m afraid—afraid I’ll bump into someone who once knew me and they’ll wonder what the fuck happened, and the rumors are or are not out there anyway. I may be paranoid, but I’ve seen their faces. Really, I didn’t want to see myself mirrored in their eyes—the same look of uncomfortable politeness, pity maybe, because maybe they’d already heard—and beneath that layer, the look of loss. As if seeing someone that never really came back.
So here I shake in my shelter I’ve patched together and I make tea. I pace more and more, waiting for something to end, because I can’t accept quite yet that madness happens on a continuum. I debate going to the hospital again, but really what else can they do for me. What else can they possibly do except tie down my wrists so I don’t do it (metaphorically), secure the over-the-counters and scripts, keep me away from glass and others. But I have a shred left in me that will allow me to do this myself—this tiny fucking thread that is my bridge

raceytay @ etsy
raceytay @ etsy

between despair and hope. And ‘hope’ isn’t that pretty-looking either. Hope is believing you won’t lose control and take that little pink razor. Hope is knowing you’re not quite that insane yet, so you have to stay at home alone, and pray to the god of Time to make haste and speed you along through the dark–through the carnival tunnel of the stuff nightmares are made on. Hope knows no faith, it is merely the least dark of the shadowed corners where the voices in your head are coming from. It’s like being in Limbo, where heaven is the speed getting turned down a notch so you can rest your spinning head, knowing you just made it another day. Hell is the cracking inside your skull, the matter of the brain no longer signaling right from wrong, pain and comfort. There is no God, there is nothing that can comfort you, and you have to give up, essentially, and hand over your own keys to yourself because you can no longer protect that self. Love yourself? Shit, that’s a delicacy.
And so it goes, like this, every day, for three years. I lived like that for three years. With a young child to bear witness. And I’ll forever wonder how I damaged her.
I make it up to her every day, I try, when I’m not slipping across the moods and concentrations. But I can’t make this about her. Not this one. I’m not ready. It hurts too much.
There weren’t too many days I didn’t cry, but on those rare days, it only allowed for clarity to reveal to myself what I had become. I don’t know how to put into words what I was. I

Lupen Grainne
Lupen Grainne

imagine my family would say I was the walking dead. A time bomb. A starved child. Who knows. I can at least say I made it through three years of the Dead Zone. That’s something. Yet it only means something to me. I want it to mean something to others. I feel like I wanted to wave my victory banner and scream and spit and punch yelling “Hey I made it!” Madness is the loneliest place in the human race. The loneliest place.

Images by Heather Jacobson

6 thoughts on “Every Day, for Three Years

  1. ” My psychiatrist calls this dissociating. I call it Thursday.” – brilliant line. I agree totally re madness and I wish I could wave a wand for you. You are brave, whether you see it or not.


  2. When I read this I thought the same thing…dissociation. My writing is as such when I dissociate–it’s written so differently, with such a different feeling. It’s amazing that in such a state there is so much more feeling conveyed even in the midst of feeling nothing (yet everything) at all.
    I guess I just wanted to say that I get it. I’ve never been in your shoes but mine are strikingly similar.
    And on a different note, I don’t know how old you are but all throughout my 20’s I was in and out of psychiatric wards. I always found hospitalization a safe place. I was safe from myself and it took so much pressure off of me. I never told anyone about my trauma back then. I wish I could have. Somehow I survived through all that and while I still struggle it’s a much different place.


    1. It’s nice to meet someone whose been there. I’m 33. Hospitals felt same for me too–haven’t been there for a few years. Thank you for your comment. Gives me hope


      1. ❤ ❤ well hope is a good thing. I haven't been hospitalized since before I was married. Last fall was about as close I've come and I'm not sure how I avoided it. I so related to what you wrote as I am so utterly isolated–self induced isolation. I didn't even know I dissociated until I started therapy. I had no clue I had ptsd until I started therapy. I still can't really admit I have ptsd, not even to my hubby (but he knows–he never asked why, who, what or where–I couldn't explain to him anyways). I am thinking I would be totally dysfunctional and crazy without dissociation. Back to cleaning for me…ughhhh.
        Take care



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