Quiet Room - Lori Schiller [44]
Again, I knew where the problem lay. It was with the doctors and the hospitals. While I was in Payne Whitney, I had been given shock treatment, lots of it. I knew that because the doctors at New York Hospital told me. That's what had destroyed my brain cells. They had fried my brain, fried me, fried away all my memories.
I was angry. I told the doctors what they had done to me. They always said the same thing. Shock treatment doesn't do anything to long-term memory, they said. They took me downstairs in New York Hospital, gave me tests, measured my responses and looked inside my brain. It's not the electroshock, they said. Bullshit, assholes! I knew better. They had electrocuted the memories right out of me.
It was awful. They had taken away big chunks of my life. Not only could I not remember being in Payne Whitney, there were all kinds of earlier memories I had lost too. Gail Kobre had visited me in the hospital, bringing with her a scrapbook filled with pictures of our time in London. Pictures of us together. In Trafalgar Square. Before the Queen's Guards. Skipping down the street, laughing. I must have been there. There was my picture. But where was the picture in my brain? Zapped. I felt like an outsider watching other people's memories in a movie that had nothing to do with me.
What did I remember from the hospital? I remembered the attendants assigned to be close to me at all times. I remembered the formal gardens, one of the few pleasures I was allowed while I was there. I remembered bingo and pizza nights in the hospital auditorium. But as for the rest, all I had was a mass of fuzzy impressions that bounced around in my head: Sound. Absence of sound. Jiggling keys. The dinner bell. Whispering. Yells. Tranquilizers. Visiting. Out of control. Showers. Walks. Sunshine. Reflections from outside off a freshly plowed snow bank. Mom. Dad. MEDICATION! MEDICATION! Cheek those pills. Tip the scale every Wednesday. Lithium vampires drawing my blood Tuesdays. Faces watching from the nursing station. Two packs a day. The final chapter. Nothing to do. Carly Simon. Babies crying. Me crying. Tears of a clown. Forever and a day. Keys. Escape. Alcatraz. Nothing to do about nothing. A post office mug. Coffee in the morning? Spelled with two Fs, two Es. No thank you. And you're welcome. Blaring silence. Bomber planes. Sky blue. I love you. SHUT THE FUCK UP. Smiling faces. The sixties. Bouncing laughter. Can't breathe. This planet. Too terrified. Charles Manson. To die, they say. To die. Help me. Help me. Help me. Please. Tick. Tick. Tick. Goodbye.
Smash that window.
I can fly.
I desperately wanted to leave the hospital, so every time anyone asked me, I told them the Voices were gone. I would have been stupid to do otherwise. If I told them what the Voices were doing and saying, I would have been sent straight off to a state hospital for the rest of my life. That I was sure of. If, on the other hand, I was successful in convincing them that the Voices were gone, I could go home and live a normal life. What choice did I have?
By this time, I had become very skilled at concealing my Voices. I needed every ounce of skill I had. For days at a time, the Voices bombarded my brain with their nasty, raucous shouts. Concealing the Voices in college had been easy because the episodes were so few and far between. This time, however, it was much harder. The Voices were so much more frequent, so much louder, so much more forceful than they had been before. With practice, however, my concealment skills increased.
Many times they didn't work, of course. If someone addressed me while the Voices were actively assaulting me, there was nothing I could do. The Voices’ power was too fierce for me. There was almost nothing from the outside that