Quiet Room - Lori Schiller [64]
He made me take off all my clothes and lie on the ground. Then he climbed on top of me. I was crying and trying to explain to him that I was a virgin, and afraid. But he either didn't understand, or didn't care. He tried to penetrate me anywhere he could.
Miraculously, he couldn't do it, no matter how hard he tried. Finally he got up from on top of me and helped me get dressed to walk back to the hotel. As we crossed the field, he kept telling me to say that I loved him and hold his hand. I was repulsed and frightened and angry. He wanted to kiss me, but I felt like throwing up.
As soon as I spotted the hotel, I began to run. “See you tomorrow!” he shouted at me as I bolted.
Back in my hotel room, I took off every single item of clothing and threw them in the trash. Over and over I bathed myself, taking shower after shower and bath after bath in the hopes of cleansing myself. I felt gross and dirty and filthy.
I was in one piece physically, but scattered into a zillion pieces psychologically. My head reeled with the punishments my Voices and my wild imagination wanted to inflict on Mohammed. I would pin him to a tree and castrate him. Or force him to cross a field full of land mines.
Terrified, I decided I needed to talk to Dr. Rockland. I sneaked down to the reception desk. The people could barely speak English. It took what seemed like hours to place the international call. Then I heard the phone ring. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four … and then his answering machine picked up. I was so nervous all I did was say my name, and that I was in trouble.
I returned to my room to hide. I was still hearing crazy Voices, and I was afraid Mohammed would return. My flight home wasn't scheduled till Saturday. I spent the next three days in my room in tears, afraid to leave. When the phone rang, I wouldn't answer it. When someone banged on the door, I wouldn't open it.
That was the beginning of the end for me.
I went back on the Thorazine while I was still in Morocco, but I stopped being diligent about taking it. I hated taking it. It literally made me sick. It made me feel dopey and heavy and on the verge of being comatose. And the Thorazine had so many side effects that I wound up taking more and more medicine to counter them, and all the drugs whirled around and around in my brain like a hurricane.
After I got home, I began to feel reckless. In addition to the Thorazine, Dr. Rockland had prescribed Nardil, an antidepres-sant. It was a kind that belonged to a family called MAO inhibitors—Dr. Rockland explained it to me in one of our endless safe conversations about medicine—that required a special diet. No cheese, no chocolate, no caffeine, or else the blood pressure gets out of control. I began showing up at Dr. Rockland's office after a big meal of double-cheese pizza, Diet Coke and M&Ms, which I would proudly disclose to him.
I began to feel bolder. I careened up the winding Old Mamaro-neck Road at top speed. Sometimes I drove off the road, but who cared? Life was awful. Life on the edge was no worse. I hated being sick, hated being myself, hated every hour of every day. What difference did it make?
When Dr. Rockland suggested the hospital again I was furious. I told him I would definitely kill myself before I went back in that place. He told me he thought I already was trying to kill myself.
It would just be for a short time, he promised me. Just for a week or so, just to “adjust my medication.” I would feel better, he said. He tried to be soothing. Mom and Dad chimed in. Just a short stay, they all said. Nothing like the last one. You aren't sick like you were the last time. You just need a little help.
So finally I agreed. I signed myself back in to New York Hospital. Within a week of my admission, Mom and Dad brought me a letter—from New York Hospital. They were offering me the job I had applied for before as a mental health worker.