Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [17]
If Nurse Jan and her posse knew I was gloriously grateful for the freedom and securely comforted by the safety provided by two very large, very locked, and very bolted steel doors, they might have transferred me upstairs to the psych floor.
I’d grown up sharing a room with my grandmother to sharing a room with Carl. Finally, I was all by myself. The fact that I was placed on a twenty-four-hour watch stifled my temptation to break into a happy dance, which for me would have been more of a herky-jerky happy dance (there was definitely a reason my mother didn’t name me Grace). Jan would have charted that movement as the beginning of my DTs—delirium tremens.
I eased into my faded black sweatpants and my equally worn-out school T-shirt and purposely fell backward onto the twin bed, a bed I could roll around and over in. A pillow, well, actually rectangle-shaped foam parading as a pillow, but, no matter. I could smash it and bunch it and fold it relentlessly, recklessly. Even the milky-white institutional sheets, grainy like the finest of sandpapers, reassured me of the almost impossibility of slipping out of the bed.
The city's annual Independence Day display squelched my one-woman celebration of freedom. The night belched ribbons of emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. Sizzling colors exploded—some whining and screeching in protest—then pulsated one last time before they surrendered themselves to the sky. I sandwiched the pathetic little pillow under my head and would have been content to enjoy my window view of the fireworks except that I started feeling like lit bottle rockets had thrust themselves into my brain through my ears. Were aspirins allowed in this place? Surely they didn’t expect me to pull myself off every medication. I had no clue how to help myself.
Jan had closed the door almost an hour ago. Now, not only was my head cracking open, but the Nutty Buddy cones were trying to work their way back up. No telephone in the room. Not like I could call room service. Was I supposed to knock on the door to get out?
Between rocket bursts, I heard voices, then laughter. I knocked on the door. It was a pathetic, ninny knock, obviously attracting no one since the laughter continued. The thought occurred to me that they might be laughing and wondering why the blazes I just didn’t open the door. The sour taste in my mouth competed for attention with the brain reverberations. I wanted to pound the door down with my fists, scream, and run.
I felt stupid for being so obedient. Always the good girl. And, wow, if my friends could see me now.
My knuckles vibrated from banging on the door. I paused and heard the measured swish of feet. The doorknob turned, and Jan called my name. She found me, a human lump kneeling on the floor, my butt on my feet, my arms wrapped around my waist, surrounded by vomit.
Journal 3
When I could step outside of my torture, I could see that Carl truly couldn’t understand. That he thought giving myself to him shouldn’t be an act of obligation or disgust, but one of gratitude and anticipation and joy.
Sometimes, I felt his confusion. Yet, as time drifted by, he seemed to care less and less about what I felt. I was willing to admit fault. I couldn’t open my planner and point to a time, a day, a month, or even a year when I could say, “Here, this is the time it started to go badly. Here is the day, and this is what happened.”
No. Even before our loss, it was something so undefined, so gradual, so vague—like a cancer—it metastasized undetected, but, at some point, its malignance made itself known.
To survive the daily dread, the knowing that every night would be a useless struggle with demons, I numbed myself. Over and over and over.
8
Retching up your insides was probably not high on the “Getting to Know You” guide for patient/staff relationships. My putrid mess shocked me, but it didn