Posted by Atticus on August 22, 2004, at 20:16:11
In reply to Re: poem ... Chocolate Milk, posted by Jai Narayan on August 22, 2004, at 9:48:31
This meal took place about a day and a half after I was released from the lock-up ward and less than three weeks after the attempted suicide. Looking back now (and it's not that long ago, actually), I think what most motivated their actions was the fact that they were at a total loss as to why I had done it, what they could do to help, about the nature of my mental illness, and how they could take steps to prevent another attempt. My case is very different from you sister's in one key respect: as I've noted in previous posts, I'm pretty much a complete anomaly in my entire extended family in terms of the art and the writing. In my immediate family, you're expected to say you want to be a lawyer when you grow up. In my extended family, you're expected to say you want to be a cop, fireman, or to adopt a profession along the lines of my cousin Steven, who's a telephone linesman. In short, all very pragmatic professions. So I was seen as a real eccentric even before all this went down. They couldn't believe that someone as bright as me would want to "throw his life away" on something as "frivolous" as painting or writing. (I've often mused on various "switched-at-birth" scenarios where my real family is living in a loft somewhere downtown in the East or West Village.) I'm pretty certain the suicide attempt took them completely by surprise; they didn't know about the years of "rehearsals" and "almosts" like the one described in "The Telephone Just Keeps on Screaming." They didn't know that in the weeks immediately before I did the cutting, I essentially spent every weekend in my pajamas curled up in bed or on the couch with all the shades drawn, getting up only to use the bathroom or force down some food. They did notice the weight drop, but I told them I'd gone on Atkins. So I think in part their reaction came from feeling so blindsided by the climactic event.
Then I think they took the wrong cues from their visits to the ward. I obviously wasn't allowed to shave, even with a little disposable razor under supervision, and the one they brought was confiscated along with my shaving cream, hair gel, belt, shoelaces from my sneakers, and even a Yankees baseball cap, which was searched for hidden sharp objects (as if they'd smuggle in a razor blade so I could finish the job -- ridiculous, but rules are rules). I get the feeling that, since this was their first time visiting someone in a lock-up psych ward, they took all this in and came away with the message that I had to be constantly protected from myself. I had, I admit, regressed to a bit of an infantile state myself due to how carefully our activities were directed on the ward, and as I detailed in "Almost 6," was pretty shaky at our first meeting there. I was at a complete loss myself as to how to explain my illness and why I'd butchered my left wrist and arm. There was no Jai there to say she understood. I had gone from being a somewhat alien being to a completely unfathomable one. Even now, when I tell my mom that I'm having a good day, she'll react by saying something about how she's glad I'm getting better, with the clear implication that this will pass like the flu. Even after about 50 tries, from every angle I can think of, I can't quite get it through her head that the best I can hope to do is manage this for the rest of my life so things never get this bad again -- but I can't control it and no one can cure it. I've kind of let that go because all it seems to do is upset her. My sister's reaction, giving me plastic cutlery, is perfectly in keeping with her utterly pragmatic nature. If she can't do psychotherapy herself, I think she reasons, she can at least mimic what she saw in the hospital and keep me away from sharp things. And I guess since I'm viewed as so unstable, that incident in high school where I cut someone else -- with a saber of all things -- has come back to haunt me. But to be really fair to them, I have to envision what it must have been like the first time they entered my apartment while I was in the hospital. The tea candles and tape and suicide note would all have been there, along with the framed photo of Alyssa. The box-cutter encrusted with dried blood would have been there, as well as the big cooking pot that I had filled with hot water and placed next to me so that I could put my left wrist in it and keep the vein open and the blood from clotting (unnecessary, as it turns out, since I did a pretty massive cutting job). But most of all, there would have been all that dried maroon blood everywhere, sprayed around as I frantically tried to get help. I must have looked like the scene of one of Jack the Ripper's crimes to them. It must have smelled terrible in the heat, since the AC was off. I'm guessing that tableau really slammed home what had happened on a visceral level. I remember my mom saying something about how she and Julie had tried to steam-clean the carpet but the stains wouldn't come out. By the time I got back there to check things out, the carpet had been pulled up and replaced, along with the ruined couch, and they'd scrubbed the place down as best they could. It must have been pretty awful for them to have to pick up that box-cutter and toss it in the trash. I have to give them credit for getting through all that (especially the bloody handprints all over the place, which made it especially personal, I would think). All that was left were, as I've written, the "Spots" of blood spatter they'd missed. All that carnage had to have an effect. I do know that all my steak knives were gone along with all metal cutlery but spoons. I think they just wanted to do something proactive in a situation that was beyond their wildest imaginings. So that's why I low-keyed it at my sister's house (especially with little Christopher sitting there); they were dealing with an alien who had replaced their known son/brother, and this was the best they could do. At the time, I think I saw it as just one more bit of surreal weirdness in a month full of it. Sorry to go on like that, but I don't want to create the impression of insensitivity on their part; it was more a matter of complete confusion, I think. Thanks for listening. These follow-ups are as important to me as the poems because they make me think about why I wrote about a particular topic. At any rate, I'm back to using "big boy" metal cutlery now, although I'm running out of explanations for Christopher about why my arm doesn't get better. I'm just too self-conscious about the scars to leave home without my Ace mummy swaddling. Ta. :) Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:380764
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040729/msgs/381011.html