Thanksgiving 2005, not a good one. Yet it sure is one to put in the memory books that’s for sure. The last fifty two hours prior to say nine a.m. on Thanksgiving is kind of a blur, a fog at best maybe. I know I am going to be seeing my wife but more importantly I am going to be seeing the psychiatrist, the guy that I think is going to determine my fate.
Here I am on the side of the wall. I can not down climb because I have no idea where there is a safe place to put my feet if I were to attempt to lower myself down. A majority cause of climbing accidents happens on the down climb where a climber can not see where to safely put their feet. Up is my only option. To stay, and call for help, well, that’s just ridiculous. So, I stick my arm in a crevice between two rocks. I frantically search above me for another rock to grab onto. There are a couple of flat rocks maybe the size of pancakes but there really is nothing. There are just featureless flat surfaces above me. I actually have a go pro camera on the top of my helmet. It sees that there is nothing to grab on to. Later the video being taken of this event would confirm this fact. If the camera could talk to me it would say, “There’s pretty much nothing up here. Don’t know what to say to you dude but unless you can get your ass a little higher on this wall your’re pretty much fucked.” Technically this is called “Cliffed out.” I can’t go up and I can’t go down. My attitude is, “Fuck that! I am going up. And if necessary I will die trying.”
So what I am going to do is lodge my arm tight into the crevice between two rocks. I test each rock again and again. They are both actually really huge. Essentially they seem to be integral to the mountain. These rocks ARE the mountain yet I still don’t trust them. I test some more.
My feet are on a ledge that is probably four hundred feet above the rock tailings below. There are of course jagged rocks sticking out of the wall that I would probably bounce off of on my way down. The next ledge I can put my foot on is probably at waist level. Attempting this move is fatal. I am thinking I would probably push myself off the side of the mountain trying to get my foot on that ledge. This ledge has a landing of maybe four inches and is slanted downward at about a 45 degree angle. So I am going to ask my bicep on my left arm really nicely if it can do me a favor. I mean a really big favor and that is to raise my body up the wall so that I can get my knees on to that fucking ledge. Once I get my knees onto the ledge there appear to be plenty of options for hand holds on my right side that are within reach. Word back from the bicep is, “I’ll give it everything I’ve got but you only get one shot.”
Similarly, every word I choose to say to the psychiatrist must be carefully considered, vetted, and tested in my head again and again. I’ve seen the movies – both comedies and horror films where the inmate/patient tries to convince the doctor or doctors that they aren’t crazy. I know this is not done by saying, “Look doc, I’m not crazy. Really, I’m not!” I know this is also not done by “trying” really hard to appear sane. To be honest, I don’t have a clue how to convince somebody I am not crazy. By crazy I mean not a threat to myself or others.
However before I meet with the psychiatrist my wife will be coming by. I am hoping we can resolve this. I can go home, we have thanksgiving, and move on. I am also thinking this is probably not in the cards.
They come to get me or call my name or what ever. I don’t remember. And I go to the room on the right of the entrance hallway. My wife sits across from me and the mediator sits to my left. The room seems to be warmly lit. I remember she was wearing a white button up sweater. This seemed to make her look more. . . I want to say older but really I think the right word is “mature” or maybe “grown up.” I did a lot of talking; apologizing, acknowledging my wrong doing, begging for forgiveness. I suppose it was just the same old garbage I was telling her over the phone. I think I went on for maybe fifteen minutes. She didn’t or wouldn’t say anything. The mediator asked if there would be anyway we could come together. I looked at her in anticipation of something soft. And as if the mediator had said nothing at all my wife says, “I want Floyd to go back and learn to love himself.”
I’m thinking, “What the fuck did she just say? You gotta be fucking kidding! Learn to love myself? What kind of new age psycho babble bullshit is that? I am going to go back and learn to love myself. Hmmm. How will I know when I have succeeded. How will she know when I have succeeded? What are the measurables here. If I achieve this lofty goal of “loving myself”, what then? This is so fucking nebulous.” I actually didn’t think these words but the dialog here is the essence of what I was feeling I suppose.
That was all she said. It occurs to me at this point that when this woman is up against the wall or when she sets her mind to do something she will not under any circumstances fail. It’s not that failure is not an option. It’s that failure simply does not exist in her universe. This also means that as an adversary, I don’t stand a chance. At this point I couldn’t see this.
We both stood up, she handed me my suitcase and looked at each other. I asked her if we could hug. She had one tear running down her cheek, left or right, I don’t remember but it was one her cheeks. She just shook her head no and walked out. “I can go home, we have thanksgiving, and move on.” Uh, yeah, right.
I started to feel a little bit smaller in the world. I started to feel a bit more insignificant. I started to feel like I was in the middle of the ocean. And I think I heard someone or something say, “Ahhh, We may have something to work with here!”
Okay bicep, it’s go time. I got called again to see the psychiatrist. This time I went through the door on the left. On the other side was a hallway. Doors on either side of the hallway opened into examination rooms. I was led into one of them. I think I waited awhile until the guy came in. I think we talked a bit. I answered all questions as truthfully as I could. (bicep is doing it’s thing) I gave him my assessment of my behavior and tried to convince him of nothing. I did tell him I have no intention of harming myself. What I want to do is go back and begin working a very serious twelve step program. This was the absolute truth. In fact, I wanted to go back and get so fucking recovered that I could ram my recovery down her throat! I didn’t say this though. Thank you bicep.
He said something like, “When you leave here we have absolutely no idea of what you are going to do. We know what you have done. We know what you have intended to do.” referencing my recent activity. “We need you to sign this statement that says you are not going to commit suicide.”
Once again, I did not say this but thought, “Really? You’re joking, right? I mean I can sign this but what are the consequences if I, say, engage in a breach of contract here. What are you going to do put me on death row?” I did question the purpose of signing such a document. I don’t remember any answer. I am sure he gave one but I don’t remember it. I signed.
With that signature I was allowed to leave. They said they could not take me home and asked me where I would like to go. The bus stop for the bus that went to the airport was the only option. Nothing else came to mind.
I did have lunch there. I had my 2005 Thanksgiving day meal in a psychiatric hospital – an experience I had no anticipation of ever having. I anticipated I would get married one day. I anticipated getting a job, owning a house, owning a lawnmower, and having children. Life sort of goes that way. I go to college, get a job, and come to the part of the story where I meet a girl and we get married. But somehow, “Okay, we have come to the time in the show where we have our Thanksgiving day meal in the neighborhood psych ward.” did not appear anywhere in the script – at least the last time I read it. I had had some pretty lonely Thanksgivings before and even some family drama ridden Thanksgivings before but this one had a certain je ne sais quoi feeling of hopelessness – a quality of desolation I had never experienced before. In fact, I had no idea the feelings I was experiencing even existed.
And of course, on this day. On this Thanksgiving day, 2005, I ate my meal without the thought of gratitude entering my mind. It didn’t exist to enter my mind. We probably said something as a group before we ate but it was lost on me.
I opened the suitcase my wife gave back to me. My cloths and any other possessions were just mashed into the suit case almost as if she was trying to optimize the distress level of the mashing and mangling of cloths. “This doesn’t look bad enough. I know I can do better.” The image of her pulling a shirt out and then putting a belt in and wrapping the shirt around the belt then stepping back to get an over all view as if she was hanging a picture on a wall came to mind. “Hmmm, no, I think it would be better if we wadded up his dirty underwear around his toothbrush. Yes, that looks much better.” My reaction to what I saw in the suitcase was, “Yep that’s about right.”
Under supervision I changed into clean cloths and was escorted out of the psych ward and into a van. I rode in the front seat with the guy for the half mile it took to get to the bus stop. Once again, as I think about it, it amazes me just how close and convenient every thing was. Everything was within the neighborhood. It seems like that could have been maybe a selling point for housing location. Great location for mental breakdowns, conveniently located to a hospital, psychiatric hospital and bus stop. I got out of the van with well wishes from the driver, waited for the bus, and then was off to the airport three days earlier than planned.
My feet are now on the ground at this point. I think I have made a couple of steps and of course the altitude gain is negligible
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