The Scariest Essay I Have Ever Written
I still see her. I see them all.
But she stands out in my memory. The word “spitfire” is overused but I saw her studying me when I climbed into the car. And my first thought: spitfire.
She was tiny – gorgeous – impeccably dressed and innately curious, early - 70s, but looked 50. She had a name that could alternatively be a man or a woman’s name.
Later, she said she wondered when she first met me if I were one of the patients or employees because I reminded her of Julie the Cruise Director from The Love Boat TV series with my upbeat attitude.
But I was one of the patients. We were at a high-end psychiatric facility being chauffered from appointment to appointment. Depression had gotten ahold of me.
She was a west coast blue blood. Goggle her name in those days (five years ago) and she was listed as one of the most powerful woman in this large west coast city. She had founded a huge cultural arts organization and in the two weeks we spent together 24/7 she would regularly receive emails from some impressive luminaries.
Once, she asked if I wanted to join her for dinner with Anita Hill and Gloria Steinem but then she copped out at the last minute. To say I was a “little bummed” would have been an understatement.
She truly wanted to die. She kept telling me this as if she were stating she wanted to brush her teeth. But she told me this in between silly conversations. There were nights she crawled onto my bed pajama-party style and we watched fascinating documentaries on my computer. We learned later this co-mingling in bedrooms was not allowed, but the staff seemed to overlook it for us because they realized how therapeutic it was for both of us! They would hear GALES of laughter coming from my room – not a bad sign from someone who regularly stated she wanted to die.
I didn’t necessarily want to die, but my depression was spurred by something recent and situational and from a brutal past I had kept at bay until I was 50 by control-freak behavior and perfectionism.
One night, we could not figure out how to open the clothing dryer door (she admitting she had a laundress since she was a child) and we pulled and pulled until we fell backwards on the floor. It wasn’t until I discovered we were pulling from the wrong side of the door that we broke out into very loud laughter - not a common noise around there. Sam had such a raucous laugh!
We were at luxurious Victorian home with 10 patients on the campus of probably this country’s best-known psychiatric facility located in the Northeast. We each had our own bedroom and bath, drivers to drive us to appointments on campus and a private chef. The 10 “patients” were each more fascinating than the next, and we would chat at dinners around the table. One man from South America had an international business that employed 20,000 people. Another was a resident of a long line of a wealthy family from Mexico City. One young adult’s family brought Wagyu beef to America. My friend “Sam” (in addition to her own illustrious groundbreaking career in the arts) had esteemed judges in her family, including a direct connection to the Supreme Court. One of the patients was a cast member on one of the most popular TV shows in the history of American television.
I tell you this not to name drop, but to emphasize MENTAL ILLNESS does not pick and choose. It should not be hidden from society as something akin to syphilis. We had the most amazing conversations around the lunch and dinner tables. This was decidedly NOT “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
These are REAL normal people!
This essay will be a series of others to come, and I will discuss in a future essay the disgrace of our current mental health system in the US. I have been grateful and very lucky to attend a few private pay facilities (and some not) and most of what else is available is an abomination – or there is not much long term.
I have debated for years whether to talk about this. I have met the most amazing people who exist on this Earth in the last few years because I have travelled this route– they are to a person immeasurably accomplished, hearts made of the finest gold, lives met with tragedy upon tragedy. Their stories (albeit identities disguised by me) need to be told. And…..though I can’t share what happened to me in my early years and to protect a family member who needs to tell their own story, I am jumping right into this truth-telling mission.
Judge me. Go ahead.
But back to Sam.
We kept in touch. She had a suicide attempt after she left but survived. We would write long, very deep emails to each other and I would constantly remind her that one day she'd show me around her city an we'd share a gin and tonic.
In her own misery, she would find the strength to offer me advice. I still have her emails. I literally printed them out and put them in a binder. She went to another longer term facility – she still wanted to die. Her sister kept encouraging her to contact me as well, remembering the laughter we once shared.
I had a dip in my own mood that summer. I felt that I would make her worse with continued correspondence. I stopped sending her emails.
My sister-in-law convinced me to take a trip with her that Fall to my bucket list item – the Cotswolds in England. I summoned everything I had and went (gratefully). Upon arriving home that weekend, I opened the New York Times.
Sam was dead.
Here is a person who accomplished so much her in her life and was beloved by so many people that her death warranted a huge column across the country from where she lived. She had a husband, children and grandchildren who adored her. "It was intractable," her dear and once desperate husband wrote to me. Intractable.
She wanted to die. And that was that.
Andrew Sullivan calls depression “The Noonday Demon.” Clinical depression is not like “I just don’t feel like going out to eat today.”
It’s like opening your eyes in the morning (if you were lucky enough to get some sleep) and saying to yourself “I can’t believe I have to do this the fuck again.” It’s like being in the most magical beautiful place and only seeing gray. It’s acknowledging how goddammed lucky you are but only feeling worse because your mood doesn’t match the luck.
I have more people to talk about. I love people, so I am a sponge. Their stories need to be told. I have outed myself in doing so, so bear with me because I feel vulnerable.
To be continued……
But this one is dedicated to “Sam.”
(Future person essays will come from all different facilities and demographics.....this disease doesn't pick and choose based on power or wealth.)
