Page 144 of Tear Me Apart
The courtroom was closed, no reporters, no witnesses, just my mother, the psychologist, the lawyers and the judge.
The judge felt badly, you could tell. Her reading glasses on a cord around her neck reminded me of my stepfather’s last red grin. I managed to keep that to myself. She droned on and on, tapping a pen on her blotter. She was pretty. Her forehead furrowed when she talked.
It all boiled down to this: There was nothing she could do. A man was dead by my hand. I had to be punished.
When she’d seen the row of cuts on my forearm, the psychologist who’d examined me figured out pretty damn quick why I had a razor blade in my hand when I’d happened upon my stepfather trying to rape my little sister. On the psychologist’s recommendation, the pretty judge sentenced me to inpatient treatment at Middle Tennessee Mental Health Institute for a period of no less than twelve months, to both punish my sins and help me right my ship.
For reasons unknown to us all, the pretty judge allowed me to spend one last night at home. I took advantage of the situation, slit my left wrist. This time, I used a kitchen paring knife. Better blade.
Do you blame me? I mean, I would much rather be dead than incarcerated with a batch of psychos.
My sister found me. The irony is not lost. She screamed for my mom, who was in the kitchen, alone, drinking Chardonnay from a large glass. Mom rushed me to the hospital though she shouldn’t have been driving, and the folks in the Emergency Room stitched me up, cooing softly all the while. The things I remember from that night are so strange. The pain of the blade; the cries of my mother, the gentle voice of the nurse; the flat, sharp eyes of the psychiatric resident, his no-nonsense, dispassionate shrug when I screamed.
Without a second chance to pack my things, I was admitted to the psychiatric ward. The hospital was informed of my upcoming incarceration, and my delicate condition, and it was determined I would serve my term there in University Hospital instead since I was already on site. There were people my age, and the intake nurse knew the judge well and put in a word for herself as a guardian of sorts.
I remember so little about those first few days.
The sting of the needle injecting me with liquid calm.
The roommate.
But the rest... I remember it all.
And I know all the letters by heart.
Especially the last one.
I hadn’t heard from her in a long while. V always got quiet and disappeared; it was just her MO. Then she’d pop back up.
I didn’t encourage her to stay in touch. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be friends anymore. She just reminded me of the worst time of my life, a time I wanted to forget, to bury. I didn’t want my sordid past affecting my life anymore.
But when she wrote me that last time, I had to help.
She was so disturbed. Depressed and unhappy and desperate to be free from this world. She wanted Mindy to have a chance at life, though. She wanted Mindy and Zack to be happy. I tried to help her. Truly.
I suggested she check back into University Hospital STAT. She refused. “I will never go back there. Never. But you can help me. You can help me go, and make sure the baby is all right until Zack comes back.”
It took some convincing, but I agreed to help.
Who could walk away from their child? No one in their right mind, certainly.
She didn’t deserve Mindy. I did.
87
July 2000
Dear Liesel,
I need to talk to you. I’m having a really rough time. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Or, I do, but I don’t understand. This is supposed to be the happiest time of my life, but it’s like I’m sinking, drowning in a deep lake of black. No matter what I do, I can’t get my head above the water, and I’m gulping down mouthfuls of hate and sorrow. I don’t know how to handle this. I am so tired of the blackness, of the sadness, of the horror of pretending to be a happy wife, a happy mother-to-be. I just want it all over. I’m alone. I am so tired. I need the baby out of me. I can’t take being pregnant another minute. I can’t take any of it. I don’t want this. I don’t want this life. Getting pregnant was such a mistake.
And Zack... I can’t stop thinking that there is always a chance he’ll ship off and never come back, that something awful will happen to him. He’s already been shot once. He says he’s going to resign his commission, but he’s an intelligencer through and through. I bet he won’t be able to. And if he dies, then I’ll be alone with a baby.
The medicines don’t work. The doctors care, but all the talk and compassion in the world can’t change me. It is my genetic makeup, not my fault. I stopped taking the meds when I found out I was pregnant, and I’ve been sinking deeper and deeper. I’ve tried using them the past few weeks, but it’s too late. They’ve never worked right anyway. They’re pointless.
The baby kicks inside me, letting me know she doesn’t care whether I live or die, just so long as she can be born.
She should have that privilege. Me, I just want to get her out of me. I want to move on, at last.
