14: Robin
The fourteenth installment in the "semi-colon" series.
“semi-colon” contains a discussion of mental health struggles. It may not be appropriate for younger readers or those sensitive to candid descriptions of suicidal ideation or other depressive symptoms.
Salads and meth: life, regrets, and death with a new friend.
“It's like I ruined it,” he paused, “like, I ruined every relationship in my life.”
I looked into his eyes and nodded, trying to make sense of this new character.
“Not that I ain’t love ‘em,” another pause, “I just loved as much as I was able to love anybody,” he said, nearly whispering.
I looked at the cold concrete below me.
“Guess your capacity for loving just kind of ran out,” I mumbled to my slippers, afraid of my own response.
“Yeah," the voice muttered from across the table.
We sat in glassy silence until lunch was over.
“I’ve been there,” I responded, as I pushed the teak outdoor chair back under the table.
Truth is, I was there. Still not sure why I used the past tense in my closing line.
“Haven’t we all,” he said as I walked away.
I didn't even know his name, but this was the start of a magnificent friendship.
It was my first full day at HopeWay, my fifth in a behavioral hospital including the 72-hour hold at Davidson.
Meeting Dr. Marsh on my first day went well. We talked about my depression, moods, and suicidal ideation.
Bipolar II Disorder, a condition that causes periods of high energy, confidence, and creativity (hypomania or mania) on the one hand and severe depression and hopelessness on the other. Eternal pain to seemingly unlimited powers in a matter of days. Pretty sensible diagnosis, right?
Remember how I was going to fake my way out of HopeWay? I decided not to. For the first time in my memory, I was completely transparent with my emotions. Weird. Like choosing the slippers, I am not sure why. No shining light from above or a voice telling me to do the right thing. I just had nothing to lose, so I had everything to gain. I did not think about being honest with Dr. Marsh. I just kind of did it.
Her office was lined with medical degrees, along with pictures and letters from previous patients. There was a chance she knew what she was talking about.
“I do not want to sound cocky, but sometimes I feel better than everyone else,” I hesitantly told her. “But more often than not, I want to kill myself,” I added after a brief pause.
“How do you feel now, William?” She said looking into my eyes.
She made sure to say my name after each question or statement. Instead of listening to her actual words, I wondered if repeatedly saying my name was her way of reminding me who I was. It seemed to me that my mind was operating above the standards of normal human beings. I think Dr. Marsh noticed.
After a couple of hours of hearing my history, listening to my responses, and observing my behavior it was time to think about treatment. This would entail both the carefully constructed HopeWay activities on the pink schedule and medication. She prescribed Lamotrigine, a decades-old mood stabilizer, and a dose of Abilify, a newer antipsychotic.
Whoah. Psychotic? I had the same reaction. We will get to the stigma regarding medication in another post. But let me tell you, more people are taking prescribed medications for their mental health than you and I can imagine. Google it.
I wish I knew why my mindset shifted to a place of hope in that first meeting. Maybe just being in the building for a few hours sparked some sort of chance. I had chosen to live five days prior and my suicidal thoughts had receded. I was stuck in this world, so may as well try to be happy through this opportunity. Blue did not have this chance. It would be rude to not give the whole healing thing a whirl.
After I met with Dr. Marsh it was time to get settled in. My parents pulled the car around to the residential entry and we unloaded my bag and the plastic bin of momentos. I bid my parents farewell outside. I chose not to bring my phone but had an iPad I could use to FaceTime then. My mom showered me with affection and prayers. My dad gave me a hug and the words “make yourself proud” – a phrase he’s used since I was little.
The nurses who led me to my room were very nice. They checked my bags for contraband. No nail clippers allowed. The room was comfortable but not extravagant. A large window overlooked the small pond on the HopeWay campus. Some majestic geese were frolicking outside of my window, which I thought was cool. By the time I finished unpacking, it was time for dinner according to my pink schedule.
Walking down the hallway, I found myself in front of the nurses' station. Same vibe as Davidson Behavioral Center. The nurses liked to hang out near the main common areas. There were four halls with residential rooms and several common areas. As my mom would say, the whole situation was “open-concept.” I could see the reasoning behind every design choice. They had a nurses’ station within seven yards of every “hangout spot.”
I felt like a patient for my first few days. This feeling passed, but no amount of decorative vases could convince me I was fine. I sat alone at dinner with Lonesome Dove on the first night and did some people watching in between passages.
Every patient looked like they had just been at work for ten hours. Out of the twenty people, there were different cultures, races, heights, and weights. Some sat alone and some with groups. Pretty similar to a high school cafeteria. Light jazz played in the background. The cafeteria staff was lovely. Eventually, there will be an entire post dedicated to the wonderful HopeWay staff.
But this post is mostly the introduction to my friend, Robin. I first saw him that night in the cafeteria. A big guy, Robin, looked like a teddy bear. His baggy pajama pants were complimented with an old pair of flip-flops. I don’t know exactly why, but I had an immediate feeling this forty-something guy in a hoodie would be important.
After dinner, a few patients introduced themselves to me on my journey back to room 609. Some of them were members of my therapy group, who I will introduce later.
I read Lonesome Dove all night. Seriously, all night. I did not go to sleep. The plastic basket from home included letters my friends had written me, but I decided to wait to read them. When I read those, this was all real. I liked pretending this was nothing but a weird dream. Looking back, some of it still feels like a weird dream.
Despite the lack of sleep, I was brimming with energy the next morning as I found my way to the “window room.” Every patient in HopeWay would gather in this room and set a goal for the day. When it was my turn, I probably introduced myself and said some generic goal. I do not remember what I said.
But I remember Robin’s:
“Just get through the day,” he said with a smile.
It was Saturday and the schedule was relaxed. Turns out behavioral health facilities operate on a five-day workweek. One of the nurses gave us a little pep talk before we flooded out of the room. “Yoga at 10!” she said to the crew. No thanks. For the last five days my focus had been on Blue, Tay, and the characters in Lonesome Dove. Two of the three were gone, so I read my book until lunch.
Room 609 felt like a hotel. There was a scenic framed poster of a lake above the queen size bed. A little chair in the corner allowed me to stretch my legs onto the end of the bed to read. Parallel was a desk, which I was reluctant to use for my first week there. In the bathroom, a shatter-proof mirror hung above a porcelain sink. The shower curtain was thick and cut a little short. I wondered why they designed the shower curtain like that. There had to be a story behind every one of these safety measures.
After a few hours of reading, it was time to venture off into the wilderness and get some lunch. I joined the pack by the door until one of the nurses buzzed us into the cafeteria.
“Hey baby W,” Mary, the wonderful woman serving us lunch, said when I approached the counter. She had introduced herself the night before. I ordered a small salad.
The weather was nice, so a few people were sitting outside at the tables beneath the blue umbrellas. Robin was sitting alone and for a reason I will never understand, I needed to talk to this guy. I needed to go outside.
It seemed he wanted to talk to me, too.
“Hey buddy, take a seat,” Robin said from across the way after the nurse buzzed me to the picnic table area.
The sun shone onto the bridge I had walked over 48 hours earlier. My slippers wandered over to Robin’s table. I sat on the very edge of the chair – like I was ready to hop up and run at any moment.
This is one of those parts of the story where I remember every detail. Every sentence, every pause, and every emotion. Also, I have journaled about this conversation, trying to make sense of it, many times over the past few months.
“Ya think we are all meant to end up here?” Robin quickly opened.
He had some country in his accent, like a character in Lonesome Dove. He sat with his arms crossed over his wide torso.
“Hospital or world?” I said with a shake, not sure how to navigate the bearded man in flip-flops.
The trees swayed as the other patients told stories from the table beside us.
“Probably both,” he said rather sternly.
I did not really think during this conversation. I just kind of spoke.
“Maybe we are all a little too sensitive,” I added.
“Everyone or just us?” he lightly questioned.
“Probably both,” I said with a smile.
At this point, we both decided to ignore our lunch and focus on the conversation.
“I think about how it feels to die a little too much,” I admitted, surprising myself.
“How old are you?” Robin asked. My bluntness surprised him.
“Eighteen, what about you?”
“A few years from fifty, but I ain’t tell how old my brain is.”
“Guess your mind is a little ahead. I am hoping mine will catch up,” I said to the sky.
“You smarter than me. I think you already know though,” Robin joked with a little smile.
“I have a D in physics,” I said shyly, not sure how to respond.
“I don’t know shit about Physics,” he paused, “But, I like Newton.”
“Why?”
“He was a damn lunatic,” he said in a mysteriously serious tone.
The other patients had gone inside. The wind had started to move. The winter air left us alone.
“Isn’t that bad?”
“Buddy, it is perfect,” he said with a smile I will never forget.
There were a few moments of silence. My cold hands reached for my ginger ale. In the middle of my chug, he interrupted.
“Why are you here?”
“Almost killed myself, but didn’t,” I mumbled.
I was surprised by his question. I expected there was some etiquette in asking why and how a person needed to be here.
“Why you ain’t?” he said, now looking into his own hands. “Kill yourself, I mean,” he added.
“I have sisters. Twins. Too young.” That was all I could come up with. He just nodded.
“What about you?” I asked. He asked me first, so I could not help myself.
“Meth. Twenty years. Clean now.”
That was all Robin could come up with. I just nodded. His drug usage kind of freaked me out, but his sobriety made me respect him. Wasn’t I supposed to be afraid of meth heads? But there was something about this guy. I was not quite sure what to say about the whole crystal thing. So, I opened up a little more.
“Ya ever feel like you are just waiting to die?” I asked.
“No,” he looked down.
My question, somewhat awkwardly, did not land the way I wanted it to.
“Usually wish I died yesterday,” he responded after a few seconds.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. It felt like I already knew this guy or I was talking to myself.
“Have you ever ruined something?” He broke the tension.
“Probably myself.”
“Well, that’s fixable. Ya ever ruined something that don’t fix.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like I ruined it,” he paused, “like, I ruined every relationship in my life.”
“Robin” is the fourteenth in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis, and healing. To join the nearly 4,000 followers of semi-colon and automatically receive the next installment please subscribe:
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Amazing. Again. I find myself "saving" your new entry like fine china. I read it when I am the least distracted and can focus. Each entry is like a book that I don't want to end. Maybe there is some metaphoric truth to that. Out of respect for your truest emotional depictions and vulnerability....I read your story with an authentic sensitivity. Thank you for sharing. You are so brave. KEEP GOING.
Willam, you have such courage and commitment to continue sharing your story so openly. Your are making so much difference in the lives of people with similar struggles and in the lives of people trying to understand those struggles. As you relate each setting and conversation in descriptive detail, I can picture your experience. You are incredible!