MAGNUM OPUS OF A MENTAL HOSPITAL INDUCTEE

Crazy memorabilia from that November: a construction paper-made turkey with a jelly worm as its waddle… crocheted scarf with its sixth row ripped out, tied in knots…empty sweet-and-low packets with daggers crudely drawn on them with pen…Susan’s address for when I got out.

My college was having a choir concert that I was a part of and I begged to go. “I’m well,” I said. “I’m well enough to go” – but when I stepped into the chapel basement, in a sea with a hundred other students, I began to shake and the Hallelujah chorus went straight out of my head.

They picked me up at the side door – I couldn’t even make it on stage – they ushered me gently into the van and drove me back to the fifth floor. I ran into the dayroom where Ricky mournfully played his guitar and Susan read her romance novel and described to the nurses her illicit affair with the hero with jet black hair, Ravenstock.

Instability never felt so good.

They spun me out after a month, a raging child returning to what normal should be – not in the shadows anymore, not a name so great and destined, but a somebody who would have to flail against the tide coming toward her, praying and singing the song I’d forgotten:

Kyrie aleison.

08/20/2004

Posted on 08/20/2004
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky