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Have you ever given any thought as to how
words can mean different things? Bat can be both a flying mammal and a
hardwood stick used to strike objects or the action of that striking. Bad
can mean good. Sometimes a word can have the exact opposite meaning that
one expected. And sometimes, that opposite can be the difference between
happiness and despair; between life and death.
* * * * *
The wind howled through the
trees, a desolate sound of misery that dampened my already dark spirits.
I stared out the window at the cold, gray sky; seeing my own soul in the
colorless, dreary day. Behind me, my living room was as dark and empty as
my own existence. There was no laughter or light in my life; merely the
everyday boredom of being. Each day was the same as the day before. I
got up, ate breakfast, went to work, returned home after the sun had set
and slowly drifted to sleep with the mindless droning of the television
set dancing lights over my frowning face.
Monday was the same as Tuesday
was the same as Wednesday, which was the same as each day before and the
future, I was sure, would unfold as certainly and as mundane as each prior
day had been. The old saying held true; only a crazy man would do the
same thing each day and expect a different result, and by that definition,
I was crazy.
Each day I awoke, the television
set still talking to me and each day I expected that today, this day,
would be better than the day before. I expected a change in what
happened; a change in my happiness, without a catalyst for that change.
And, of course, that change never materialized.
I turned from the window and
settled onto the couch. The television, my one true friend, talked to me
and sadly, I talked back. I laughed fake laughter in tune with the laugh
track of the situation comedy I habitually watched and I shook my head at
the inane antics of the my fake, television friends.
And before the sun disappeared
below the horizon, before the gray sky grew black and the stars appeared
with the fading clouds, I was asleep, dreading another day.
* * * * *
Breakfast was the same as the
breakfast the day before. Hell, the day was the same as the day before.
Nothing every changed. Time went on, oblivious to the misery around it
even though time itself sometimes served to amplify that same misery.
Life went on, a little less
meaningful and a lot less tolerable than the day before.
Wistfully, I could only think,
one day it will end.
* * * * *
Christmas came and went as it
had for a decade. I sat alone watching television; watching syrupy
holiday specials that made most people feel loved and special. They made
me feel queasy. The tripe served to amplify my feelings of loneliness and
depression; seeing what other families had while I had none. It was
misery by disassociation, I supposed. I swallowed, shook my head, and
made my way to my lonely, empty bed.
The house was empty and cold. I
set the alarm for work the next day. My coworkers appreciated me; I
always worked the day before and after Christmas, leaving them the luxury
of having the time off to spend with their families. My mother was long
dead; having died when I turned twenty and my father had disappeared from
my life long before I reached my teens. My wife had left me about the
same time I realized that alcohol was less of a drink and more a friend.
A cold, brutal friend, but a friend none-the-less.
I fell asleep thinking how nice
it would be if I just didn’t wake up.
* * * * *
New Year’s came and with it the
same thoughts I had had the last few years. This year will be better. It
always seemed easy to lie to yourself when you see the happiness in the
faces of the masses standing in the cold New York City streets and
listening to the ever-young face of Dick Clark talking animatedly and with
obvious pleasure about the coming year.
And as I fell asleep on the
start of another day, I knew I had lied to myself again. This year would
not be any better than the last. It would be the same. No, I reasoned as
I listened to the aches in my body, it would be worse. Age will slowly
catch up to me and my body would slowly fail.
Something else to not look forward to.
* * * * *
It was Friday afternoon when my boss
called me into his office. He looked at me with sad eyes; eyes that
reflected my own dark mood. He slowly shook his head as he said slowly,
“life sucks.”
I echoed his sentiment.
Continuing, he said, “We are going to have
to let you go. We just can’t afford to keep all of our departments
operating at full staffing. You have been here a long time and there will
be a nice severance package. It’s better than nothing,” he said as if in
consolation, shrugging indifferently.
I forced a smile and muttered something
about understanding.
Life shit on me again. Seems like no
matter what life threw at me, I found a way to fail.
* * * * *
What was there to look forward
to?
Nothing.
What was there to live for?
Nothing.
It was decided.
* * * * *
The pills were small but they
held the promise of sweet relief. I smiled a real, non-forced smile for
the first time in years as I swallowed the first little parcel of
release. A second followed the first, a third, a fourth, another and
another and another. I lost count of the number of the little cowardly
pills I swallowed. I felt my mind grow hazy and my eyelids become heavy.
I picked up a small glass and as I brought it to my lips the world went
dark.
* * * * *
“eel e oay.”
A sound in the haze.
“oo. Et e oh ef eer is anny
ange.”
Darkness returned.
* * * * *
I opened my eyes and groaned. I
was lying on my back staring up at a drop ceiling with dark bands holding
the ceiling tiles in place. I heard the gentle bleeping of a heart
monitor to my right and I shifted my head to confirm what my ears had
heard. An I.V. pole rested next to me and a thin tube ran to my arm. I
tried to lift my arm and found myself strapped into my hospital bed.
My tongue escaped my mouth to
scrape over my teeth, a protest to my arid mouth. I was thirsty. I
pulled against the bonds that held me immobile and wondered why I was tied
to the bed.
Then it came to me; I had tried
to kill myself and had obviously failed at even that. Somehow I had been
found and brought to the hospital where I had been treated. The straps
holding me to the bed were there to prevent me from again attempting to
end the pain that seemed to be amplified now that I had not been
successful in killing myself.
I began to cry at the
realization that even in death I was a failure.
* * * * *
A voice reached my ears and my
eyes snapped open. Next to me stood a woman of average height with dark
brown hair and a cherubic face. She was wearing light green scrubs often
worn by hospital employees. It was her eyes that commanded my attention,
however. Big and brown and full of life that they lit up the room with
their depths and underlying intelligence. She was smiling and when she
spoke her tone was soft, like she was speaking with an unruly child, “how
are you feeling today, Dennis?” She asked again.
I swallowed heavily and said,
“Fine.” I wasn’t fine, of course, but in polite society that was how you
answered that question. I was miserable and tired and sore and trapped in
the bed by heavy straps and worst of all I was alive, a brutal reminder of
my failure in everything I tried.
She tilted her head and said
nothing. But the look in the dark orbs of her eyes said to me, “I know
you are lying. Why don’t you tell me the truth?”
I watched her as she checked my
I.V. She eyed me curiously and said, “I’ll be back with your dinner
shortly.”
“Thank you,” I said without
thinking, polite society once again controlling my actions. Seems I was
the only person that couldn’t control how I acted.
She left the room and returned
about an hour later with a small tray in her hands. She set it on a
mobile cart and pulled a chair to sit next to me. She sat and said,
“Hungry?” She still sounded motherly.
“Yes.”
I watched as she raised an
eyebrow, “good. Ask me to feed you.”
“Would you feed me please?”
“Call me Ms. Collette.”
“Please feed me, Ms. Collette.”
“That’s better.”
She fed me the bland hospital
fare. I was still hungry when my plate was empty and still thirsty when
the large glass of straw-fed water was gone.
“You did very well,” she said
and I wondered why I needed to hear her praise.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be back later to check on
you,” she said as she took her feet and left the room with my empty tray
in her hand.
I could only wait for her
return.
* * * * *
The sky outside my window was
dark; the sun had set on another useless day in my useless life. My head
throbbed and my mouth was dry. I swallowed heavily, feeling a large lump
in my throat.
Collette returned to my room and
asked how I was doing.
“Fine,” I lied. “Can I have a
drink of water?”
She ignored me and I found that
to be surprisingly rude.
“Please, can I have a drink of
water?”
She did not even acknowledge my
request.
“Ms. Collette, can I have a drink of
water please?”
“Of course,” and immediately she
brought me a paper cup of water with a straw. She held the straw to my
lips and I drank deep. My throat opened as the cool liquid slid down my
throat.
“Thank you.”
She smiled at me.
Lesson learned.
* * * * *
The morning brought another
headache and still no peace to my tired mind. I had sought the release of
death and had found even that denied to me. The only bright spot in my
day was when Collette would visit me to feed me or to check on me. My I.V.
had been removed but the straps and catheter remained. The catheter
permitted the straps to be a permanent fixture to my anatomy. Collette seemed
to enjoy my plight, bound helpless into my hospital bed and on occasion
she had lightly tickled my helpless feet just to see me struggle in my
bonds.
“Very nice,” she had said once,
though I gave it no thought.
She was, still, the bright point
of my current existence and I enjoyed every fleeting minute she spent with
me.
Twice a day a psychiatrist came
and chatted with me for about half an hour at a time. We talked about
trivial matters and I often wondered where the conversations were going.
Still, it was nice to have company. I talked to more people in the
hospital than I ever had before.
* * * * *
“When am I going to get out of
here, Ms. Collette?” I shrugged as much as my bonds would allow in emphasis.
“When you are no longer a danger
to yourself.”
“When will that be?”
“That’s up to you,” she answered
cryptically.
“When can I be untied?”
She laughed then and crossed the
room. She bent forward until her lips were inches from my ear. I could
smell her perfume, sweet and pure, like that of white gardenias. She
whispered to me, “days ago.”
Still laughing, she left the
room.
* * * * *
A week passed before the
psychiatrist assigned to me decided that I would no longer try to kill
myself. I was still miserable, still not looking forward to getting on
with the day to day activities that life entailed, but still, I realized
that he was right. The urge to die was gone; only the urge to exist
remained.
Collette told me the news, “you’re
free to go,” she said to me.
“Where?”
“Home.”
I shook my head. “Where’s
home? That empty, miserable apartment I live in? I’m not looking forward
to that.”
“Well,” she said softly, “you
can move in with me.”
My eyes lit up. “Really?”
She laughed at my youthful
exuberance. “With rules, but, yes, really.”
“What rules?” I asked
cautiously.
And she explained.
* * * * *
My apartment was gone and so too
was my privacy. I moved in with Collette and served her as she required. I
supposed you could call me a slave, but wasn’t everybody a slave? A slave
to your job, your life, your existence? Her rules had been simple, do as
she commanded or be punished. Simple rules that were so easy to obey.
She treated me well and I soon learned to not only enjoy my role as her
slave, but I began to enjoy my life as well. She had made me whole and
had healed me more than the conversations I had had with the hospital
appointed psychiatrist. She had shown me what I was and had allowed me to
be myself.
The dictionary defines catharsis as a release of emotional tension, as after
an overwhelming experience, that restores or refreshes the spirit. And
that definition was proven to be true.
Catharsis was an emotional release,
typically by tragedy. But the opposite was true as well. My life had been
the tragedy and thankfully that emotional release came with the arrival of
Ms. Collette into my life. Collette was the catalyst to my recovery; she
completed me. My life had been the tragedy and Ms. Collette the cure.
The despair was gone, replaced with joy.
The misery was gone, replaced with happiness. Anger and regret replaced
with Ms. Collette.
I was whole and healed and life was good.
Had it ever been otherwise?
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