“My advice is to not let the boys in.”
~Bob Dylan, Tombstone Blues
[Part I]
Saturday, April 16th, 2005
I am the hostess with the mostest. I am throwing a bridal shower for V, my best friend from high school. I show up late to her childhood home wearing gobs of makeup, thick turquoise eye shadow, too much mascara and perfume. I’d borrowed A’s pink tank top and white miniskirt without asking. I keep my sunglasses on inside.
I feel suffocated. I slip out to the backyard and stare into the cool blue pool water, using every ounce of self-control I possess to prevent myself from diving in. It looks so cold and inviting. I remember the carefree days of summers past spent in this pool, floating on fun noodles, having underwater breath-holding contests with V, making out with her older brother in the shallow end long after everyone else had gone to bed.
I sneak off to the woods behind the house. I feel magnetically drawn to the creek. I take off my shoes and wade into the babbling water. My dad and friends follow me. I tell them I just need to be alone. Just need to meditate.
My roommate A complains that I will sully her clothes, so I take them off and throw them onto the muddy shore. Wearing a gray sports bra and white underwear. Walking against the current, away. The tiny, smooth pebbles feel good on my soles. The soft, rushing brook brushes my ankles. I am stuck in the present moment; nothing else exists. They are trying to talk some sense into a senseless girl. She is someone other than me. They coax me back up to the house. They all make eye contact with each other. “What is wrong with her? What are we going to do?”
Left alone for one minute, I go running barefoot through the neighborhood. Escaping. They search for me. As I am running down FM 3406, running, panting, Dad apprehends me and makes me get into the car.
He confiscates my car keys. I am not fit to drive a motor vehicle. I, in turn, steal his car keys and make a quick getaway to Austin in the Trailblazer.
I call a hotline, speak to Gary, tell him everything. He listens, a precious third party, completely anonymous, completely unaware. I start at the beginning. It didn’t sound all that wild. A lot is going on, that’s all. Gary is God. He listens, he understands. He softly suggests that I find resources, they’re out there, places you could go for help, for counseling. When he finds out I am not a student at the University anymore, he warns me not to use the hotline anymore. God hangs up on me.
I shoplift a tote bag full of a new summer wardrobe from Old Navy. I am a bumblebee, attracted to everything pink and orange. I walk through the grocery store, not purchasing anything, just soaking up the stimulation, the canned soups, dewy green produce, case upon case of raw red meat in shrink-wrapped packages. It’s better than hallucination. Everything is fascinating.
I park on the street behind my house and sneak in through the backyard like a burglar. I am alone, rummaging through drawers, throwing clothes, books and shampoo in a duffel bag. Consciousness comes and goes. Periods of lucidity alternate with blocks of misty tunnel vision.
Turn on the stereo, loud. Bob Dylan on repeat. “I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes… You’d know what a draaaag it is to see you!” Packing for a long trip to I don’t know where. California? The city of angels.
L pulls up out front. A madwoman, I run outside and bang on her car window. She slowly pulls forward. She must leave; I am not in any mood for company. She could fuck everything up. I need to finish packing alone, in peace. L is on the phone inside her car. She drives away. It is dark out now. I finish my packing and get behind the wheel, ignoring my constantly ringing phone.
Everyone is trying to figure out where I was, where I am going. Every channel is set to Michelle TV. All Michelle, all the time. Broadcasting live from Austin, Texas. I have to see Z’s band. They are playing at Flipnotics. My parents calls the police to report their car stolen and my best friends call to report me crazy. A danger to myself and others.
When the fuzz shows up at Flipnotics, for a second I think they are there to hear some tunes. When it clicks that they are there for me, I dash inside and lock myself in the bathroom. I strip off my stolen clothes and hide in the dark, naked.
They swarm. They try to reason with me. They convince me to put my clothes back on then bust in the door and throw me to the ground and handcuff me. The cops drag me across the parking lot, in front of everyone.
People look on. Z with an expressionless expression on his face. I look at them, through them. Do I smile? Do I say hello?
My wrists are small. I suck in my belly. Slip out of the cold metal cuffs and throw them into some bushes. Three burly police officers dive after them, which is immensely comical, but then they put them back on me super tight.
Thus, I find myself in the back of a police car. They threaten to put on ankle cuffs if I don’t stop kicking at the window. I have no patience for this shit. I do plough pose in the backseat, legs over my head. I’m wearing a short skirt and a fuchsia raincoat. Screaming at the top of my lungs. I wanna lose my voice. I wanna annoy the hell out of these cops. Who the fuck are they to arrest me? What is my crime?
The car is stopping, stopped. They are taking me to the mental institution: Austin State Hospital. I scream, knowing that the more I scream the crazier I seem. I know how to do nothing but scream. I am a screaming lunatic with no past and a future of confinement, syringes, lab coats, lots of pills. I totally identify with my scream. I feel it shake the back of my throat. Why am I not losing my voice? I can’t cry, can’t speak, can only scream. My screams, I think, will move things along. Faster. I haven’t the time for this nonsense!
They ignore me through the Plexiglas partition. I tire of screaming. I lie face down and feel the vibration of the road. There is no room for worry, for guilt, for humiliation. There is no future. They pull into a parking lot. I feel a rush of relief because of the blackness of the asphalt.
(to be continued.)
