Tangles

I came through the doors from bright July sunshine into the frigid air of building Two South at the Brattleboro Retreat, barefoot, dripping water from the swimming pool. I was wearing appropriate swimming attire: shorts and a dark tee shirt, nothing remotely suggestive. I didn't pack a bathing suit when my doctor called to tell me that yes, there was a bed. 

I was there to shed some serious grief. Like puffs of steam issuing through fissures of volcanic rock, powerful emotions were leaking out; the tears had begun. I had not dissolved nor careened off into madness, I simply cried.


At other times, I smuggled breakfast muffins back to my room, listened with my heart-mind to people who had lived in torment greater than mine, jogged around the green rectangle of a field behind the hospital, swam laps.


During rec time, we played a form of softball I called Oddball. People came and went, dragging bats and flat, worn-through leather mitts. A player might run to first or third or right off the field. Someone might choose home plate as a desirable place for a nap. Mac might hand me the softball and say, "You pitch," or he might stand on the pitcher's mound, smoking and humming. One had to be flexible.


I learned about my penchant for perfectionism while I strung glass beads and glued tiny, multicolored ceramic tiles together. The standards I had set for myself now seemed impossible. It was time to relax. It was time to apply kindness.


When my eyes adjusted to the indoor light, I noticed a familiar form down by the front door: my son, Will was sitting in a straight-backed chair amongst tables of tattered magazines. Next to him, Charlie launched into his staccato routine of TV cop dialogue. Will nodded and smiled. Old Ruthie, the laundry thief, was there too, wearing Angie's blue sweater. There would be trouble about that later. A few of Paul's green plastic alligators were taped to the windows.


In that moment, I knew Will to be the bravest person I had ever met. He had come to visit his Mom in a loony bin. 


"Hey," I said. He stood and crumpled me in a hug.


"Can we just go to your room?" he asked.


"Sure," I said.


"Mom, there are bars on the windows here," he said, when I had shut the door.


"It's to keep the bad guys out," I joked.


He lay on my bed, his long legs dangling out over the end as we talked.


"So, do you think you might be coming home soon?" he wondered.


"Yes," I said. "I'm getting there."


He sat up and looked me over, then stood and searched around on the wooden bureau. He picked up my hairbrush and with the most tender of strokes, he brushed my hair, all tangled and damp from the pool.


"That's better," he said, standing back and appraising his work. "Now you don't look like such a crazy person."

He grinned.


"None of this had anything at all to do with you," I told him. "I just needed some time to work things out."


"I know," he said.


It would take some more time before the scaffolding was in place and I could venture back into my life, thin-skinned and somewhat teary at first, but stronger, every day a bit stronger.