Things Fall Apart - My Descent Into Madness
By Shani Silverstein
Published with permission from Aish.com
I remember repeating a little chant to myself as a teenager and young adult: "Open your eyes, world, and see / Not the illness I despise / But me."
At the time I was struggling to cope with the confusing and often terrifying reality of mental illness in a world that seemed unready or unable to see the vulnerable, frightened girl beneath the myriad strange and confusing symptoms. How could I explain that despite the fact that I sometimes behaved in a way that most people dismissed as crazy, I was just as perplexed -- and probably more frightened -- than any observer could be by a mind that seemed to have betrayed me, thoughts that rushed out of control in unpredictable ways, and an increasing conviction that I had lost my mind forever. Above all, how could I let people know that though I appeared to have gone over the edge, to a place where "regular people" never venture, I was still a person whom they could relate to, if only they could understand?
I gazed out the window at the rather ordinary view below of comfortable-looking homes, manicured lawns, and people going about the business of living. It all seemed so reassuringly predictable, and I was lulled into a sense of calmness and security until I recalled my current reality with a sudden jolt. My heart caught in my throat, and a sharp, profound sadness struck at the very core of me, engulfing me. I used to be just another regular person, I thought.
Just a few months ago I had been an ordinary person living an ordinary life, indistinguishable from any other observant high-school girl busily involved in schoolwork and a lively social life.
I turned away from the small window with its thick black bars and heavy glass, and the painful reminders it afforded me of life "on the other side." Then I gazed bleakly at my surroundings. The room was small and bare, with a metal-frame bed nailed to the floor, stiff white sheets, and a scratchy wool blanket. There were no other furnishings, no pictures or knickknacks, nothing to give even the illusion of home. The heavy metal door was closed, though there was a small window toward the top that could be used to glance in at me.
Diary entry: I have not stepped out of this small room for 120 hours, excluding the minute it took me to get my lens case. Now I know why so much fuss is made about solitary confinement -- it's a painful ordeal. I got in here Friday afternoon and tomorrow is Friday again. I don't even know whether or not I hate it anymore. I'm apathetic. Do I have any higher aspirations than a one-bed room in a mental hospital? Here I'm safe. I've proven to myself that I can't handle the swirling, rushing whirlwind outside. I'm at the depths of despair.
Just outside the door, I knew, sat my one-on-one -- a staff person assigned to monitor particularly misbehaved patients 24 hours a day. How had I misbehaved? I had tried to put an end to my suffering. How being alone in a prison-like room, with no diversion and nothing to occupy me but my own depressed mind, was supposed to make me want to live was unclear. With time, I would understand that, in fact, the purpose wasn't to make me better; it was about keeping me under control. The fact that the "treatment" only deepened my desire to be out of this world seemed to escape anyone's notice.
I am in a tunnel
Engulfed in darkness.
They say there is a light ahead.
I strain my eyes
But I cannot see
Beyond the sea of blackness.
This is the first stanza of a poem I wrote at the time, trying to express my overwhelming, unremitting sadness, hopelessness, and despair. The type of depression I was experiencing responds neither to logic nor to reality. It is persistent and insistent and causes its victims to view everything around them in the most negative light possible. The day can be bright, hazy, or gray, but to a mind depressed, it is always black. Persuasive arguments, cajoling, threats, encouragement, or attempts to shift my perspective were all equally ineffective. My mind seemed to have lost its capacity for positive thinking as irrevocably as the loss of a limb.
All this began way before I landed in my hospital room. I remember attending an engagement party that took place in my high school for a new kallah in the 12th grade, a few weeks before my hospitalization. It was a lively party with food, dancing, and the kind of excited energy that teenagers so readily supply. I pretended to be interested and did a pretty good job of not standing out. I had made sure to button my Oxford uniform sleeves below the wrist and took care not to let the sleeves pull up. That way nobody would notice the Band-Aid I had placed on my wrist. Nobody would know about my pain. Nobody would think I was crazy. I could go on being just another high-school girl among so many others...