Farther Than I Meant to Go, Longer Than I Meant to Stay

by Tiffany L. Warren

  Past

  I woke up in a hospital emergency room. Confused and disoriented, the first thing I tried to do was sit up in the bed. I was shocked and afraid when I realized that I was strapped to the bed with two very short restraints. A nurse was attempting to take my blood pressure. For the moment I ignored the bandages that covered both my arms and hands. I couldn’t remember why I needed them, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to.

  “Are these arm restraints really necessary?” I asked the nurse. “I feel like a criminal.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Moon. The doctor said that they need to stay on until the medication takes effect.”

  “First of all, do not call me Mrs. Moon. That is not my name. My name is Charmayne Ellis. Second . . . what medication?”

  “I’m sorry. Your identification said Charmayne Moon. And the doctor has given you a mild sedative and some Valium to calm your nerves.”

  “Well, my identification is wrong. But you wouldn’t know that. And I don’t want any medication. I feel fine.”

  “Well, Ms. Ellis, according to your chart you had some sort of episode.”

  “What happened? I don’t remember. Wait. I remember baking a cake. But I don’t remember taking it out of the oven.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Everything has been taken care of.”

  “Really? How do you know? And why are my feet wrapped in bandages? They hurt.”

  “You’ve got twenty-two stitches in your right foot and thirty-seven in your left. You cut them up with the glass.”

  “What glass?”

  “You really don’t remember?”

  I shook my head, annoyed at her questions. “When can I go home?”

  “Not for a while. They have to make sure that you’re not a danger to yourself or anyone else.”

  “You can’t be serious! Of course I’m not a danger.”

  I said that, but I didn’t know who I was trying to convince—the nurse or myself. The truth was, I had no idea what I’d done. All I knew was that it had something to do with glass. My feet, arms, and legs felt like they were on fire, so I assumed that I’d cut them doing something. What that something was, I couldn’t quite place a finger on.

  “Ma’am, I’m sure you’re fine. And as soon as the doctor tells me, I’ll get rid of those nasty restraints.”

  I was practically old enough to be the nurse’s mama, and she was talking to me like I was a child or an imbecile. I was ravenous, but I was afraid to ask for anything to eat. I thought it might delay my getting home, and all I wanted to do was feel my head hit the pillow.

  The nurse finally left to attend to a patient across the hall from me. She’d put my television on a channel that was showing old sitcoms. For some reason I didn’t remember The Jeffersons being so hilarious. George had on a little suit with a kick pleat in the back, and it reminded me of Willie Brown, that guy Lynette had fixed me up with. I probably should have married him. I would’ve been cleaning hair dye out of the pillowcases, but I wouldn’t have been sitting up in the hospital room looking like a fool.

  The nurse popped her head into my curtain and said, “Your sister is here to see you. Should I send her in?”

  Without thinking I replied, “Absolutely not! I don’t want any visitors.”

  I heard Dayna arguing with the nurse in the hallway. “What do you mean she doesn’t want to see me? I’m her sister!”

  No way was I going to let Dayna see me tied to the bed like a lunatic. I did have some pride left. All I needed was for her to carry the information to Mama. By the time she finished embellishing the story, I’d be in a straitjacket and locked in a room with rubber walls. And all over a man. She’d probably think that would clinch her number one spot in Mama’s heart. There was no way our mother would prefer the crazy one. I didn’t need her faked concern to add to my frustration, especially when I was trying to convince the doctors that I wasn’t a danger to anyone.

  As a matter of fact, I didn’t want anyone to see me like this, not even Lynette. I just wanted to close my eyes and wish the past hours away. Whatever had happened during this episode was going to have to be between me, the doctors, and the Lord.

  After practically an eternity, a white-coated female walked into my room. I hoped she was a doctor, so that we could get the matter resolved. I was ready to go home and start my life over.

  “Mrs. Moon. How are you feeling?”

  “Please call me Ms. Ellis. And I’m feeling one hundred percent better. Can we take these arm restraints off?” I pleaded, hoping that I didn’t sound too desperate.

  “Yes. I don’t see why not. There’s nothing in here that you can break.”

  The petite, chocolate-colored doctor took off the restraints one by one. For some reason I was relieved by the fact that she was a black woman. Maybe she would understand what I was going through. From what I could tell, all I’d done was broken a few glasses. I could’ve had a real episode and taken a knife to Travis. But clearly I was not insane.

  After I came out of the bathroom, the doctor was sitting in the orange armchair next to my bed. Instead of getting back in the bed, I had a seat in the yellow chair. I was ready to have a talk with the doctor, but there was no way I was getting back in that bed—not with those restraints still attached to the rails.

  “Ms. Ellis, you may call me Dr. Taylor, or Barbara if you wish.”

  “I prefer Barbara, and you can call me Charmayne. You just saw me tied to a bed, so we can pretty much dispense with the niceties.”

  Barbara smiled, “Charmayne, it’s good that you haven’t lost your sense of humor. That’s a very good sign.”

  “A sign that I’m not a total head case?”

  “A sign that you’re going to make it through whatever is troubling you.”

  Well, I didn’t think that I’d ever doubted my ability to make it through this whole thing with Travis. I was just admitting to myself that something had snapped, but I didn’t feel broken. I hoped it wasn’t the medication making me feel at ease. If I was losing my mind, I wanted to be the first one to know about it. I didn’t want a false sense of wellness.

  “Barbara, what do you call what happened to me?”

  “What do I call it? Well, some doctors would give a general diagnosis of a nervous breakdown.”

  “I didn’t ask about some doctors—”

  “I know. I would say that you’re experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder. Do you know what that is?”

  “I thought that was something war veterans went through.”

  “It’s not just war veterans. It can happen to anyone who has gone through a traumatic experience. Tell me about yours.”

  “You sure like to get straight to the point, don’t you?”

  “You do want to go home as soon as possible, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So let’s talk about it.”

  When I still hesitated, Barbara continued, “Look, Charmayne. Talking to me does not label you as a nutcase. Think of it as medical treatment. Your responses were generated by a reaction to stress in your central nervous system. This is a real medical issue that can respond to proper treatment and medication. Would you be hesitating if you’d had congestive heart failure?”

  “Of course not.”

  “This is the same thing. Charmayne, you need to let yourself heal. So let’s talk.”

  “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Try the beginning.”

  So I sat there and told Barbara everything. Starting from the first day that I met Travis in my office. When he fixed my chair. I told her how he swept me off my feet, and how I allowed myself to be caught up with all the pretty-girl treatment. I was fairly cool up until I started telling Barbara about how he ruined my career. I didn’t notice that I was banging my fist on the side of the chair until one of my bandages ripped loose and blood started to trickle down my arm.

  Barbara said, “Okay, Charmayne. Let’s stop here for a moment.”

  “Okay.” My voice wa
s trembling. Barbara pretended not to notice the blood, either, so I just wiped it on the side of my hospital gown.

  Barbara wrote something down in her notebook, and then looked up at me and smiled. She continued, “Now, Charmayne, I am positive that you can get past Travis fooling you into marriage. But I am concerned about the anger you’ve displayed at having your career destroyed.”

  “Do I not have the right to be angry about that?”

  “You sure do. But we have to find some constructive ways to deal with that energy.”

  I knew I wouldn’t be waiting long for the psychiatrist mumbo jumbo to start. Constructive ways to deal with that energy? What I wanted to do was break my foot off in Travis’s behind. How constructive was that?

  “I don’t know what you want me to do, Barbara.”

  “Well . . . I don’t want you to keep breaking glass.”

  “Okay . . . so I broke a few dishes . . . what’s the big deal?”

  “Is that all you remember?”

  “Actually, I don’t really remember too much of anything. I do recall breaking some glasses—which is obvious, from the cuts.”

  “Charmayne . . . you did more than break some dishes. You broke every single window in your home, and then you went outside barefoot and broke every window in your car. You were on your way to your neighbor’s home swinging a bat when she called nine-one-one.”

  My God. I didn’t know. I must’ve scared Clara half to death. I was going to have to apologize to her. No wonder they had me tied to the bed. Travis had turned me into a menace. Maybe I did need some medication.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I responded in a very small, timid voice.

  “Let me ask you, Charmayne, do you have a church home?”

  “Yes. I do. But I can’t go back there.”

  “You might need to do that. I’ve found that with a lot of people, medication doesn’t help as much as going back to your roots. Religion is a place of rescue, where we can find peace.”

  “Peace.” I repeated the word as if it were another language.

  “Here’s what I’m going to suggest. I think we’ll keep you here for a couple more days, lightly medicated with Xanax, and then you can sign yourself out. I don’t think you need a prescription. How do you feel about that?”

  I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure I agreed. I didn’t want to stay one night in that place, but I was afraid to see what I’d done to my home.

  Barbara asked, “Is there a friend you can call to bring some of your things from home? It might make you feel a little better.”

  As ashamed as I was of all this, Barbara was right yet again. The first thing I did when I got settled into that sterile little room was pick up the phone and call Ebony. I needed my prayer partner and friend more than anyone else.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Ebony. This is Charmayne, I’m at Mount Sinai General.” I tried to make my voice sound normal.

  “Is everything okay? Is it Travis?” she asked.

  “No. I need you to do something for me. Go to my house and get me two changes of clothing.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Bring my Bible.”

  CHAPTER Twenty-eight

  Past

  I woke up in that hospital feeling utterly lost, not wanting even to open my eyes. But the good thing about being in that environment was that they wouldn’t let me lie around and mope all day. I had to attend group sessions with folks who had a lot more problems than I had. There was a poor girl who was strung out on crack cocaine. Her name was Letha and she kind of attached herself to me. I think they put her in my room on purpose.

  My first roommate was having electroshock therapy. I’d thought that was some archaic treatment no longer in use, but the poor woman must’ve had serious issues. Her husband and children were constantly by her side. It was sweet and all, but I needed some privacy.

  The next morning I woke up to Letha standing over my bed. She actually scared me. Her hair was standing straight up in the air, and her lips were white like she’d been eating a whole box of powdered doughnuts.

  “What’s your name?” she said.

  “Charmayne. Who are you?”

  “I’m your new roommate. They moved Gracie on out of here.”

  “Well, what’s your name?” I asked, trying not to turn my nose up. The girl’s breath smelled as if she’d been munching on garbage.

  “Letha. My friends call me Lee-lee.”

  “Well, Letha. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “What? You don’t wanna be my friend?”

  “I didn’t say that . . . but we’re not friends yet. We just met.”

  “What yo’ friends call you for short?”

  “Char.”

  “I like that. It sounds like a rich girl’s nickname. When I get me some money, I’m gone have to think of a new nickname. Lee-lee sounds kinda ghetto, I think.”

  Just when I thought I was going to pass out from holding my breath, the food service person came in with our breakfast. Letha had grits and bacon, and I had the works. Eggs, grits, bacon, and two slices of French toast. Letha smacked on her grits, which she added an unholy amount of sugar to, and looked over at my tray.

  “Dag. You must be hungry.”

  I smiled. “I’m a growing girl.”

  Letha laughed out loud. “Yeah . . . you got that right.”

  I ignored her insult. From where I was sitting, I looked a sight better than she did. Fat and all.

  “You could probably use a few more things on your plate, honey.”

  Letha looked down at her tray, “Maybe. I don’t eat much, though. I just get high.”

  I thought, At least she’s honest. That was the first step to getting some help. At the time, I was still in denial.

  Letha licked her finger, “So what you in here for?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “They gone make you say it in the group sessions anyway. So you might as well get it out.”

  “Who is they?”

  “The doctors. If you don’t tell everybody your business in group, they make you stay longer.”

  I was skeptical, but Letha looked like she’d done the whole thing before. She probably knew the ropes.

  “I broke some glass.”

  “Went and had yourself a nervous breakdown, huh?”

  “So you’re a doctor now?”

  “My last roommate had one. Except she didn’t break any glass. She cut off all her hair and all her kids’ hair. She had four little girls and shaved them completely bald.”

  Letha stood up and walked over to the window. There was no way I’d be breaking that glass. It was so thick that even if I’d attempted to break it, I’d break my hand first. She breathed on the window and scribbled her name, like a little girl. Her legs were so skinny that from the back she looked no older than thirteen. Her little nightgown was open in the back and her underpants, which probably used to be white, were a dingy shade of gray.

  “Okay, now it’s my turn to ask a question. If you’ve been here before, why are you back?”

  Letha replied, “’Cause I like gettin’ high. They think I’m crazy ’cause I don’t want to stop, even though I know it’s gone kill me one day.”

  “Well, why don’t you want to stop? Do you want to die?”

  “Everybody dies. Sometimes I don’t think it would be so bad.”

  I was thinking that this child must not have grown up in the church. Even backslidden folks didn’t want to die and end up in hell. But when your life was hell on earth, it was probably hard to imagine anything worse.

  I supposed that Letha didn’t want to talk anymore, because she got into the bed and turned her back to me. I thought she was asleep, until I noticed that she was shaking. I walked across the hall to the nurses’ station.

  “Can somebody help Letha? She’s lying in there shaking. Maybe she’s got a chill or something.”

  The nurse didn’t even look up from
her paperwork. “Letha? She’s just going through withdrawal. She’s used to it. It’ll pass.”

  Well, maybe she was used to it, but I wasn’t. I went back into the room and did the only thing I knew to do. I laid hands on her and prayed. After a little while the shaking stopped. I looked down, and she was finally sleeping.

  While she rested, I called Ebony and asked her to do some shopping. How could the child want to live when she probably only had one pair of panties to her name? And who would want to walk around all day in hospital clothes? No wonder she was starting to feel like a permanent resident.

  Hours later, when she woke up, Letha was like a child on Christmas. She ripped through the neatly packed bags with a huge smile on her face. I’d even included some personal toiletries on my list.

  “Why did you do all this?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Because I wanted to.”

  She thought for a moment and squinted. “You ain’t gay or nothing, are you? ’Cause I don’t get down like that. Not even for no rocks.”

  I laughed out loud. “No, girl. Hasn’t anyone ever just done anything nice for you?”

  “No.”

  I didn’t even know how to respond to that. Letha couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, but to go that long and not remember anyone doing anything loving or caring was tragic. I used to always wonder how a person could ever start taking drugs. Letha showed me that day.

  Letha asked timidly, “What was that thing you was doing when I was feenin’?”

  “You mean when you were shaking? I was just praying for you.”

  “Like to God? Ain’t nobody ever prayed for me, neither.”

  “Well, somebody just did.”

  She grabbed up a few of her new things and went into the bathroom. She looked back at me out of the corner of her eye. I supposed she was still trying to figure out my angle. I’d never truly met anyone who needed Jesus more than Letha. I wondered if that was why I’d gone through all the mess with Travis . . . just to get to the one space in time where Letha would be . . . so that she could get saved. It never occurred to me that she would be a tool in my own deliverance.

  On my second and last day of being hospitalized, Lynette and Ebony brought First Lady Jenkins to see me. I was speechless, embarrassed, and furious at Lynette for bringing anyone else to witness my pitiful state. I looked a mess and felt even worse, and there First Lady was looking at me and feeling sorry for me.