Get Me Out of Here

by Rachel Reiland

  If Dr. Padgett disagreed with my philosophies, he didn't show it. He sat there and listened. Just listened. My feelings began to flood the room. I began to tell him about my semi-shotgun marriage. All the forays into drugs. The dozens of men I slept with, not hearing from many of them the next day. The near-rape in college. The times I had come close to suicide but never had the guts to go through with it. The hypocrisy I felt because I had so many friends who seemed to like me, when I just knew that if they really knew me they'd all disappear and run like hell. As they should.

  I told him I couldn't understand how everyone was so nice to me when I clearly didn't deserve it. I shared the tales of some of the horribly vindictive things I'd done in my life, the awful thoughts I'd had, and my secret desire to just be lobotomized. Simple. Stupid. Because I was sure that I simply thought too much and brought a lot of my pain onto myself. I was too self-absorbed and just too smart for my own good. My mind should have been given to someone good and decent, not me.

  I continued on with this diatribe, the emotions, thoughts, and words forcing their way out of me with the vehemence of a hurricane. Until, finally, I felt spent. And incredibly foolish, embarrassed, and ashamed. As Sister Luisa had told me, words are powerful. Once you speak them, you can't take them back. I slumped back in my chair, remorseful for all that I had said. Maybe I'd said too much, and he would lock me up for life.

  Finally Dr. Padgett spoke in a gentle, rather squeaky, but soothing voice.

  “You've been through a lot of pain. And it's hard to trust anyone, hard to believe that anyone could care because you've always hated yourself. On one level, you've wanted people to believe your tough facade. But on a deeper level, you've wished that someone would be able to get past it, to get inside you and listen to your heart. But you've been afraid that no one in the world would understand—or worse, that you would drive them away.

  “Life is really hard for you because you wish you could have been born male. You see males as tough and strong. And you put on a great facade of a male. You walk the walk and talk the talk. But deepest within you, you know that you aren't male. You are female, which you see as weak, manipulative, and worthless. No matter how hard you try to mask it, you cannot change the reality of your gender. So you stay in this trap of putting forth a charade, feeling hypocritical, while inside you secretly seethe in anger and bask in shame because you are unequivocally female. Deeply vulnerable and hurting within as you act tough outside. You do need people; you need them so much so that it scares you to death. You drive them away so they don't get too close; yet you regret it every time you do.

  “You claim you don't want anyone to understand you. But you do. You want it very much. It's just that you don't believe that it is possible for anyone to understand, and you cannot bear to be let down again.”

  My eyes glazed with tears, and I felt an incredible warmth inside. I was lured to this man. How did he know I hated being a woman? I never told him that. How did he know about the tough facade, how I would brush people aside, attacking them as if they didn't matter—meanwhile wishing that they cared?

  Dr. Padgett had put my thoughts, even unconscious ones, into words. As soon as he gave them a voice, I knew they were undeniably true. In just a single meeting, he had touched a place within me that no one had ever touched before. It was more than a matter of him understanding me. His understanding was couched in empathy and concern. He wanted to help.

  I was drawn to him in that very first visit more than I had ever been drawn to anyone in my life. I'd gone in intending to pierce his facade, and instead he had gently unveiled mine. I had been wrong.

  This was no ordinary man.

  I was in a fog of these emotions when I went back to my room. Visiting hours had begun, and Tim was waiting there for me. Tim hugged me, handed me a bouquet of flowers, and we began to talk about what it was like in the hospital and how the kids were doing. But my mind wasn't really in it. I was still trying to absorb all that had transpired with Dr. Padgett. I couldn't get him off my mind.

  As if the doctor sensed that, there was a knock on my open door, and Dr. Padgett walked in and introduced himself to Tim. They shook hands, and Dr. Padgett handed me a thin packet of written material.

  “I've thought this over and have decided that I'd like to work with you in therapy. You've got some very serious problems, Rachel, and I think the kind of treatment I offer can help you. In fact, in your case, I think this type of therapy is the only kind that will work. This pamphlet outlines the therapy I'm talking about and should answer a lot of your questions.

  “Why don't you take a look at it and see what you think? If you have any more concerns, you can call my office.”

  With that, he walked out of the room. Tim and I immediately began to read the pamphlet entitled Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy. Much of it reiterated terminology that I vaguely recalled from an introductory psychology course I'd taken years earlier. The origins of neurosis and emotional pain developed in early childhood. The therapist would work with the patient to reveal painful, buried emotions. The patient's natural desire was to keep them buried through defense mechanisms, but the fears would become manageable in the light of adult, rational understanding, along with free association and uncensored thoughts.

  The therapist would align himself with the patient to cut through her defenses and allow the frozen feelings to surface. As a “blank screen,” he would reveal little of his personal life or his feelings to facilitate transference, the phenomenon whereby patients direct emotions intended for someone else in their lives, most likely from childhood, onto the therapist. This transference often reveals more of a patient's buried feelings and subconscious motivations.

  It was interesting stuff, but nothing I hadn't seen before. It was the Freud and Jung I had at one time memorized and regurgitated back on tests.

  The final part of the pamphlet stirred the most discussion. The therapy was conducted on a regular schedule—once, twice, or three times a week. A few patients found “relief” from their symptoms within a year, but most took at least one to three years to complete the therapy, and sometimes five or more years. The pamphlet stressed that such therapy meant a lot of time and money for the patient and required a great degree of commitment from the therapist as well. There were no guarantees, it said, but many people who had been through it had found it to be worth the time and money spent.

  Both of us sat there on the bed dumbfounded. One hundred twenty dollars an hour three times a week. Who on earth could afford that? We began to joke about what kind of “psychos” would need or warrant therapy for half a decade, but the unspoken issue was financial.

  We decided that I'd go ahead and look into it but not commit to anything yet. Perhaps, being fairly intelligent and driven, I could get by with once-a-week sessions and “lick the thing” in six months or less. After all, it wasn't as if I had that big of a problem anyway. Actually, we both agreed, I didn't even belong in the hospital. But on that issue, too, we decided to wait it out and see where things led.

  By midafternoon, the psych floor was nearly deserted. Most of the patients, it seemed, were out on weekend passes. I was informed that newly arrived patients didn't get passes. Newly arrived? I thought. Just how long do these people expect me to be here?

  Tim had left for an afternoon appointment, and I was restless and bored. Weekend meetings, group therapy, and other activities were few because most of the patients were gone. I had absolutely nothing to do. Tim had brought me a few library books, but I couldn't concentrate on reading. I wasn't up for watching television, no one was around to talk to, and the few patients who stayed seemed either so out of it or so despondent I didn't want to be near them.

  Anxiety flooded in and took the form of energy. I wanted to run in the most desperate way, but I couldn't leave the floor, much less the hospital building. So I did the next best thing: I power walked.

  With the sounds of Supertramp blaring in my ear through my Walkman, I began to walk in a c
ircular path through the corridors of the unit, pumping my arms and legs. Adrenaline flowed, and I found myself walking faster and faster until I finally broke into a jog, then a run. As I turned the corner, a familiar figure was standing there, a scowl on her face, arms folded. It was her. The drill sergeant from hell, working a different shift.

  “This is a hospital ward,” she informed me, with the terse authority of a grade school nun, “not a gymnasium. You can't run laps in here. It's disturbing me and the other nurses, and it's upsetting the other patients too.”

  “There's nothing to do here,” I retorted. “Absolutely nothing. What am I supposed to do?”

  “I'd suggest you find something. Something other than running.”

  I walked past her, restraining the urge to tell her off, and put my Walkman back on. Certainly she couldn't object if I just walked, if I didn't actually run. I indulged myself in a few more laps of vigorous power walking. Again, she appeared.

  “I told you this isn't a gymnasium. It's not a health club. It's a hospital. Now put the Walkman away and go do something else.”

  “You told me not to run,” I said indignantly. “I wasn't running. I was walking. Just plain walking. I have the right to do that, you know. Don't I?”

  “I don't know what you call whatever it was you were just doing, but I certainly wouldn't call it ‘just plain walking.’ Obviously you can't control yourself. Hand over the Walkman now.”

  “You can't do this to me!” I cried hysterically. “You can't trap me in this nut ward with nothing to do, no one to talk to but these—these—psychos! You can't take away my Walkman. You can't!”

  “I am authorized to do anything I need to do to keep this ward safe and comfortable for everyone here. And I want the Walkman. Now!”

  This was an absolute nightmare. I wanted to scream, to spit, to flail at her with my fists. Instead I walked away, pretending to ignore her. As I resumed my power walking, I heard her tirade of admonishment despite the high volume of Supertramp. I turned around and looked at her. I absolutely loathed her. I took off my headphones, grabbed the Walkman in my right hand, and hurled it at her, aiming for her head. It missed by a few inches, the cassette door breaking off as it fell with a thud to the carpeted floor.

  “Are you happy now?” I screamed hysterically. “It's all fucked up. I can't use it anymore. I hope you're happy, you fucking bitch!”

  “You are absolutely out of control. I'm calling Dr. Padgett.”

  “I don't give a fuck what you do. Call him. What? Do you think I'm scared of the bastard? Give me a fucking break.”

  Truth be told, I was glad she was calling Dr. Padgett. Dr. Padgett didn't hate me the way she did. He would understand how unfair the nurse was being. I'd let him know just what had happened, just what horrible things the nurse had said about not liking me, about not having to like me. He was the doctor. He was in charge. The bitch wasn't going to have a leg to stand on by the time I was finished.

  Having connected to Dr. Padgett, the nurse directed me to pick up one of the patient phones. Ha! She was too intimidated to let me take the phone at the nurses' station because of what I might do. Good. She should be scared. She deserved to be.

  “Rachel.” I was calmed by the sound of his voice. “What just went on?”

  I told my side of the story, not sparing a detail. Like a defendant on The People's Court, I was a polished advocate for myself. I waited for him to concur with my conclusions, to get the nurse back on the line, and to give her a word or two about compassion for patients.

  It didn't happen.

  “You can't do that, Rachel,” he said, still with the underlying gentleness but with an added element of firmness. “What you did was wrong. It was inexcusable and out of control. You can't get any better if you just let your emotions explode anytime the mood strikes. If you can't control yourself, I'm going to have no choice but to put you in restraints in the lockup ward.”

  Betrayal sliced through me like a knife. Dr. Padgett was on her side. He was one of them.

  “Dr. Padgett,” I sobbed my hurt and sense of betrayal into the phone, “how can you do that to me?”

  “I'm not doing anything to you, Rachel, and you know that. If you feel compelled to act out, then you are going to have to face the consequences. I'm not going to sit here and listen to you try to justify what you did because it isn't defensible. It's destructive. Now please go let the nurse know I want her to pick up the line. I will tell her exactly what I told you. If you continue to act out of control, you will be placed in a more controlled environment. I'll see you on Monday morning rounds.”

  I informed the nurse and hung up the phone, numbed. Dr. Padgett had seemed so sympathetic and understanding in our consultation. Now he was as angry as the nurse. I'd pissed him off. I'd blown it. He hated me. And I wouldn't be seeing him again until Monday.

  Monday seemed like an eternity.

  I got through the rest of Saturday and Sunday by acting docile, moping in my room most of the time. I did mingle a bit with a few of the other patients but still preferred solitude. When I was with the others, I did my best to appear in control. It was only holed up in my room, away from scrutiny, that I let the depression that was swallowing me show.

  Every time the drug cart pulled up, I was first in line. I wanted to be numb so I could forget where I was. Most of all, I wanted to forget the faces of my two children. They had been so happy, but confused, to visit me. The sadness in their eyes when they realized I would not be going home overwhelmed me with guilt and made me ashamed of all the responsibilities that I had thrust on Tim. I felt mortified when I thought about all of the money my hospital stay was going to cost, knowing that I was virtually abandoning my children. Whatever they gave me to wash down with the water from the paper cup could never be enough. The drugs only blunted the edge, whereas I wanted to be completely wasted. Oblivious.

  I went to bed early on Sunday night, not wanting to be awake for the change of shift, lest I be forced to see the drill sergeant again. I had drifted to sleep fairly easily, but I found myself awake, sitting bolt upright, at two in the morning. What was it about two o'clock?

  I couldn't stand the darkness that enveloped me with a fear so choking I could barely breathe. I tried to will myself back to sleep, but I couldn't. My mind turned in on itself, as it had so often in the past. Swelling, sweeping emotions, building to a crescendo, virtually screamed in my ear. My heart was pounding. I stood up. I had to stand up. I had to run.

  I started again on the power walk/run, this time discreet enough to do it up and down a small segment of the hall, out of sight and earshot of the nurses' station. The adrenaline rushed through me again, the pumping arms became punches, the pumping legs karate kicks. The more I let loose, the more I wanted to run. I smacked into the plaster, literally bouncing off the walls with a thud, energized by the pain to my hips and arms. Running faster, bouncing harder. It wasn't enough pain. I wanted to shatter myself into pieces just like the Walkman and smash the feelings right out of me.

  The shadowy figures that approached me from the end of the hall had other ideas. They were big, bouncerlike men, the military police of the hospital scene. The drill sergeant was behind them, scowling as always, directing the two men to take me by force if necessary. I struggled with them with everything I had left, but I was no match for these two uniformed thugs who bound my arms in restraints and carried me down the hall. I was screaming profanity about civil rights and patient dignity, but it didn't faze them. I got the impression they were used to doing this sort of thing.

  I heard the buzz of a secure door with a tiny grilled window and found myself in another unit.

  I was flooded with both shock and nausea. Weightlessness. This was lockup. The real thing. Instantly filled with remorse, I tried in every conceivable way to talk myself out of there. But it wasn't going to happen. I felt ashamed and violated as they made me remove the shoelaces from my shoes, and then I watched them go through the contents of my purse they ha
d taken from my room and catalog every item.

  “No!” I shrieked when they took my cigarettes and lighter. They informed me that in the intensive care unit, the pleasant euphemism for lockup, patients weren't allowed to keep entire packs of cigarettes, lest they smoke them all day. Nor were they allowed to have lighters or matches for the destructive acts that could be performed with them. I went straight to bed in the same room as a grotesquely obese woman who was tied to her bed with restraints. She screamed out in her sleep every few minutes. Mercifully, I was given a large and very potent sleeping pill. It was strong enough to drown out the screams and my fear of being cooped up in a room with a woman big enough to take on three security guards and apparently violent enough to require restraints.

  I awoke in the morning to see Dr. Padgett standing at my bedside. Smiling, damn him. Like nothing had happened. Like I was still supposed to be stupid enough to believe that he cared about me when he had incarcerated me in this prison of the insane.

  “Heard you took a little shadowboxing run last night,” he said.

  “I wasn't shadowboxing. I was power walking. Whatever that nurse told you is a lie. She's a complete bitch. She hates my guts. She got these big animals to throw me in this hellhole.”

  “She did that, Rachel,” the smile faded from his face, “because it was what I directed her to do.”

  “You rotten sonofabitch. How could you do this to me?”

  “You were out of control. You knew the consequences. You needed to be here.”