“Son, please get up. We’re taking you back.”
Chapter 16
Bird’s Journal (12/27/10)
Z back in psych ward. Ran through cornfield naked. Granny picked up from psych ER. Z cackling on phone. Booked 911 flight back from Chicago.
By the time Granny and Pa were able to load me into the station wagon, I thought Pa—dressed in his signature blue Dickies jumpsuit—was actually Jonas wearing an old man mask. His breathing was labored; he was exaggerating the part to play it convincingly. I immediately rolled down all the windows in the car and froze my grandparents out. After a few minutes, I rolled them back up and blasted the heat. This continued all the way to the hospital. I was perplexed as to how Jonas-disguised-as-Pa knew his way around as he navigated the icy roads. Maybe he had an earpiece and someone was giving him directions?
Psych ER (12/27/10)
Z kicked partition in transport van from ER to Good Shepherd psych ward—van took him back to psych ER. GS decided to send him to state hospital—they won’t take violent patients. Van to Osawatomie State Hospital scheduled to pick Z up at 9 a.m. tomorrow. Called Dr. Singh—he told doctors no history of violence. Re-admit to GS.
When I woke up the next morning, it didn’t even occur to me to question why I was eating breakfast in a cafeteria full of strangers. I picked up a bread roll and threw it at another patient’s head. Luckily, it missed. There was no ill intent; I think I just thought it was funny—like starting a middle school food fight.
My second psychotic break was ignited and burning white-hot—a wildfire of madness feeding on itself, torching every corner of my brain.
After breakfast, we were escorted like a group of preschoolers to the ward’s main corridor. There was an alcove on the left side of the hall with a recliner and a TV. I walked down the hall, surveying the people and my surroundings. When I got to the end, I pivoted and began to run wind sprints down the ward’s corridor, dodging the zombies along the way. I had Olympic speed; maybe it had always been there and I was just now learning to tap into it. The orderlies told me to stop sprinting, but I couldn’t. I ran the length of the hall two or three times and then pretended like I was going to quit so they’d leave me alone. But it felt too incredible to be that fast; I was flying and I couldn’t stop. The staff overlooked it for the time being.
Later in the morning I was called into a room where five or six doctors and nurses sat around a conference table in a semicircle. I offered to take off my clothes and drew some things on a dry-erase board. Then I started to chant in a vaguely Gregorian style, only I pushed the air out of my lungs as violently as possible, the result sounding more like an elephant seal in heat. “Sorry if that smells like halitosis,” I said. “I haven’t brushed my teeth in eighteen hours.” One of the doctors snickered. The rest stared at me with What have we here? expressions. They are in awe of me, I thought.
And then I broke it all down for them:
“The best way for me to explain my mind to you is like this: Think of yourself as a robot. Think of all the functions your body is performing simultaneously and successfully. Think how incredible it is that you are even able to stand upright and walk with an even gait, that at the same time, your eyes are taking in and processing thousands of stimuli and your brain is attaching a label to every single one: puddle, crack, dog, woman, bald man, car, shitty car, asshole in a suit, mother, father, doctor. Think about how remarkable it is that you can walk by a brick wall and estimate within a margin of 10 that there are probably about 540 bricks in 18 rows of 30—you count, you’re off by 8, not bad. Is it wrong to conclude that, maybe, you are superhuman? After all, who else can do that? Who’s to say you aren’t plugged into the universe a little bit deeper than everyone else? That you can almost see the subatomic particles and energy fields encircling the pretty brunette walking down the street. ‘Look at me,’ your mind commands. She does. If that ain’t power…
“Now, most people can probably tap into this on a certain level—you are more plugged in than a homeless guy, for example. So why can’t I be on a higher mental plane than you, in the same way that you’re above the homeless guy? Where you see two steps ahead, I see six.
“But here’s the kicker: That homeless guy on the bench muttering to himself—the one with the dreads and the army surplus coat that looks like it’s been dragged through a filthy gutter then rubbed in shit—he feels this shit more than you do. It’s the main reason he’s homeless—he’s consumed by it. I know because I stop to talk to these people. These guys are on my level, and you dismiss them outright. Before the internet existed, someone had to babble some crazy shit about a connected interweb of computers talking to each other. Explain it to an alien; you can’t. It makes no sense. Neither did cells at some point in history, but now we can see them. You really don’t think we’ll ever be able to see atomic molecules the same way? Can I go? That’s all I’ve got for now.”
One of the male doctors told me to go back to the common room. I understood. I had blown their minds and now they needed to discuss.
By the end of my second afternoon at the Good Shepherd psych ward, I was convinced that I was the Good Shepherd himself, possessing the power to heal the sick—a useful skill in a hospital. I felt the inner peace and fearlessness that Jesus described: Be not afraid, I go before you always. I’d heard it a thousand times before, but now I felt it. I approached a patient in a wheelchair and began to blow on his foot in order to restore his power to walk. He laughed so hard tears poured down his face. Ye of little faith. I knew he’d experience the miracle soon enough. Jesus must have walked around feeling pretty smug with all of those miracles stashed in his back pocket.
My first round of wind sprints was frowned upon and I was chastised. The second round landed me in seclusion—an eight-by-eight-foot room with padded walls and a tiny square window. I immediately panicked and began to bawl uncontrollably. Pounding on the door, I pled for mercy. “Please let me out! I’ll be good! I’m sorry!” The orderly on the other side of the glass ignored me. “I’m suffocating in here!” This was a cruel solution to a problem I couldn’t understand.
Gasping for air, I lay down on the padded floor and tried to breathe. It wasn’t easy, but eventually I began to realize that the only way out of this box was to demonstrate that I was calm. After a minute or two on the floor I tried again. Tears streaming down my face, I simply looked at the attendant, hoping to silently unearth some mercy. His indifference was unflappable. “Look, I’m calm now. Look at me! How long are you going to fucking keep me in here?! Look at me!” I yelled.
He wouldn’t.
Back to the mat, I decided that I must meditate. I breathed in deeply and exhaled fully. Take twenty breaths. Take twenty breaths. I assumed a Muslim prayer position—folding at the knees, tucking my legs behind me, and reaching forward to the wall—and summoned the help of all the deities I don’t believe in. My knees ached—arthritis from my soccer days—so I flipped back over and lay in Savasana. Breathe. I placed my toes against the wall and pushed. The wall moved. The wall moved! If Jesus could move mountains with the faith of a mustard seed, why couldn’t I push a wall an inch or two with my toes? An intense calm washed over me and I felt equipped to manipulate the attendant’s mind. I will stare at him with a merciful face; he will feel my mercy and offer me the same. I tried to catch his gaze in the window, but he was looking off into space. Instead of using noise to grab his attention, I concentrated my immeasurably powerful mind on making him face me.
I finally caught his eye, but my attempts to manipulate his will were futile. He just shook his head back and forth as if to say Man, you don’t get it. You’re going to be here all day. My Zen gave way to panic again, and I began slamming my head against the walls. I wanted to scare him, to make him feel obligated to bring someone else in who could make a new evaluation. He wasn’t impressed. I guess that’s the point of the rubber in a rubber room. I took to the mat again and resumed crying until I had a banging headache and passed
out.
The next morning I was back in my room when the Bird magically appeared. “Bird! When did you get here?”
“Just after midnight. I flew back from Chicago when Granny told me you were in the hospital.”
I had so much to catch her up on. “Get me a pen and paper, now. I have to write some stuff down.”
The Bird, never without a notebook and pen, handed them over.
“I need to make a list.”
“Go ahead, honey.”
I began scribbling furiously and produced the following list:
Things That Need to Happen
The Producer must masturbate
I have all the money in the world that I need
No crime is committed willfully
I’m a lawyer and a comedian
Some form of reparations / do something about gender inequality
Never do I get an STD
I want to write this list again tomorrow
Improve socioeconomic status of everyone
I handed my list over to the Bird and waited patiently while she looked it over. I thought that the key to my liberation lay in this list, and I was sure the Bird would concur.
“I’m not sure that all these make sense, Zack.”
“Just because you don’t understand them doesn’t mean they don’t make sense. I need to add one: ‘No matter what, you can never let me shave my back hair.’ Write that one down as number nine.”
The Bird scribbled it down as if she’d just remembered she needed to pick up eggs from the grocery store.
“I have a…What do they call it when people get the wounds of Christ on their hands and feet? Or like when someone sees the Virgin Mary in a doughnut?”
“Stigmata.”
“Right, stigmata. I have one of those in my back hair. The Virgin Mary is in my back hair. Therein lies my power.”
“I’m not sure the Virgin Mary is in your back hair, son.” Without arguing further, the Bird felt around for the outer edges of my crazy and tried to gently nudge me toward reality.
“It’s there. You just can’t see it. When did you first learn about Jesus?”
“You’re feeling very spiritual today. I need you to do something for me, okay?”
“I will do my best.” The tone of the dutiful son, treating his mother’s words with biblical reverence.
“I need you to not run down the halls anymore. The staff told me that they had to put you in seclusion. I don’t want you to be in seclusion.”
“Well, I look out of control because I’m so fast—they’re clearly not used to seeing a human with that sort of speed. I can run like an NFL cornerback.”
“Please, just stop running. Think about your Granny. What would she say if she knew you were doing that?”
“Zachariah! Maybe pinch me.”
“That’s right. So think of your Granny.”
“I will do my best. You know, I really don’t want to die. I don’t want to be in a box. But I accept that I am going to die in here. They’re going to carry me out of here in a box.” I wasn’t Jesus per se, but with the Virgin Mary in my back hair and my new powers, I was definitely at least a prophet, and martyrdom seemed plausible.
“You aren’t going to die, honey. You’re going to get better.”
Day 4 Good Shepherd (12/30/10)
Z crying for long spells / prays both Muslim and Christian. Toilet paper all over the floor of his room. Towels in the trash can. Looks worse than he did at Bellevue. “FALL RISK” yellow armband. He believes that the heater hisses when he says anything that hints at blasphemy. Nurse says, “He’s asleep on his feet.”
Day 6 Good Shepherd (1/1/11)
Z on fluid restrictions because he is drinking “pitchers” of water, according to the nurses—they think he is trying to flush out his medication. Taking shower after shower, often with his clothes on, bc he says that he’s “done a lot of bad things and the showers cleanse me in more than just a physical way.”
Day 7 Good Shepherd (1/2/11)
UNDER CONSTANT OBSERVATION. Jarhead orderly sits on folding chair outside of Z’s room. Yesterday overheard him call Z “that asshole from NY.” Told him not to talk about my son. “I don’t know who your son is.” / “He’s the asshole from NY.”
Day 9 Good Shepherd (1/4/11)
Turned the water in his room off. Flooded the bathroom. Nurses say it doesn’t make sense that he’s still psychotic. Gary is new caretaker—very patient and good with Zack. Z thinks he is God because his name starts with “G.”
Day 10 Good Shepherd (1/5/11)
Random statements:
1. “I want to run like Forrest Gump.”
2. “I’ll make a Chewbacca noise.” (and then does)
They escorted me out of building tonight because I refused to leave. “He’s so much better when you’re here,” and then they kick me out. My fears: That he not snap out of it, that he be sent to a state hospital, that he not be able to be an attorney again.
To demonstrate the immense power of my mind, I’d started performing headstands in the sitting room. This is what extreme concentration and meditation look like. “Can you do this?” I would taunt my least favorite nurse, before wiping out.
“No, but I’m not a mental patient either,” she would snap back.
“I can transcend you. None of you can control my mind. I am doing this through meditation alone. I don’t even do yoga.” My tumbling routines led to additional imposed seclusion: the rubber room became my pied-à-terre.
Of greater concern to the staff was my new party trick: wandering the halls completely naked. Even in front of my mother, I’d strip down completely naked and walk around my room.
“Zack! You have to keep your clothes on! They are going to send you to a state hospital!”
Around that time I also decided that it was time to go. Escape seemed easier here than at Bellevue, if for no other reason than we were on the first floor. At the end of the ward’s main hall there was a nurses’ station with a slick tile floor. If I could sprint through the station and make it out the other side, I could get within twenty feet of an unlocked door that led into the parking lot. Running through the nurses’ station would be easy enough, but there was always a security guard standing at the hospital exit. The security guard was built like a pit bull. He had a military flattop: one guard on the sides, two guard on top. I got the impression that he’d welcome a confrontation. And yet, how much attention could he possibly be paying to an inactive exit?
Plenty of attention, as it turned out. I stood as close to the prohibitive yellow line as the rules allowed. This was probably my first mistake, as patients only approached the station when they wanted something—a snack, a Nicorette, missed medication. “What do you want?” the nurse on duty asked.
“Nothing, just looking.”
“Why don’t you go sit in the common area?”
“Yeah, I’m about to.” Fuck, did I blow my cover? I decided they couldn’t possibly suspect that I’d make a break for it after so obviously telegraphing my intentions. This was the stealing-beer-from-a-gas-station-by-slowly-walking-out-of-the-store technique: the clerk always pauses for a moment because he can’t believe what he’s seeing; the pause is enough to get out the doors, then you break into a sprint once you’re in the parking lot.
I took a half step back from the line and looked away from the exit, hoping to throw them off the scent. Okay, pussy, no more hesitation. One…two…three! I got a good jump and, approaching my top speed, dropped to my knees in an attempt to get under the arms of the guard. I figured my unconventional approach might wrong-foot him. No such luck. The guard closed in on me fast, bent his knees and exploded into me, wrapping me up with such force that I thought I was being tased. “No! No! No!” he yelled. His form was perfect, his follow-through powerful and prolonged. He carried me all the way back across the prohibitive yellow line. “Get off of me! Get off me, you fuck! Fucking fascist!”
“I think we know where you’re going
!”
“You love that too, fake fucking pig!”
I squirmed out of his grasp and walked away, hoping not to give him a reason to manhandle me further. It didn’t seem like he’d need much of a reason—I was forced to engage and restrain the individual. As for me, I did know where I was going: straight to isolation.
Day 12 Good Shepherd (1/7/11)
Wednesday at 5 p.m. Zack is placed in seclusion. 8 p.m. Zack is placed in restraints.
Day 13 Good Shepherd (1/8/11)
He thinks Sacha Baron Cohen is here.
Day 15 Good Shepherd (1/10/11)
Nurse says while Zack was in the gym playing catch with a security guard, he hit the guard in the face with a softball. Z says it was accidental.
After the softball incident, the staff started pushing harder to send me to Osawatomie State Hospital. “This is a short-term facility,” they insisted. “He’s not getting better. The drugs aren’t working. He’s been psychotic for more than two weeks.” They told the Bird it was time to pursue “a more aggressive treatment route.”
Gorilla and the Bird Page 18