There are Definite Advantages to Life in a Mental Institution

First of all, they bring you food. OK, technically I had to walk to the dumbwaiter in the hall, (I love being able to use the word dumbwaiter!) but still, it was pretty convenient.  I could even request vegetarian and they’d do it. Although I was upset the day my menu card said Welsh Rabbit.  Who the hell knew Welsh Rabbit was toast smothered with cheese sauce? Well, I do, thanks to the good folks at Windsor Mental Institution. 

Another advantage was my roommate, Tammy. She was awesome. Older, (16 to my 12—way cool) and she smoked. And she let me smoke. We smoked together.  I’d always wanted to smoke. I used to sneak into my cousins’ basement and smoke the longer butts out of the ashtrays, but now I got whole ones.  Sometimes we shared, but Tammy would say I was getting the filter wet, which always embarrassed me because I was inexperienced and didn’t know how not to.  But other than pointing out my smoking shortcomings, I loved her. We would stay up at night making fun of our psychiatrists, sharing our stories, and lamenting how much we hated the phrase, “Life isn’t fair.” It seemed to both of us that that phrase is only uttered right before someone is about to completely obliterate your needs and fuck you over.  (I still feel that way, by the way.)

I also appreciated the camaraderie of the other “inmates.”  All of the teenagers (I was the youngest—I’ve always been ahead of my time.) were there because of a suicide attempt.  For the first time I had people around me who understood. They didn’t think I was selfish or crazy; they had all been to the place I’d been.  Life was just too painful to keep on with it.

Following in my analgesic vein, Tammy had overdosed on Excedrin. She lay down in her boyfriend’s bed, at his parent’s house for a “nap.” It was only when he could barely wake her that she was rushed to the hospital.  Stomach pumping—gross.  I’m so glad all I did was throw up for three days. The charcoal and tube down the throat sounded unbearable. 

Then there was the guy I had a huge crush on. I don’t remember his name. He’d been in a car accident.  He and some friends had driven off the road and into a lake. He made it, they didn’t.  He tried to correct the oversight with a razorblade.  I never had the guts for that. His poor wrists. I remember the thick white gauze and the pain that I projected onto him. Seriously, that had to hurt, right?

There was a rec room. Tammy and I would put on music and dance. Sometimes crazy, writhing on the floor.  We were both pretty untamed creatures.  I often wonder what happened to her.  Google is silent on the subject.

I realize I’m forgetting the most important advantage of being institutionalized at age twelve.  No parents.  No sister to hate me.  Other than at my occasional shrink appointment, and one random-bitch-fellow-inmate, no one told me I was crazy.  My mom came to visit, but when she got me a day pass, all we did was fight, so she took me back early.  My cousin, Brad came.  Really, he had to, because he was the one who took me to see Grease in the first place, and wasn’t that how I’d gotten into this mess?  Well, not really, and he didn’t know about my Grease epiphany anyway, but still he came. And brought pizza. God, I love that man.  My nut job cohorts were pretty pleased with him too.

I know I’m gilding the lily a bit. I mean, my time at Windsor was anything but a barrel of laughs.  There was Mike, who was a complete dick the day before his shock treatments.  (Yes, seriously.  He got them every three days, and was only bearable to be around right after.)  And there was an abusive doctor that I may or may not tell you about.  Not to mention that being in an insane asylum does little for one’s self esteem.  But at that time of my life, it was a viable option.  Living with my mother wasn’t.  I didn’t know enough to know that living with my father wasn’t, either. 

So, even though I think it was a betrayal to put me there—a “life isn’t fair” annihilation of my needs as a human, and a way to make all of the mess in the family about me, I’m glad I went. I felt saner in the nuthouse.  And how else would I have learned about Welsh Rabbit?

I make all my best decisions while watching Grease

That’s what my sister said I should name my autobiography after I told her the following story.

I love the movie Grease. I always have. I saw it for the first time with my sister, my cousin, Kelly, and my I-was-too-young-to-know-I-shouldn’t-have-a-crush-on-my-super cute, cool, older cousin, Brad. That they took us to any movie bode well for how much I would love it.

The music was great, as were the performances, and I don’t know a single girl my age who didn’t dream of being black spandex, curly haired Sandy. I’ll admit right now that I dream of it to this day. In my advanced age of 35, I’m sure I could still do the part on Broadway if out of sheer love alone.

Grease came out when I was eight. Three years later, after countless viewings, (and this was before VCR’s, mind you) I saw it once again on television and it changed my life forever.

I tried to kill myself.

I know. It’s crazy. But I remember watching the ending and getting that feeling I have always gotten (and still get) of possibility, joy, and how beautiful friendship is, and I thought, I will never be that happy. So why keep on with it? (It’s worth noting at this point that these thoughts did not occur in a vacuum. I’d been struggling with sadness, depression, and suicidal thoughts for as long as I can remember.) But on this night, while my sister sat on our sofa, (ok, it was really a twin bed with a bolster back—we were poor.) and my mom was with her boyfriend, Allen, I started counting pills.

WARNING: If you are ever going to off yourself, don’t do it with Tylenol. I’ll tell you why later, but in case you abandon this essay before then, just trust me. Tylenol is not the way to go.

I counted out the amount I was sure would do the trick and stood in the kitchen swallowing them, one or two at a time. I went into my bedroom and addressed a note to everyone in my family: every aunt, uncle, cousin, sister, mother, father, brother. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I know that I expressed something I’d been feeling for years: My life was a mistake. God had screwed up by putting me on Earth. I knew that I didn’t belong, that this was not my home. I did not include in the note that for months I’d cried myself to sleep, begging God to kill me, waking up disappointed at another day, solid in my conclusion that God didn’t love me or he would have taken me home. How could anyone who loved me keep me in this hell against my will? There was a time I thought I was an atheist. Now I realize that I did believe in God, I just thought he was a Motherfucker.

So I took matters into my own hands.

I don’t remember exactly how I felt when I went to bed that night, but I think I was scared and relieved. And ready. God, (Motherfucker!) was I ready.

Three hours later I bolted upright in bed, two thoughts shotgunning one after the other:
--I’m still alive (surprise and horror)
--I’m going to throw up. Now.

And for the love of Motherfucker, I did. I spewed bile for three days. I ended up in the hospital—everyone thought I had a bad case of the stomach flu, and I didn’t disabuse them of the notion. (Not until several weeks {months?} later, but that’s another tale.)

Which brings me back to my caution about Tylenol and suicide. Technically, it can be done, but if you are off even a little, your pancreas will make you pay like you cannot believe. You think you wanted to die before…

So while I sometimes agree there might be too much violence on television, I can’t lay the ills of the world there. Aside from Eugene hitting the coach with a pie, and Kenickie blacking out from an accidental blow to the head, there certainly wasn’t anything in Grease that would push the average mind over the edge. Although truth be told, that wasn’t the first time (or last) my non-average mind has led me to places others would prefer not to go.