confessions from suburbia

i was breaking down for years but didn’t know it - i was
suffering from unresolved issues around my own
addictions and four babies worth of post partum
depression - i ended up in the psychiatric ward of our
local hospital - of course, by the time i ended up in the
hospital - i was worn out - mentally and physically - i
quite literally wanted to die -
once in the hospital - they asked me twenty questions to
decide if i was really depressed or not - one of the
questions was - “do you have a gun at home?” - i
answered “no - but if i did - i would have used it by now”
-
*****
“I keep having this recurring memory.”

“What kind of memory?” The doctor’s voice is low and cool.
Inviting.

I pause, my mind heavy with thought, as I sort out fact from
fiction, what to keep inside, what to share.

“It’s like everything in my life. It just keeps recurring. Kinda like
a nightmare. I have one of those too, you know, a bad dream that
I have over and over. It’s always the same dream, but the setting
is different every time. It always gives me the same horror when
I wake up.”

The doctor leans forward. “Horror?”

“It’s like waking up dope sick. I come to, really sudden, like
someone has pushed me off the bed. And the bed, it’s wet from
gallons of sweat dripping off my body.”

I feel moisture gather in my armpits at the thought of it.

“There’s always dope in the dream and a red light or sometimes a white
light. And stairs. Crazy, steep, dark stairs. And that’s where the light is.
At the top of the stairs. Except, in my dream, somehow it’s not only a
light. It’s the presence of sheer evil, beckoning me. I hate that fucking
dream.”

I look down at my hands. I’m picking my nails. Always picking. Tearing
little pieces of myself away, dropping bits of myself here and there.

“So this is memory?”

“No, that’s just the dream I have. No, the memory I have is something
else. It’s more like a constant reminder of death or something. I’m not
sure. It’s hard to describe.”

“I don’t really follow you. Could you be more specific?”

“Well, it’s like a colour or a smell. You know. I’m sure you must know.
Like when you smell something or see something, or even taste something,
it can remind you of something else. Another time, another place. Maybe
even another feeling.”

“You’re being too ambiguous. Can you get to the point of the memory -
Where it’s coming from, perhaps?”

“Well, that’s the problem. I can’t seem to get to the point. I don’t know
what the point is except I keep having this recurring memory.”

“And when exactly do you get this memory?” The Doctor taps her pen on
her desk to get to the point herself.

“Well, I seem to get it in the morning, just before I drift off to sleep, and
sometimes I get it during day. Funny, I guess I get it any time. Do you
think it could be the medication?”

“Hmm, well, that is a possibility, but somehow I doubt it.” Doctor Silver
writes furiously in her made-for-notes notepad. The one attached to my
file. “Tell me more.”

“Well, in this memory, I am on the lam.”

“What exactly do you mean by on the lam?”

“You know. I’ve run away from home.”

“Run away?”

“Yeah, I’m running along a winding trail through the forest. My
destination? The Coquitlam River. I’m running to the river
because there is nowhere else to go. ‘Nowhere to run too bay-bee,
nowhere to hide.’ That’s the song I’m singing while I’m running.
I always hear that song. That’s my song. Even now, it’s in my
head.”

“Okay, so tell me why you’re running.”

“Well, because I don’t know what to do. I mean, with my life that
is. I’m trapped in an intolerable situation and I want to escape.”

“Escape? You mean physically? What about mentally?”

“Sure, always mentally. I always want to escape mentally.” I
close my eyes.

“Okay. Continue.”

“I want to escape and the river is the only place I can think of to go
to. Have you ever walked through the woods toward a river or a
creek?”

“Mmm, yes I think so.”

“Well, if you ever have, you’ll know what I’m talking about. It’s
a very subtle experience. As I close in on the invisible river, I can
hear it getting louder and louder, until finally, it absorbs me
completely. Its roar blocks out every other sound. Auditory
deprivation. Gone are the birds chirping, gone are the sounds of
my feet as they hit the ground. The river consumes me before I
ever see it. I’m alone in the forest.”

I trace the outline of the dark grey tile on the floor with the toe of
my paper slipper. “I can completely visualize myself running
along.”

“Describe it to me.”

“Sunlight trickles through the tops of trees lighting up my head and face as
I run, but it doesn’t give me any comfort and it’s not warm. It doesn’t
make me happy. Somehow, it just makes me feel sadder.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“I’m not sure. It’s as if I’m moving through a dream. Nothing feels real.
I’m breaking down. I can still remember the smell of the forest that day.
Mildew, damp, green. The rot of a lower mainland winter. Early spring
forest. I keep running until I come to the water edge. It smells like mud.
The river is high. It’s a vortex of movement. The water tears away at the
banks, moving rocks and leaving holes, bearing the roots of trees. It sucks
away everything in its path. I want to fall in. End it all here and now,
because, I’m not worthy to live.”

“Why are you not worthy to live?”

“Why? Because my life is a dismal failure. I’m nothing. I am completely
unlovable.”

“Do you still see yourself as completely unlovable? I mean right now?
Right here as we sit?”

“No, I don’t think so. Not now.”

“Oh good. Then we have made some progress.” The Doctor’s pen
scratches hastily across her notepad. She looks over her glasses at me.

“Continue.” she commands. “You were standing at the river.”

“Yeah - I was standing at the fucking river. - I remember thinking ‘no one
knows how big this pain inside of me is.’ I felt completely alone. I
decided to jump into the river. I could see myself going down it, tumbling,
rolling, arms and legs flailing. The current pulling me under - sucking
away my last breath. I am drowning. I am Ophelia. - Romantic, eh?”

“Do you think it’s romantic?”

“Well, not really. But I can remember thinking that the river was
calling me. Thinking no one will miss me. The children may
wonder where I’ve gone, but it doesn’t matter. Poor, miserable
little things.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because, I thought it would be sad for them to lose their mother.
You know. And then all of a sudden the enormity of it all hit me.
I realized - I can’t abandon them. I decided to go and get them.
Bring them to the river. To save them. I stood there imagining my
children floating down the river. One at a time, into the water. No
fear. Just relief. I will save them and end my suffering.”

The room is quiet except for the tic-tic of the doctor’s watch. My
nail is bleeding. I put my finger to my mouth and taste salt blood
on my tongue.

“So, what you are saying is, that you wanted to kill your children
too?”

“Yes, I wanted to kill my children.”

“So what did you do next?”

“I’m not sure. I think I lit a cigarette. I think I sat on a rock and
smoked. One cigarette after another. Yes, I’m sure of it. I sat
there. I cried and I smoked. I smoked away the pain. I returned
to common sense. I smoked some more. I realized it was not the
day to die. And then I walked home. Slowly.”






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