We’re Not Crazy–Chapter 2: “Triggered”

I deserve to be loved without borders

Through the best times and the worst times 

The numbing silence in-between

Through the passion and the steep regret

The shaking hands and wild screams

 

“Good morning, Coral. How are you feeling?”

The graying man in the white medical coat barely looks up from his desk and whatever the hell he’s writing, the question rolling out of his mouth in a hurry. I’m sure he’s got some golf game to watch on SportsCenter instead of scowling behind a stack of binders. All of my struggles are neatly 3-hole-punched and filed inside of the yellow one splayed open in front of him. I don’t want to be a binder. I want to be a person again. Psychiatrists are so damn pretentious, but he’s got the answers that I’m needing. He’s got the power over my meds.

“I’m tired,” I say, tilting my head to see if he’s listening. “I had an episode this morning.”

“Yes, I heard about that.” Still no eye contact. I bet he’s secretly doing a crossword puzzle. “So, what can we do for you, Coral? What brings you here?”

Every muscle in my body tightens, the bookshelves along the walls of this tiny room already suffocating me. We’re supposed to be talking about a medication regimen to stop my fits. Relaying the event that started them is what served me up this shit sandwich in the first place. The doctor finally glances up, his expectant brow as obnoxious as I am nervous.

“I…m…my…” Great. It’s a hell of a time for my mouth to go all broken record on me. I’ve never stuttered in my entire life—until last week.

“Is something making you nervous?” Turning back to his crossword puzzle gives me just enough irritation to form some words.

“My therapist s…sent me to the hospital because I had a screaming fit in h…her office,” I say, my wringing hands doing nothing to hide the quivering.

The doctor shoots a look at my twisting fingers. “Was that the first episode?”

“No.”

“Tell me about that, then.”

Dammit. I can’t do this right now. If I freak out in here, he’s going to have me committed. Oh, wait. I already am. Pulling a deep breath into my belly, I start again. “My husband and I were having an argument.”

“Did he hit you?”

My chin drops. Just like that, huh? This doctor’s got the bedside manner of troll with an anal itch, but something about his directness makes my body fold up in my chair like a pretzel. “Camren would never hit me.”

“Yelling? Screaming?”

“Well, he was angry.”

“Did he throw anything? Hit walls?”

“No, just…the bed around my legs.” I can’t hold my knees to my chest tightly enough, my lips pinching back silent sobs. It was really my fault. Our marriage was fraying already, but I didn’t have to set it on fire. Blinking my eyelids to push the wet drops down my cheeks, I aim my gaze at the deadpan doctor. Focus, Coral. I don’t want to get sucked into that night in our bedroom. A light hum warms my chest, clammy moisture springing up my heated neck. “It’s because I hurt him.”

“Mhm.”

“I…I started seeing someone else while C…Camren and I were separated,” I explain, wiping my sleeve across my cheek. An avalanche of guilt presses my body into a stiff curl. I’m glad the doc’s not looking at me now. “After my husband said he wanted to get back together, I thought…I thought I should tell him. I thought he deserved to know.”

“And, how did he take that?”

My eyes shut to the sounds I know the doctor can’t hear. The rage. The fist slamming against whatever was near it. My youngest child weeping at the top of the stairs before school as she overhears what a whore her mommy is. You’re alright, Coral. Burying my face into my knees, I rock myself gently, pretending I’m in the safest arms possible.

“It was a rough couple of days before we got back together,” I sniffle against the cheap cotton, “But, I couldn’t get out of bed after we did. That was a week ago.”

The doctor nods, scratching down some notes. “Yes, your chart says the shaking and panic attacks were several times a day. Nightmares. Spasms.”

“We figured it was some kind of nervous breakdown, but he took such good care of me—“

“So, the screaming fits started a week after this breakdown.”

Ugh. The insect carcasses caught in the fluorescent panels above me are a poor distraction. This room is full of dankness. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I didn’t want to in the first place. “We were making love.” My voice breaks with my heart and soul, my lips tense and contorting. “And…we…he got upset in the middle of it.”

“That’s when he started hitting the bed.”

I nod, sobs thrusting in and out of my nose. You’re okay. You’re okay.

“And, that’s when you started screaming.”

“I couldn’t stop,” I cry, my body rocking more vigorously against my flipping stomach. The growing hive in my chest threatens to take over. “I forgot where I was, and everything just went black. He said I kept asking for help. Said it took hours to calm me down—to bring me back.”

I swallow hard. My throat remembers the rawness.

The yellow folder smacks shut, the doctor’s pencil tossed onto the table. “Right, so we’re likely looking at Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, triggered by your husband’s abusive behavior—“

“No, no. He never hit me.“

“Coral,” he says like he’s fighting an eye roll, “hitting things around you means he can eventually hit you with enough time and stress. Regardless, it creates the same trauma response for the victim, even if he doesn’t.”

“But—“

“I’m starting you on anxiety medications along with your antidepressants, and I strongly recommend that you get away from your trigger.”

My mouth falls open a second time. He’s not understanding. My husband loves me. This is my fault, not Camren’s. I start to argue my case, lowering my socks to the floor.

The yellow binder finds it’s way back to the pile, a green one taking it’s place. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

_________________________________________________________________________

I join the line of gray souls waiting for the pay phone, a mixture of body odor and anxiousness cropdusting the air around me—the icing on top of this nightmare cake. Tucking a few rebellious strands beneath my beanie cap, I lean against the cinderblock, unabashedly listening in to the woman in front of me who knows more raunchy innuendos than she has teeth.

From the corner of my eye, a half-dazed patient wheels past me, slowing down just enough to keep my stare locked ahead of me. If this guy’s wanting to be a creep, he needs to find a different stop. The wheelchair’s thin tire bumps into the side of my leg, unsettling me as much as the lascivious expression of the man gazing up at me. “Hey, I lost my number somewhere.” His green eyes go dark as an avocado. “Can I have yours?”

Huh? I don’t know if it’s the absurdity of a schizophrenic hitting on me in the loony bin or my desperation to relieve the pressure from that damn doctor appointment, but a laugh shoots through my nose at his wiggling dark brows. As the husky boy behind me pushes himself in between us, however, my humor falls to the chilled floor with my stomach.

“You shut your fucking face, Cruiser,” he growls down at my smirking suitor. The towering boy’s t-shirt stretches over his flexed shoulders. “I’m tired of hearing your fucking voice. I’m tired of seeing your fucking face. You need to leave these girls alone and stop that goddamn screaming all night or I swear to god—“

“Man, what you need to be worryin’ about is your smelly ass. Your funk is in the way of my game.” A band of blue scrubs makes its way to the phone line, calling for my defender to take it easy, the commotion stoking Cruiser’s jeering. “Only thing smells worse than your feet is your sister’s panties.” His grin grows wider. “I kept them anyway.”

My chest’s safety alarm gives off a warning, an electric shock of nervousness that sends my inside lip between my teeth. Fantastic. All I want to do is make a damn call to hear my kids’ voices. We could all lose our phone time if these two guys decide to deck each other. My legs tense in preparation to bolt as the angry young man’s scalp reddens under his buzzed hair, his fists curling like a wind-up toy. 

The phone receiver cracks against the metal holder in front of me, the toothless woman who looks like she belongs in the senior’s wing picking at the sores on her bony arms. “Calm it down, Mathon.” Her tongue runs over the front of her gums. “You’re methin’ with my dinner tonight.”

Cruiser’s teasing smile drops, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair as she scratches herself in awkward places. I’m not sure she even notices she’s being uncouth. Or maybe she doesn’t care. Raging under his breath, Mason throws me a quick nod before allowing a few nurses to lead him away from his wheel-chaired nemesis. The itchy woman at the front of the line saunters back to her room with a wrinkled pucker that turns Cruiser as pale as my roommate. Returning back to its light coughs and big yawns, the phone line resumes. Guess it’s my turn. I can’t dial fast enough.

“Camren,” I breathe into the grimy mouthpiece, leaning away to hide the mist that springs to my eyes. Crying in front of people is the worst. But, the sound of my son yelling at a video game in the background sends the pressure of stress and tears to the front of my face, anyway. “Oh, it’s so good to hear everyone’s voice. How are you? How are the kids?”

“Um.” The pause in my husband’s voice tempers my swelling heart. “They…they’re not good, Coral. It’s been really hard.”

My heart twists around, dumping hot shame into my abdomen. Oh, Camren. I can’t for the life of me think of what was so much worse in my marriage than the desolation I’m fighting right now—than the price my family is paying for my choices. What have I done? Swallowing rising tides of nausea and the instinct to curl up in a closet, I close my eyes to his pacing footsteps as he recounts the hours our youngest spent crying in his arms last night. She was scared. And, I wasn’t there.

“Can I talk to her?” I ask, blotting my nose against my forearm.

“I’m sure she’d love that, honey.”

My youngest’s normally bouncy voice eases through the phone, maybe unsure or tired. Maybe both. “Hey mommy, I miss you.”

“Hey, baby,” I laugh to cover the cramping sob in my throat. “I miss you so much.”

She tells me about her day, every word more precious than they’ve ever been, her giggle more lovely than it’s ever sounded. As my son realizes who she’s talking to, he calls to me over the speaker phone, proudly detailing the different items he had to collect to build a pixelated virtual house over the last four hours. I’ve never been more fascinated by Minecraft.

“Time’s almost up, Coral!” a passing nurse announces.

Damn. My mood deflates a little more, but not enough to stamp out my determination to do exactly what D’Jonnie told me this morning. I’ve gotta get my shit together. My family needs me.

“I can’t wait to see you, tomorrow,” I tell my husband, cringing at how much grime has been rubbing off on my fingers from the phone cord. “Make sure you bring your visitor’s sticker.”

His silence perplexes me once more. “Coral…do you still love me?”

As if my face could fall any further, regret pulls my mouth downward in fresh lament. Only yesterday, he stood by my side in the emergency room, apologizing for breaking my mind and my spirit. But, I broke his as well. The last thing I want is for his own guilt to haunt him on top of the stress I’ve rained down over us. It’s not like he meant to trigger my breakdown.

“Aw, honey,” I say with a sympathetic sigh, “of course I love you. We’re going to figure this out, but it’s not like we have to right now. Where’s our oldest? Her voice would really cheer me—”

“She found out, Coral.”

The words echo like a ricochet that I can’t grab onto. No. Every ounce of air abandons my lungs. No, no, no ,no. He can’t mean what it sounds like.

“She knows about the affair, and she doesn’t want to talk to you,” Camren continues as grave as a eulogy. “She doesn’t want to talk to anyone. My mom’s taking care of her for now.”

A metallic film creeps over my tastebuds, the shivering phone rapping my ear over and over. My fingers pinch around the cord. But, all I feel are the drones. All I taste is iron. Bees don’t belong in the chest. They’ll always try to fight their way out.

“Coral? Coral.”

My husband’s voice drowns beneath the buzzing with the dreggy hallway around me.

_______________________________________________________________________

“Thanks for walking with me, Mason.”

His burly face smiles before disappearing into the TV room where a rather raucous crowd is enjoying a feisty game of Uno. My disheveled peers invite me for evening downtime, but I’m feeling anything but social. I could barely engage in Mason’s limited small talk. After I apparently scared away the line for the phones, he insisted on accompanying me for a calming stroll—as calm as someone can be in a place with no exits. Trudging away from the room that sounds far too excited about pudding cups, I continue to lap the hall to steady my nerves. Mason’s company proved more effort than solace. Nice kid, though. As long as his voices like me, anyway.

My mind tries to gather memories of the last hour, but they fly around me like leaves in a wind storm. Camren told me something awful. Something terrible. What was it? There’s a reason my subconscious is holding it back from me; maybe I don’t want my brain to shake it loose. I’m pacing the halls to clear my head, not weigh it down again. And, since Mason doesn’t like walking past the chattering nurses station, I take the opportunity to venture all the way to the reinforced doors beyond. Passing a growing number of warning signs along the wall, I slow my steps, halting when a spindly hand creeps into view, dancing fingers tapping against the thick glass. A smile finds its way to my lips. Just another wing of crazies.

To my amusement, a set of gray sweats just like mine joins the hand beyond the glass, the man wearing them producing a handful of giant Legos from behind his back. His tapping hand beckons me forward. As he works to lock each block into place, he lowers his chin in a frightful grin, and beckons again. I throw him a curious wave. But, as I draw closer, pinpricks of danger amble up my arms, my falling gaze zeroing in on what he’s creating—a gun, plastic and colorful, just like the ones I’d get in trouble for making in daycare. His wiry finger curls at me again before raising the blocky pistol to his temple. Oh, my god.

He beckons. He taps. The pinpricks climb higher.

With my feet pushing me closer, a memory falls out of the swirling leaves, landing right in front of me. The hallway fades away, the beeping machines and laughing nurses floating beyond the hum of the fan in my bedroom.

“I’m a complete loser,” my husband chokes out next to me. My eyes shoot open as I feel for his hand in the dark. His skin is as cold as the sheets. “People always end up leaving me. It’s like I’m meant to be alone. I should just go get my nine millimeter and blow my brains out.”

My arms seize with electricity he and I can only describe as spasms, my breath racing in and out of my nose as I try to hold in the terror. If he hurts himself, it’ll be because I drove him to it. My twitching muscles abhor the thought. I can’t go into another episode tonight. Not again. We finally get to see a special therapist about the fits that started a few days ago. I just want to make it to that appointment. I should tell Camren that this conversation is triggering the dark thoughts. It’s way too hot in here.

He lets out a big sigh, turning his back to me. “Dammit, Coral, I can’t handle one of your episodes right now. Take a Xanax and go to sleep.”

The sharpness of his tone sends another shockwave through me. I can’t stand what I’m doing to him. My choices are pushing him to the edge. I want us to hold each other and let him tell me that everything is going to be alright—just like he did before the night I started screaming.

Willing my body to still, I flex every muscle, letting the terror have me in lieu of the comfort I don’t deserve.

“Watch out, Coral!” A gruff voice and large hands clamping down over my shoulders jolts me back into the dimming hallway of the psych ward. My shrieking yelp is followed by jeering laughter that spins me around, my fellow loonies shuffling to their rooms for the night. The sweet-faced boy towering over me is doubled over, giggling and holding his gut that peeks out from beneath his shirt. “Oh, I got you, girl. I got you good!”

“You…you sure did, Mason.” As startled as I am, I join the hallway’s merriment at my jumpiness, my shaking hand over my heart. I’ve always been easy to scare.

Like increasing raindrops, the taps on the glass behind me grow louder. Sidling up beside me in her collected fashion, Mia pulls her dark hair into a bun, nodding to the Lego-armed man. “You missed a rerun of Golden Girls to play with The Red Zone, eh?” I let her lead me by the elbow back toward our rooms, glancing behind me a few times along the way. “Coral, you might not wanna provoke him. That’s where they keep the violent patients.”

The Red Zone. My eyebrow raises at her knowing look, leaving me wondering how much more crazy people are in that wing compared to mine. I feel like the only sane person here. But, something tells me that we all feel that way.

“Move your ass, Yolanda Bitch.” The red hair whizzing past me comes with a giggle. Piper’s victorious howl adds to her running slide as the tread on her socks sends her skidding across the tiles like a skipping stone. Reaching our steel doorframe, she spins to me with a wicked grin. “I’ve got Oreos under my mattress.”

As high octane as my roommate is, she’s just as generous, sharing half of my favorite cookies with me in the glow of the night lights along the baseboards of our room. We share a few laughs before burrowing down into our beds for a pharmaceutically-induced sleep. I welcome the warmth that Trazadone brings.

Boom. Boom. Boom. “Leave me aloooone!”

“Oh, my god,” I gasp, pushing myself up through the haze. The pounding on the other side of our wall begins again. “What the hell?”

Piper pulls her blanket over her head with a groan. “That Yolanda-Bitch-Cruiser and his goddamn voices.” Her yawn is long and loud, but not as loud as our nutty neighbor’s battle with the wall. My eyes are so wide the air is starting to dry them out. “He only does this when his night attendant’s a dude. Just ignore his ass and let the pills do the work.”

Nothing short of a tranquilizer could possibly drown out the hysterics next door. There’s no way this guy’s not turning into a werewolf—a werewolf that’s telling all of the other werewolves to shut up. Not even my own hellish episode has drained me enough to do anything other than jerk awake with each banging scream. My god. The tables and walls sure take a beating in our wing. The Red Zone must look exactly how it sounds.

As the mad howling serenades my already disturbed rest, I’m at least distracted by the argument being had with the voices. I give no thought to the horrifying development that Camren dropped on me earlier. I don’t cover my head with my pillow to absorb the weeping groans that I don’t want my roommate to hear. And, I certainly don’t wonder what my daughter, my treasure of thirteen years, must think of me. Because that could trigger another fit of mine. 

“I said, leave me alone!” The rabid brawl with invisible enemies crescendos against the wall.

And, everyone’s got their trigger.

 

READ CHAPTER 3 HERE