What Is Real

Warning: Sensitive Content.

This story involves details about mental health struggles, group therapy treatment, and briefly mentions suicide.

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February 6, 2018

Indira pulled in to the graveled Crisis Recovery Center parking lot, and immediately had the urge to turn around and leave. Her stomach felt like a lead balloon, heavy and lurching at the same time. She thought she might throw up. Instead of leaving, she pulled her silver-blue Sonata into a space as far away from the few other vehicles as possible, and sat quietly for a minute, trying to steel her nerves. Desperately, she pulled the last hit from her cigarette into her lungs, and let it out in a long, slow stream of smoke. 

I have to do this, she thought to herself. I have to. I have no choice. Tears threatened to well up once more in her already reddened eyes. She was terrified. Suicide attempts were frightening, sure, but she felt a certain familiar comfort in them. This was far beyond anything she had ever tried to do before, and she had no idea what to expect, other than the obvious fact that there would be other "crazy" people in there, and that she would be expected to talk about her problems in front of complete strangers, counselors and patients alike. 

As she pulled the latch for the car door, her stomach gave another violent heave, but she forced calmness into her face, got out of the car, and briskly adjusted her faded green sweatshirt. The February morning was chilly, the sky was a bright, blazing blue, and the sun hurt her puffy eyes as she forced herself to take measured steps towards the pale yellow building. 

Indira would have loved to say she never felt so low as she did then, walking towards a mental health crisis facility, but it wasn't true. She'd felt much worse, plenty of times. It wasn't much, but as she approached the door, a small part of her clung to hope that this would indeed help. 

The big glass door was locked, and the buzzer made a harsh sound when she pressed it that reminded her of movies she'd seen about prison. Nervously, she peered through the door into a carpeted room with armchairs and a tall shelf with an assortment of houseplants, but she didn't see anything threatening. Still, she wasn't used to places like this. She was raised by two hippies in the woods of Appalachia, far from locked doors and safety protocols. After a few moments, a petite, pleasant looking man came to the door. 

"Hey!" He said in boisterous tones, his overtly joyful gaze locking into her eyes like a smiling harpoon spike. "How are you? Glad to see you! Come on in! We'll get started on your paperwork and get right to it!" 

Propelled forwards by his enthusiasm, Indira followed the man through the door, feeling very uncertain about what to say or do. He had not even asked who she was. That seemed odd to her at first, but as she walked into the sitting area, it occurred to her that this was probably not the sort of place someone came to without prior knowledge and conviction. Maybe someone had told the man what she looked like. Suddenly disoriented and frightened again, she wondered if she had already met him at some point. Her brain had not functioned well in quite some time, after all. 

He cheerfully motioned her to sit and whisked around the corner to get her orientation packet. She tried to focus on deep breathing as she waited, her entire body shaking with anxiety. Nothing made sense anymore these days, and she was used to giving up on understanding the world around her. She just had to get through this.

The short man, who introduced himself as Jason, returned with a large folder of paperwork for her to fill out. As she worked, she wondered where everyone else was. Surely she was not the only person in "crisis". She didn't have any expectations of making friends or connections here, but she was eager to at least push past the crippling angst of meeting new people. 

Soon enough, though, Jason happily led her around the corner to a hallway, then turned another corner into a small, brightly lit room where several people were waiting, some sitting, some standing, some chatting casually and sipping coffee. Three large plastic tables were arranged in a U-shape facing a chalkboard, and two or three people already had notebooks and pens at the ready.

Before she even found a seat, Indira's overwhelmed mind immediately reframed this whole thing into a college classroom setting- something far more comfortable and familiar to her, although still feeling like the distant past. She was desperate to latch on to anything that might help, but her brain often did these things unconsciously, without her even realizing it until later. Mental health professionals called that a "coping mechanism", but it happened to her so often that it amounted to a disconnect from reality. Never being sure what was real was no way to live, but sometimes that was all you could get. She had learned to live with that.

I guess that's why I'm here, isn't it? Shame welled up like a flood, pushing every other thought out as she carefully arranged her notebook on the table in front of her, avoiding any eye contact with the other people around the tables. She could feel their eyes upon her like burning cinders, weighing her, probably judging her, but she was too ashamed to pretend to be friendly. After a moment, the eyes moved on, and she knew she'd been dismissed as a non-entity in the room. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Being seen as unimportant was the first real normalcy of the day.

Once the novelty of her entrance subsided, Indira began her own careful surveyance of the room and it's seven other occupants. Group therapy would begin in a few minutes, but in the meantime, people were free to pursue various activities. Jason, the only staff person she had met so far, popped in and out of the room at frequent intervals, bringing coffee, water, a small basket of snacks for everyone to share, and excessive amounts of bright energy. She couldn't tell if it was genuine or not, but she found it mildly irritating. He was trying too hard, perhaps. In between his visits, she quietly watched and listened as the other patients continued to settle in.

One lady in particular was very animated and loud, her voice abrasively overriding everything else as she waved her bare arms for emphasis. She wore a skimpy outfit, stood far too close to the man she was talking to, and laughed uproariously at everything he said.

The center of attention is obviously her comfort zone, Indira thought as she rolled her eyes inwardly. She tried not to make assumptions about people as a general rule, but this woman was a walking cliche. I feel like I'm in a freaking movie. 

Another lady, much older, sat quietly to her left, busily sorting through a bin of plastic beads and threading them onto a red pipe cleaner. Good, Indira thought. At least there's something to occupy people like me.

In fact, upon further inspection, she was pleased to see an array of coloring books and a huge box of coloring pencils on a table to the side, and she received an unexpected bolt of pleasure when she saw another table full of jigsaw puzzles. Still avoiding any human interaction, she immediately walked to the table and picked the biggest one available, a cheerful 1000 piece folk art scene depicting a colorful farming community harvesting crops. She hurried back to her seat and began sorting pieces, eager to distract herself from where she was, and why. None of these people made her feel compelled to engage in conversation. Even here, she was completely out of place. Just like everywhere else.

A few minutes later, a tall, powerful-looking man walked into the room, followed by Jason, who closed the door behind them. Indira reluctantly glanced up from her puzzle pieces, fingers still deftly working to sort as many pieces as possible before reality interfered again, but she stopped dead as the tall man paused just inside the door to gaze around the room. His intense, pale blue eyes burned with sadness as they slid across hers, ever so briefly, then moved on. Those were the eyes of a man who didn't care what he saw anymore. The eyes of a man who had seen far too much. 

His face remained impassive as he sat in the chair closest to the door, across the room from her. He leaned back in the metal folding chair, crossed his arms and stared straight ahead. Resignation poured from him in waves, but there was something else, too. Somehow, just sitting there, he looked wild, dangerous, out of place. 

Like a wolf in a cage, she thought. Indira forced herself to look away, afraid of meeting his eyes again. She certainly didn't want to attract attention from someone like that.

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November 9, 2024

Even after years of being together, Indira was still cautious about openly sharing the details of where she met her boyfriend, but she was always honest when asked directly. Shocked silence was the normal response, mixed with disapproval and even fear, especially if they asked why they were there. They were both making a last ditch effort to avoid going to a mental hospital. She was diagnosed bipolar with PTSD, and he was schizophrenic. Nobody expected or wanted that level of honesty, but she had long ago decided she was done sugar-coating her life for people. 

His eyes still held that hard blue sadness at times, and a cold distance at others, but now they softened into warmth and smiles when he looked at her. She felt completely safe with him. They could tell each other anything. It wasn't always easy- in fact, it was often impossible- but so far they had loved each other through the impossibilities. There still wasn't much in life that made sense, but sometimes, just sometimes, when they gazed into each other's eyes, it suddenly ALL made sense. People whose brains functioned normally could never understand how much comfort that brought to someone like her, or him.

The whole world needs to take a harder look at reality, she thought as she finished writing her short story. Love is the only reality there is! She smiled to herself, proud to finally be writing again, lost in memory, and absently tapped her meds out into her hand.