Potato Side
When people characterize an experience as surreal, I suspect
that many don't know what the hell they're talking about. I think what they're attempting to convey is that they just saw some weird shit, man, something like spotting the anchor of the 5 o'clock news grabbing a sandwich and a Diet Coke at Arby's. I hope that my understanding of the term is the correct one, for I believe that no other term suffices to describe succinctly the story I'd like to share with you all.
In brief, it was the recommendation of the doctor I spoke to at the Houston NeuroPsychiatric Center that I admit myself to a hospital for the sake of my mental health. It was something I should have done at least a month ago. Still, one consideration loomed large: What if I don't like the food? My neighbor was kind enough to give me his pasta machine a couple of days prior, and I had big dinner plans for my wife and me. Also, when someone is questioned about a hospital stay, he'll say, invariably, "It was fine, but Christ the food was horrible - I wanted a McDonald's like nobody's business!" You and I will agree that such a statement does not serve as a ringing endorsement of hospital food.
Of course, I did not mention this concern to the doctor; instead, I asked, "What is the typical stay?" The doctor was vague. Five days probably. Maybe more. Could be seven days, ten days even. Maybe even sixteen. Probably sixteen tops. Already wigged out to the max, my brain began playing a shell-game with itself. The grand prize was five days eating mystery meat in the nuthouse. I yanked the shell, and the admission process was underway.
Admission was itself a
Byzantine affair: I had to wait
for a bed to open at one of three hospitals, and insurance had to be approved. While waiting, I slept on a plastic mat on the floor along with a number of other unfortunate souls while the TV blared to keep staff entertained in the common room, which resembled post-World War I Europe. My wife slept next to me on a
hard plastic bench, three thin blankets providing cushioning. The doctor promised that he would
administer enough medicine for me to get to sleep. He was true to his word, if you'll allow that he administered enough medicine to keep a water buffalo at bay for eight hours.
After a night of sleep the quality of which I hadn't enjoyed
in weeks, I woke up to discover that the plastic bench on which my wife slept was empty. Alone, I didn't want to spend the
rest of my wait time sitting around watching morning TV, a distinctly hellish prospect that I was in no shape to deal with. I
asked the nurse on duty for extra medicine, and after taking it, I conked out cold on the plastic bench that had been occupied by my wife. Several hours later, an Asian gentleman
in scrubs was face-to-face with me screaming, "[name changed] Shiftless Chef! Shiftless Chef! Time to go to hospital!"
After sixteen hours, I was admitted. That's when things started to get, yes, surreal. Describing the place as
"Dickension," a term perhaps abused by now, might do to a point, but I think "grim" captures the essence better. The hospital itself offers little to recommend it: little stimuli (cards, old
editions of magazines I didn't want to read anyway ripped at the corners, no internet, a television tuned around the clock to sports), a
color scheme without name or classification until someone manages to craftily combine "institutional" and "butter," and rooms that
resemble those that I imagine one would find in a typhus ward.
My fellow patients were a sight: during the duration of my stay, I learned that they consisted of (and I will do my level best to avoid stereotypes) a couple of schizophrenics, women who suffered all varieties of abuse from the hands and mouths of brutish husbands, a nurse, drug addicts,
multiple-time losers, an Asian sorority girl (by the looks of things), the mentally-challenged, teachers, ordinary folks yoked to
unbearable existences, and a full-blown psychotic with the bearing of a River Oaks Lovey Howell, a wardrobe that suggested breezy country club badinage about "the help" and the immigrants moving into her neighborhood, and a tongue that wagged effortlessly between prayer and profanity, perhaps at one time a lovely lady now out of luck, now a Republican, God bless her heart. A man can only do his best. At this
point, I began to question this bright idea.
If I'd based my decision to go to the hospital solely on my
first night's meal, a noxious chicken spaghetti Reader's Digest concoction with a side of freezer burnt vegetables, I would have asked for an extra night to consider at home. If I'd based my decision to go to the hospital solely on the
next morning's breakfast, consisting of toast that tasted like it was made with
leftover school asbestos and "the Sausage of Unknown
Provenance" that made me gag and almost ralph all over the bleach-shined floor, I would have
taken my chances with my battered and still-declining psych while eating the fattening food I so dearly love, hoping against hope that extra butter would provide the curative I'd needed all along. Propitiously, better sense
intervened: I decided I'd eat
bananas for the duration of my stay if I had to.
Because I still hadn't spoken to a doctor, I did not enjoy
the chief privilege that most of my fellow patients did: leaving the ward to walk to the
cafeteria to eat and then, afterward, smoke. I plead with staff to please let me at least walk
down to the courtyard and have a cigarette because my nerves, for a variety of
reasons, not the least of which being poison sausage, were wrecked. The too matter-of-fact response was "no." I would have to wait for the
doctor. Everyone has to and I'll survive. This response not
inspiring any reassurance. I
immediately dove into bed and cried myself to sleep.
I was awakened with the news that my doctor arrived. Dr. B. greeted me by saying that with his arrival, I could exercise my inalienable right to smoke cigarettes. Initially affronted, I caught on to his wry sense of humor quickly enough. He's a hell of a doctor who had done his homework
concerning my case. After
consulting my binder that contained close to twenty years of medical history,
he arrived at a conclusion that no doctor during those years had: antidepressants may not work for
me. He asked how I felt about
taking Ritalin, commonly prescribed for school kids who disrupt class by speaking in tongues.
I knew that Ritalin has the opposite effect on adults; it is,
effectively, pharmaceutical-grade speed.
His recommendation seemed reasonable to me. Out with Cymbalta, in with Ritalin. I shook hands with Dr. B., thanking
him, in earnest, "for the laughs," which I sorely needed. Dr. B. - It Ain't Just the Cheapskate's Choice anymore.
Janked up on Ritalin and reunited with my beloved lady
nicotine, my outlook changed dramatically. After more than a day of despair, sorrow, isolation, and
long dreamless naps, I began to kibitz with my fellow patients and participate
meaningfully in my treatment. I
like to think that I'm a gregarious guy; nonetheless, I can tense up real quick
with strangers, especially in strange places, a consequence of social anxiety,
courtesy of lifelong insecurity.
Slowly, I worked in a few jokes, which those who were inclined to get
laughed at. I listened to my fellow patients' stories. For the first time
in months, my true self took bloom again.
I think we can all agree that empathy is a quality that we could
all use a hell of a lot more of.
The funny thing is that most folks say that they possess this
quality. I contend that a stint in
a mental hospital will test the most well-intentioned person. My stint certainly tested mine. For the most part, I think I did okay. I became genuinely interested in my
fellow patients and how they got there.
One fellow, to whom I'd become close, had once enjoyed financial success
and the accoutrements that accompany it.
He was suddenly and inexplicably stricken with a rather nasty streak of
bad luck. He was left to fend for
himself on the street upon his discharge.
When I told him I would give him some clothes I didn't need anymore,
his face reddened and he began to weep.
It's never easy to watch a grown man cry, even if you're a grown man who
just did it himself. There are
plenty of other stories I could tell, as many as there were patients, I dare
say. Lovey Howell was another
matter altogether. She deserves her own Shiftless Chef column.
I was discharged shortly after 7 o'clock this past
evening. I could have left a day
earlier, such was my progress. I
elected to stay another day. My
decision was rather spontaneous. I
felt better (still, on Ritalin, I vacillate between Robin Williams obnoxiousness and the zen calm of a potato that's done tuned out), but my stay wasn't complete.
I'd spent most of my time napping, entertaining visitors (who were truly
a blessing), hanging out with my fellow patients, reading, and smoking. Still, my stay needed a purpose, and
somehow I needed to find it.
A social worker named Mrs. P., who was brand new to
the facility, proved to be the answer to my prayers.
Until her arrival, I'd avoided most of the group therapy sessions. I was of the opinion that I wasn't
going to learn anything I wouldn't learn napping or talking to fellow smokers, and the one session I did
attend confirmed that. When Mrs.
P. arrived, her presence energized the place. Knowing little else about her and nothing about the subject
matter, I nonetheless felt compelled when she called Monday's first group
therapy session. In truth, I don't
remember the subject of that session, but the pure compassion she displayed made a
real impression on me. I was doped
to my eyeballs and not of altogether sound mind. Ordinarily, more sleep would have made an open-and-shut
case for itself, and I would be sawing logs before all the session's handouts were
issued.
I opted instead to attend her next session. Before the session began, I had the
opportunity to speak with her at length.
By "at length," I mean the length of an ordinary therapist's
one-on-one session. We talked
about the usual stuff that a therapist and patient discuss. I've seen a few therapists come
and go, and I think that qualifies me to say that she's truly special. Beyond making me feel better, she
conveyed to me that life not only has meaning, but also that it also has beauty, and that I have a unique role, and a duty, perhaps, in spreading
that beauty. She's utterly
charming, even when she's being crass, which is more often than you'd expect upon meeting her. She invokes the spiritual, but she doesn't shovel your soul full of chickenshit; indeed, she can be bracingly blunt and doesn't put up with any crap. Summarily, she is an unusually gifted therapist.
After one session, I began to feel a hell of a lot closer to my old self again.
I attended each session she conducted during my stay. For whatever reason, she dedicated the second session to me. I don't
remember most of its content either, but, feeling emboldened after our
one-on-one session, I asked if I could take the floor for a few minutes so that
I could tell my fellow patients about my hospital experience. She obliged me, even after I said there
may be some "rough language."
My monologue was mostly impromptu, and I laid myself totally bare. It's It was through my monologue that I found my purpose in the experience.
That wasn't the highlight, however. For whatever reason, a couple of the
younger patients, both mentally challenged, began following me around. One of these young men, D., is a
sweet kid who's had a home life ripped straight out of the CPS manual. D. had been there a couple of days,
and likely felt much like I did in the beginning: scared, lonely, and hopeless. At the beginning of the session, D. asked if he could say
a prayer. Everyone obliged,
including Lovey Howell, albeit begrudgingly. Like many of the details of my stay, most of the
content is hazy. For himself, he
prayed for peace, something all decent people want. What he prayed
for next is something I'll never forget. He prayed, "God, please let us be ourselves." Those words, tearfully recited by a young man deemed an idiot by no less a person than his own mother, are well worth our consideration, I think.
Perhaps I digress, but "God, please let us be ourselves" beats "Be the change you wish to see in the world" any day of any year on any calendar if you ask me. The latter is a nice sentiment, nice enough to plaster all over Facebook and any other available space on the Internet. I've seen the do-gooders for whom this phrase serves as their mantra in action, and they start running the other way at the faintest smell of a poor unfortunate's piss or an earful of Spanish. It's a hell of a lot easier, not to mention less messy and time-consuming, to slap a nostrum on a bumper to remind the rest of us of just what swell, caring people they are and what terrible, heartless, broccoli-hating cromags we are. I don't want these sanctimonious nincompoops around me, and neither should you. It's also too easy, and pantspeeable-laughable, to misquote Mahatma Gandhi. Read it and weep, you fucking poseurs: Falser Words Were Never Spoken. Pinch your nose, and say the following in the most vainglorious tone you can muster: "Be the change you wish to see in the world." When you're finished, punch yourself in the crotch until you turn Chinese. After that, simply be the person you know you are. If we all did that, including myself, we'd get a hell of a lot more accomplished. Hate to break it to you, R. Waldo, but the retard's evolutionary universes ahead of you. Go fuck yourself until you turn into a trout, and then join the rest of us who give a truly a damn. We need more good warm bodies for the icky work.
But don't get me wrong, my dear friends ("My dear friends" is a phrase that Mrs. P. is fond of and uses frequently and with positive effect throughout her sessions.). I was scared shitless those first minutes, rubbing elbows with crack addicts, schizophrenics, the vacant-faced victims of all manner of abuse, and big dudes with crazy eyes. What was I, a man of some accomplishment, doing in a place like this? I was acting like a poseur myself by putting myself on a higher plateau than my fellow patients. The truth is, I have a lot of what troubles the crack addicts, the schizophrenics, the vacant-faced abuse victims, and the big dude with the crazy eyes who would rip my liver out upon the slightest provocation in me, too. Somehow, I gained the gift of humility, which begat the gift of true empathy. Before my stay ended, I began talking to C., a garbage collector who celebrated eight months sobriety from alcohol and cocaine. N, the schizophrenic, taught me to play gin rummy. The time passed more quickly, and we had a hell of a lot of fun and a few laughs. J. had been thrice married to abusive men who forced her into spouse-swapping; to cope, J. began drinking heavily. Fed up, J. got away from her last husband. It's my privilege to know this courageous woman. When you say "dear soul," you're talking about J. E. is an otherwise ordinary guy who, for whatever reason, decided that he didn't want to live anymore. He became my roommate during the early hours of Saturday morning as I was conked silly. His snoring sounds like a chainsaw cutting through an Oldsmobile. His snoring notwithstanding, E. and I became fast friends. He offered to take me to an Astro's game. His treat. I wish him the very best.
I befriended most of my fellow patients, in fact, before my discharge. And as I would any of my friends, I tried to make them laugh. On Sunday evening, a group meeting was called by J., a gruff Tammy Wynette lookalike from Louisiana who complained earlier that when the rules were broken, she took the brunt of the blame. To be fair, she did seem rather put upon, but her griping got to be too much. The topic of the meeting was "the rules," which were never verbally enumerated but which we were expected to know nonetheless. She put each patient on the spot by asking him or her to recite one rule from three different categories. It was close to bedtime, and most of the patients, sleepy and drug-addled, struggled to come up with answers. Most, that is, except for me, that is. J. looked at me and said, "Okay, tell me one rule." My response was "No more than three pets." Looking like a stumped game-show contestant, J. asked, "Say dat one muhtime?" Once again, I responded, "No more than three pets. You know, dogs, cats?" It took a bit, but the group caught on and roared with laughter, much to J.'s umbrage. She simply moved on to the next person without giving me a chance to come up with another rule, such as "Your choice of one entree, two vegetables, and one bread" or "There's a two drink minimum," but not before scolding me with that Looseeanna prad accent of hers and a dirty, very dirty look. This story made its rounds to the other units as well. I was so happy, and, admittedly, proud, that I could help my new friends laugh again. I'm was also happy and, moreover, privileged that they allowed me to do so. And in fairness, J. is a sweet lady who is, indeed, greatly put upon and probably grossly underappreciated, even after a day of wiping up coffee spills in the main lobby (she told us a million times that coffee is to be consumed in the TV room only!) I might be sorry I said that; if so, really not very much. I'm pretty sure Lovey didn't laugh, either. She also had no retort. Like I said, she's another story altogether. Not long before I left, she did tell me that I look much older than I am, which I took as a compliment. She doesn't doesn't look a day older than God herself.
After four days of (not always) crummy food, minimal comfort assuaged by the-right-side-of-ridiculous doses of psychopharmaceuticals, skull-crushing boredom until I learned to play gin rummy, and three bananas, I was approved for discharge. Although I was eager to get home back to my wife and the comforts of home, part of me had a hard time leaving. I formed some true life kinships, although I doubt, with some sadness, that I'll ever see any of my fellow patients again. Perhaps some of them are Shiftless Chef readers. I hope so, because I'd like to tell them that they, primarily, helped to make what at first looked to be a hellish experience one that changed my life profoundly. Make no mistake, my dear friends: although I'm much better than the man who went in, I'm not well yet. I've merely completed the beginning of my journey. I've got things to do and people who need me. That's enough to keep me going for a long time, and I ain't falling that goddamned far any more.
Because meatloaf is NOT more important than therapy. Chew on that in the meantime.
I'm Mork/
From Ork/
It's gonna get dark!/
Ark Ark Ark!!!
I think that maybe a few more serious words beyond the happy banana are in order. While writing, it occurred to me that I might take some heat for doing so. Someone might reply, "It's not in your best interest to publish such intimate details of your life on the Internet, [name changed] Shiftless Chef." Like so-called decent society might weigh in on some nut with a blog that's supposed to be about food. And anyway, tough shit: I am, unequivocally, on the side of righteousness here. Go fish.
Chew on this, too, if applicable (if not, please understand who this is directed toward): Have you ever eaten food in a mental health facility? No? Well thank your lucky stars, Fat Pants. There. I'm talking about food again. I'm going to oblige you some more; however, we're not taking a trip to Central Market, Whole Foods, or even that new fancy pants HEB. Really, I don't know where we're going because I don't know where this food comes from, and I'm flying high on Ritalin. Food in a mental hospital is scarcely fit for human consumption. But so what, right? "Those poor fools should be lucky they get anything to eat at all. They're probably all faking it anyway so they don't have do anything but collect benefits so they can sit around on their lazy butts."
Oh, I forgot: "And do drugs and drink! Make 'em pee for welfare. If they test positive, cut them off! If they test negative, cut their balls off! "
First, sir or madam, it ain't no picnic being around you, either, listening to your litanies about paying too much in taxes, illegals holding River Oaks under siege, and privatizing all services because big scary government can't get anything right (UPS, after all, has never destroyed a package) and if it was a picnic that you're attending, count me out. I'll gladly eat mystery meat with real people again before watching you stuff your corpulence with fine Argentine beef. While I'm on the topic of real people, I suspect you may not know any. I've known plenty in my lifetime, met plenty more during my stay, and they're the only people I'm keeping around me.
I want to talk again about my friend who had a successful career before being stricken with a series of unfortunate blows I wouldn't wish on you. He's somewhere on the street now dragging all his worldly belongings in a plastic sack. He cried when he received three dress shirts from me and a bottle of body wash from his brother. He didn't ask for any of the misfortune that befell him. Hell, maybe some of it was even his fault, but was his mistake so egregious that his just dessert is life on the street? Are you a Christian? If so, you'll answer me no. In fact, if you're a Christian, you need to help someone who's in a similar predicament. Maybe start by giving a man who doesn't have a shirt one of your spares. Jesus would.
Now, let's talk about your puerile gun fetish. Frankly, I don't give two shits whether you own one or a thousand. Fine with me. Telling other people what they can and cannot do isn't my style, except to ask to just quit talking to me about your love of them and your love of shooting every living thing short of fellow humans and whales with them. If you truly believe that anyone should have the right to own and operate a firearm without restriction (that's for sake of argument. Your argument is tokenly absurd), isn't it in your best interest to ensure that the mentally ill receive help? Do you want someone with schizophrenia to own and operate a gun? I've now met several schizophrenics. They're essentially decent people burdened by what may be medical science's most elusive illness.
Yes, an illness. Like a cold. An elusive illness. Worse than lung cancer, even. You can spot that with an X-Ray. Schizophrenia, seemingly by its nature, doesn't want to be detected so that it can destroy its sufferers with impunity. Schizophrenia behaves in such a way that it distorts its sufferers' realities. In extreme cases, a sufferer may develop a Messianic complex (but relax, the Second Coming isn't actually coming for a while yet.) I'm getting a bit ahead of myself, but the short of it is that you don't want someone with a Messianic complex packing heat. It's sure to be ugly, and it makes reasonable people think you're a nut. Mystery meat, sir? Aww, too tough for you? You better start chewing now, then. Let it get stuck in your teeth awhile, long enough so that it hurts.
One of Mrs. P's groups discussed the misconceptions and prejudices that society holds about the mentally ill. I wondered why sufferers of mental illness should suffer in hospitals with lousy food and minimal comfort. On the one hand, it's simple: mental illness cannot be reliably quantified; therefore, mental illness isn't really an illness. If its symptoms included a runny nose, I dare say that most cases of mental illness would go the way of polio. During the course of my close to twenty year history with the disease, mental illness assessments haven't changed much. Assessment of mental illness relies primarily on the best guesses of both patient and doctor, and as we know, guesses are not always precise. An exchange along the lines of "How are you feeling today? Pretty good" are often meaningless. That lack of precision, and I say this with no hyperbole, can be fatal. A prolonged "case of the blues" doesn't go away like the common cold.
On the other hand, it's still simple: "mental illness" doesn't exist; instead, it's a battery of moral defects (sloth is particularly cite-worthy.) Champions of this point of view might argue that near inhuman hospital conditions could actually prove beneficial. Consider: if we placed the so-called "mentally ill" in a dreary environment with little stimuli, lousy food, and minimal comfort [they likely suffer from these conditions at home already, what with the niggardly disability checks they receive each month], they might be more inclined to get off their asses and get jobs. And you see, the real winner here is the tax payer, who, because of our ingenuity, will no longer contribute to these goldbricks' leisure lifestyles. It's a modest proposal, mind you, but as we said, consider.
This wasn't my experience. I heard the phrase "leisure lifestyle" once during my stay, and that came from my doctor, who said that I'm not suited for one. I agreed. Evidently, neither was C., the teacher who, for reasons I don't remember but I suspect are job-related stress, lost her job. Losing a job is catastrophic enough. Now combine catastrophe, the boredom of being cooped up in your house all day, and the stress of applying for other jobs. I assure you that that combination is volatile. In this poor soul's case, so volatile she ended up a methamphetamine addict. From her arrival to the penultimate day of my departure, she did little more than rock back and forth, huddled in a thin blanket. I don't ordinarily purport to be anyone's spokesperson, but I think it's safe to say that in her case, she didn't plan for methamphetamine addiction.
I met a couple of friendly older fellows from the drug dependency unit, K. and _ (I simply don't remember his name.) They were talking about rock music, so, naturally, I muscled my way into the conversation. They made some bad decisions, but at the very least, they were willing to get clean and sounded contrite for all the mayhem they caused. K., in fact, told me that he walked ten miles to receive treatment. He showed me the frayed cuffs of his jeans to prove it. _ voiced concerns about finding employment due to his status as a convicted felon (I didn't ask what he did.) K and _ are perfectly decent men and treated me like an equal and a friend. Neither expressed an interest in a life of leisure. They're seeking meaningful work. If you can fault a man for that, I, as Byron Coley, one of the two great men of American Rock and Roll letters (the other being Richard Meltzer - check 'em out or be a drip) said once, will eat a grape out of your ass.
No, wait - YOU chew on that grape.
And how about our status as a society of redemption and forgiveness? Granting folks a second chance, you might say? _'s been in the joint, sure, but his crime couldn't have been so bad - he's allowed in free society, where he can suffer in an inadequate drug detoxification facility. He served his time and paid his debt. Give the man a second chance, maybe even a third chance.
You know, sometimes we do believe in third chances. God Bless America.
My fellow patient and friend C, who gave me a hug and some beautiful words of encouragement after a visit from my oldest, dearest, best friend reduced me to a snot-covered mess, was on the phone practically begging for his garbage collection job back because he spent too much timegetting well in a mental health and detoxification facility. God Bless America.
Wendy Davis says Texas "dead last" in mental health spending (no fair - it's only MOSTLY true!)
Perhaps I digress, but "God, please let us be ourselves" beats "Be the change you wish to see in the world" any day of any year on any calendar if you ask me. The latter is a nice sentiment, nice enough to plaster all over Facebook and any other available space on the Internet. I've seen the do-gooders for whom this phrase serves as their mantra in action, and they start running the other way at the faintest smell of a poor unfortunate's piss or an earful of Spanish. It's a hell of a lot easier, not to mention less messy and time-consuming, to slap a nostrum on a bumper to remind the rest of us of just what swell, caring people they are and what terrible, heartless, broccoli-hating cromags we are. I don't want these sanctimonious nincompoops around me, and neither should you. It's also too easy, and pantspeeable-laughable, to misquote Mahatma Gandhi. Read it and weep, you fucking poseurs: Falser Words Were Never Spoken. Pinch your nose, and say the following in the most vainglorious tone you can muster: "Be the change you wish to see in the world." When you're finished, punch yourself in the crotch until you turn Chinese. After that, simply be the person you know you are. If we all did that, including myself, we'd get a hell of a lot more accomplished. Hate to break it to you, R. Waldo, but the retard's evolutionary universes ahead of you. Go fuck yourself until you turn into a trout, and then join the rest of us who give a truly a damn. We need more good warm bodies for the icky work.
But don't get me wrong, my dear friends ("My dear friends" is a phrase that Mrs. P. is fond of and uses frequently and with positive effect throughout her sessions.). I was scared shitless those first minutes, rubbing elbows with crack addicts, schizophrenics, the vacant-faced victims of all manner of abuse, and big dudes with crazy eyes. What was I, a man of some accomplishment, doing in a place like this? I was acting like a poseur myself by putting myself on a higher plateau than my fellow patients. The truth is, I have a lot of what troubles the crack addicts, the schizophrenics, the vacant-faced abuse victims, and the big dude with the crazy eyes who would rip my liver out upon the slightest provocation in me, too. Somehow, I gained the gift of humility, which begat the gift of true empathy. Before my stay ended, I began talking to C., a garbage collector who celebrated eight months sobriety from alcohol and cocaine. N, the schizophrenic, taught me to play gin rummy. The time passed more quickly, and we had a hell of a lot of fun and a few laughs. J. had been thrice married to abusive men who forced her into spouse-swapping; to cope, J. began drinking heavily. Fed up, J. got away from her last husband. It's my privilege to know this courageous woman. When you say "dear soul," you're talking about J. E. is an otherwise ordinary guy who, for whatever reason, decided that he didn't want to live anymore. He became my roommate during the early hours of Saturday morning as I was conked silly. His snoring sounds like a chainsaw cutting through an Oldsmobile. His snoring notwithstanding, E. and I became fast friends. He offered to take me to an Astro's game. His treat. I wish him the very best.
I befriended most of my fellow patients, in fact, before my discharge. And as I would any of my friends, I tried to make them laugh. On Sunday evening, a group meeting was called by J., a gruff Tammy Wynette lookalike from Louisiana who complained earlier that when the rules were broken, she took the brunt of the blame. To be fair, she did seem rather put upon, but her griping got to be too much. The topic of the meeting was "the rules," which were never verbally enumerated but which we were expected to know nonetheless. She put each patient on the spot by asking him or her to recite one rule from three different categories. It was close to bedtime, and most of the patients, sleepy and drug-addled, struggled to come up with answers. Most, that is, except for me, that is. J. looked at me and said, "Okay, tell me one rule." My response was "No more than three pets." Looking like a stumped game-show contestant, J. asked, "Say dat one muhtime?" Once again, I responded, "No more than three pets. You know, dogs, cats?" It took a bit, but the group caught on and roared with laughter, much to J.'s umbrage. She simply moved on to the next person without giving me a chance to come up with another rule, such as "Your choice of one entree, two vegetables, and one bread" or "There's a two drink minimum," but not before scolding me with that Looseeanna prad accent of hers and a dirty, very dirty look. This story made its rounds to the other units as well. I was so happy, and, admittedly, proud, that I could help my new friends laugh again. I'm was also happy and, moreover, privileged that they allowed me to do so. And in fairness, J. is a sweet lady who is, indeed, greatly put upon and probably grossly underappreciated, even after a day of wiping up coffee spills in the main lobby (she told us a million times that coffee is to be consumed in the TV room only!) I might be sorry I said that; if so, really not very much. I'm pretty sure Lovey didn't laugh, either. She also had no retort. Like I said, she's another story altogether. Not long before I left, she did tell me that I look much older than I am, which I took as a compliment. She doesn't doesn't look a day older than God herself.
After four days of (not always) crummy food, minimal comfort assuaged by the-right-side-of-ridiculous doses of psychopharmaceuticals, skull-crushing boredom until I learned to play gin rummy, and three bananas, I was approved for discharge. Although I was eager to get home back to my wife and the comforts of home, part of me had a hard time leaving. I formed some true life kinships, although I doubt, with some sadness, that I'll ever see any of my fellow patients again. Perhaps some of them are Shiftless Chef readers. I hope so, because I'd like to tell them that they, primarily, helped to make what at first looked to be a hellish experience one that changed my life profoundly. Make no mistake, my dear friends: although I'm much better than the man who went in, I'm not well yet. I've merely completed the beginning of my journey. I've got things to do and people who need me. That's enough to keep me going for a long time, and I ain't falling that goddamned far any more.
Because meatloaf is NOT more important than therapy. Chew on that in the meantime.
From Ork/
It's gonna get dark!/
Ark Ark Ark!!!
I think that maybe a few more serious words beyond the happy banana are in order. While writing, it occurred to me that I might take some heat for doing so. Someone might reply, "It's not in your best interest to publish such intimate details of your life on the Internet, [name changed] Shiftless Chef." Like so-called decent society might weigh in on some nut with a blog that's supposed to be about food. And anyway, tough shit: I am, unequivocally, on the side of righteousness here. Go fish.
Chew on this, too, if applicable (if not, please understand who this is directed toward): Have you ever eaten food in a mental health facility? No? Well thank your lucky stars, Fat Pants. There. I'm talking about food again. I'm going to oblige you some more; however, we're not taking a trip to Central Market, Whole Foods, or even that new fancy pants HEB. Really, I don't know where we're going because I don't know where this food comes from, and I'm flying high on Ritalin. Food in a mental hospital is scarcely fit for human consumption. But so what, right? "Those poor fools should be lucky they get anything to eat at all. They're probably all faking it anyway so they don't have do anything but collect benefits so they can sit around on their lazy butts."
Oh, I forgot: "And do drugs and drink! Make 'em pee for welfare. If they test positive, cut them off! If they test negative, cut their balls off! "
First, sir or madam, it ain't no picnic being around you, either, listening to your litanies about paying too much in taxes, illegals holding River Oaks under siege, and privatizing all services because big scary government can't get anything right (UPS, after all, has never destroyed a package) and if it was a picnic that you're attending, count me out. I'll gladly eat mystery meat with real people again before watching you stuff your corpulence with fine Argentine beef. While I'm on the topic of real people, I suspect you may not know any. I've known plenty in my lifetime, met plenty more during my stay, and they're the only people I'm keeping around me.
I want to talk again about my friend who had a successful career before being stricken with a series of unfortunate blows I wouldn't wish on you. He's somewhere on the street now dragging all his worldly belongings in a plastic sack. He cried when he received three dress shirts from me and a bottle of body wash from his brother. He didn't ask for any of the misfortune that befell him. Hell, maybe some of it was even his fault, but was his mistake so egregious that his just dessert is life on the street? Are you a Christian? If so, you'll answer me no. In fact, if you're a Christian, you need to help someone who's in a similar predicament. Maybe start by giving a man who doesn't have a shirt one of your spares. Jesus would.
Now, let's talk about your puerile gun fetish. Frankly, I don't give two shits whether you own one or a thousand. Fine with me. Telling other people what they can and cannot do isn't my style, except to ask to just quit talking to me about your love of them and your love of shooting every living thing short of fellow humans and whales with them. If you truly believe that anyone should have the right to own and operate a firearm without restriction (that's for sake of argument. Your argument is tokenly absurd), isn't it in your best interest to ensure that the mentally ill receive help? Do you want someone with schizophrenia to own and operate a gun? I've now met several schizophrenics. They're essentially decent people burdened by what may be medical science's most elusive illness.
Yes, an illness. Like a cold. An elusive illness. Worse than lung cancer, even. You can spot that with an X-Ray. Schizophrenia, seemingly by its nature, doesn't want to be detected so that it can destroy its sufferers with impunity. Schizophrenia behaves in such a way that it distorts its sufferers' realities. In extreme cases, a sufferer may develop a Messianic complex (but relax, the Second Coming isn't actually coming for a while yet.) I'm getting a bit ahead of myself, but the short of it is that you don't want someone with a Messianic complex packing heat. It's sure to be ugly, and it makes reasonable people think you're a nut. Mystery meat, sir? Aww, too tough for you? You better start chewing now, then. Let it get stuck in your teeth awhile, long enough so that it hurts.
One of Mrs. P's groups discussed the misconceptions and prejudices that society holds about the mentally ill. I wondered why sufferers of mental illness should suffer in hospitals with lousy food and minimal comfort. On the one hand, it's simple: mental illness cannot be reliably quantified; therefore, mental illness isn't really an illness. If its symptoms included a runny nose, I dare say that most cases of mental illness would go the way of polio. During the course of my close to twenty year history with the disease, mental illness assessments haven't changed much. Assessment of mental illness relies primarily on the best guesses of both patient and doctor, and as we know, guesses are not always precise. An exchange along the lines of "How are you feeling today? Pretty good" are often meaningless. That lack of precision, and I say this with no hyperbole, can be fatal. A prolonged "case of the blues" doesn't go away like the common cold.
On the other hand, it's still simple: "mental illness" doesn't exist; instead, it's a battery of moral defects (sloth is particularly cite-worthy.) Champions of this point of view might argue that near inhuman hospital conditions could actually prove beneficial. Consider: if we placed the so-called "mentally ill" in a dreary environment with little stimuli, lousy food, and minimal comfort [they likely suffer from these conditions at home already, what with the niggardly disability checks they receive each month], they might be more inclined to get off their asses and get jobs. And you see, the real winner here is the tax payer, who, because of our ingenuity, will no longer contribute to these goldbricks' leisure lifestyles. It's a modest proposal, mind you, but as we said, consider.
This wasn't my experience. I heard the phrase "leisure lifestyle" once during my stay, and that came from my doctor, who said that I'm not suited for one. I agreed. Evidently, neither was C., the teacher who, for reasons I don't remember but I suspect are job-related stress, lost her job. Losing a job is catastrophic enough. Now combine catastrophe, the boredom of being cooped up in your house all day, and the stress of applying for other jobs. I assure you that that combination is volatile. In this poor soul's case, so volatile she ended up a methamphetamine addict. From her arrival to the penultimate day of my departure, she did little more than rock back and forth, huddled in a thin blanket. I don't ordinarily purport to be anyone's spokesperson, but I think it's safe to say that in her case, she didn't plan for methamphetamine addiction.
I met a couple of friendly older fellows from the drug dependency unit, K. and _ (I simply don't remember his name.) They were talking about rock music, so, naturally, I muscled my way into the conversation. They made some bad decisions, but at the very least, they were willing to get clean and sounded contrite for all the mayhem they caused. K., in fact, told me that he walked ten miles to receive treatment. He showed me the frayed cuffs of his jeans to prove it. _ voiced concerns about finding employment due to his status as a convicted felon (I didn't ask what he did.) K and _ are perfectly decent men and treated me like an equal and a friend. Neither expressed an interest in a life of leisure. They're seeking meaningful work. If you can fault a man for that, I, as Byron Coley, one of the two great men of American Rock and Roll letters (the other being Richard Meltzer - check 'em out or be a drip) said once, will eat a grape out of your ass.
No, wait - YOU chew on that grape.
And how about our status as a society of redemption and forgiveness? Granting folks a second chance, you might say? _'s been in the joint, sure, but his crime couldn't have been so bad - he's allowed in free society, where he can suffer in an inadequate drug detoxification facility. He served his time and paid his debt. Give the man a second chance, maybe even a third chance.
You know, sometimes we do believe in third chances. God Bless America.
My fellow patient and friend C, who gave me a hug and some beautiful words of encouragement after a visit from my oldest, dearest, best friend reduced me to a snot-covered mess, was on the phone practically begging for his garbage collection job back because he spent too much timegetting well in a mental health and detoxification facility. God Bless America.
Wendy Davis says Texas "dead last" in mental health spending (no fair - it's only MOSTLY true!)
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