GRADUATION

Since being released from the Looney bin I have lived in three different places. The first was a type of half-way house with carefully structured day and night activities, but no bars on the windows, only wire mesh embedded in the safety glass. To be honest, I missed the bars at the hospital at first.

I’d heard visitors from the outside comment on how horrifyingly cruel those bars made the hospital appear. But to many of us on the inside the bars represented safety. They protected us from the dangers of the outside world.

We used to discuss this in group. Karla always said that her husband who’d been trying to kill her for years couldn’t possibly get past them. Tom believed that the Republican Conspiracy of global destruction was kept at bay by the slim strands of steel. I was convinced that the bars could magically repel my parent’s vengeful ghosts. The metal shone like silver in the moonlight and everyone knows that silver has magical properties. Even the Lone Ranger with his silver bullet knew that.

In my year at the half-way house, I managed to convince myself and the staff that I was improving. What I didn’t tell anybody was that much of that improvement was based on the fact that I was allowed to wear jewelry again. This is not something one should share with one’s shrink.

But I wasted no time in arranging an excursion to the vendor on the corner of 12th and Oak whose tray of inexpensive Mexican jewelry included bracelets of all kinds. I took my time teasing myself by trying on even the most inappropriate. Until finally I allowed myself to hold the simple circle bangle I’d wanted all along.

After a satisfying haggle with the vendor I’d slipped the bangle over my left hand onto my wrist, where it glinted at me in the sunshine radiating its protective magic. I bought two more bracelets from him before I moved to the group home, where there was merely a modicum of structure and not even wire mesh in the glass. My three bracelets tinkled merrily while I did my chores and filled out job applications under the watchful eye of the house mother.

I was able to land a job at the Salvation Army Thrift store with the help of social services. Each time a silver bracelet appeared in the jewelry case I bought it – luckily I got a 10% employees discount.

Six months later I upgraded to being a cashier at Ross’ Department store and moved into a three bedroom apartment with two other women from the group home. I still see my shrink once a month and now that I the assistant manager at Ross, he’s encouraging me in my desire to live alone.

Each time I see him he admires my growing collection of bracelets, but I don’t believe he sees them for what they really are. How can I explain to him that my mental illness exploded within me instantaneously, whereas reclaiming my sanity is a gradual process; achieved one
silver bracelet at a time.

I don’t think he’d see it as clearly as I.