Smokey Robinson

“People say I’m the life of the party

Because I tell a joke or two

Although I might be laughing loud and hearty

Deep inside I’m blue

So take a good look at my face

You’ll see my smile looks out of place

If you look closer, it’s easy to trace

The tracks of my tears…”

I sit at the back of the shuttle bus which takes students from the main campus to the art school. I’m enrolled in a drawing class (we are currently sketching live nudes), the only course I can manage to get dressed to attend. It’s an escape from the routine I’ve known for 2 years, and now fear. It’s avoidance from the many familiar faces and friends I don’t want to see me this way.

Nothing in my head makes sense. Mostly it’s ongoing, round-and-round rumination of crazy obsessive phrases that are meant to keep me from slipping away, from losing my conscious brain altogether.

My art teacher speaks to me like I’m a normal person. “Nice detail in the legs. Maybe adjust the proportions a bit compared to the torso.” Little does she know I’m not normal. I might even be magical. I control the world’s outcomes with my thoughts, and she has no idea.

I feel at the end. Pressed against the wall. Zero options ahead. I stand at the payphone after class, wanting to call home. “I have to drop out of school, Mom. I am not well.”

I can’t make the call. It feels like an impossible task. Leaving this carefully drawn-out, perfectly planned path of college is not realistic. Where would I even go? What would I do?

So I continue on: riding the shuttle with stirring music from The Big Chill, my Discman in my lap. Is it lost on me that the movie is about suicide? Perhaps yes, but also maybe no.

My days are mostly spent in my bedroom wasting away. Occasionally I go to the local cafe to grab a few bites of food. Periodically I attend class and check email. I live with two strangers — one plays Lynyrd Skynrd which makes me smile; one has regular, loud sex with her boyfriend, always to the song “Build Me Up Buttercup”, which makes me ill. Our rooms share a wall. My friends all live in a house together. They wanted me to join, but I abandoned them last spring when the darkness set in.

Mostly I’ve lost touch with everyone. Except my Rabbi therapist. He calls to make sure I’m still alive. As do my parents. My mom is hurting, I know. I’m staying alive for her.

Back at the art school. As class goes on, the part of my brain I can still control seems to be shrinking. There is only a tiny spot left. I repeat words to keep me from getting pulled under. Today it’s “hand”. I wait outside for the shuttle, repeating “hand” over and over. Then suddenly I feel I’ve lost grip entirely. I can’t see or think clearly. I turn to another student waiting for the shuttle. “I need help,” I tell her. “Please call someone.” She’s confused. I have no wounds or injuries. I seem fine. “I need help,” I repeat.

Medics arrive. Maybe an ambulance. We arrive at the hospital ER. “I need help,” I say over and over. A tiny speck of sanity remains. “Do something!” I shout to the nurses and doctors. An IV goes in my arm. Probably a sedative follows suit. They crush a pill — which I later discover was an anti-psychotic that would become my protective friend for the next 6 months — and I consume the pieces. I start to grow tired.

“You are a normal healthy young woman; we are surprised you are here,” they say. I ignore the comment. I don’t feel normal or healthy.

“You kept saying ‘hand’ to the medics. Do you know why?” I don’t answer the question. “Please just send me away. I don’t care where.”