Detour from Normal (11 page)

All the groups were basically the same. It was impossible to have effective treatment if the people directing them couldn't care less about what they were doing. They all seemed frustrated, disconnected, and exhausted. After the third meeting, I "no showed" subsequent meetings. They were pointless to me. I was there to get sleep. I didn't have behavioral problems, a drug addiction, or any of the other issues the rest of the patients had. No one seemed to notice my absence.

During the first meeting, however, I couldn't help but notice how much some patients really wanted—indeed
needed—
-help and how incapable the staff was of providing it. It made me wish that I could provide that help. I realized then and there that this was just the tip of the iceberg: there were many others like them in the world. A small fire began to flicker within me. I felt compelled to find a way to help all these poor, suffering people.

After each of the second and third meetings ended, I picked out a few patients and tried to strike up a conversation with them as we were being herded back from the group room. I found that most were approachable and eager to have someone to talk to. I could easily see how patients could be helped if only someone would accept them as they were. I quickly learned how to spot the best prospects. I learned just as
quickly how to spot ones who were "toxic"—too infuriated or too sick to be approached. By the end of the day, I had a little gaggle of "followers." They didn't know me by name, but they loved that I would listen. I was perhaps the only one at Pinecrest, or in the world for that matter, who would sincerely listen or give reassurance and comfort. What they had to say was more often than not just random ramblings, but it made them feel better having a friend who treated them as if they were normal. I think the secret was that I was "not staff: I was just like them. I had no agenda, and they had nothing to fear from me.

That evening I joined Ray for dinner. As usual, Carlos paced around the cafeteria with his apple. I decided to invite him to sit with us. When I did so, he didn't answer but did follow me back to our table and sat down. There were a couple of things on the dinner selection that night, and I asked Carlos what he would like. He wouldn't answer, so I had to do it the Carlos way: I'd present a menu item to him and he'd either nod yes or no. Then I got in line once more and filled a tray for him, again forgetting milk and utensils as I had every other time.

After struggling to get the milk and utensils, I returned to the table and placed the tray in front of Carlos. He stared at it for a moment and then set his apple down and dug in. He ate as if he were a Labrador retriever puppy, stuffing food in faster than he could swallow. His cheeks filled like a hamster's as his teeth struggled to keep up. Most surprising of all, he never picked up that apple again. He just left it sitting on the table. He didn't say anything, but I could tell that he was satisfied for the first time in a long time. It was the first meal I'd ever seen him eat.

Beth's journal, May 19, 2011:

As soon as the girls left for school, I drove to Pinecrest to drop off clean clothes for Ken and to obtain release of information documents allowing Pinecrest to obtain medical records from Desert Hope. I spent over two hours waiting for someone to assist me, only to be told that Ken needed to sign the release forms even though I had power of attorney. After I got home, I called Pinecrest five times throughout the day and left messages to have someone contact me to discuss Ken's treatment plan.

I visited Ken at 6:30 p.m. He seemed better and reported that he had slept well except when a doctor had awakened him from a sound sleep for an interview. At that time he still had not yet been given the medical release form to sign nor had he received the clothing or personal belongings that I had dropped off that morning.

At 9:00 p.m., a PA approached me with some medication. I decided I'd better take it to help me sleep. He offered me a Seroquel tablet, which I'd taken the night before. Unfortunately, I didn't realize it was twice the dosage as the one I'd taken then. I will never know if that was the trigger for the events that followed or if it was just time for the next part of my ride. As a doctor would later describe, it was perhaps a "paradoxical reaction" to the Seroquel.

In 2002, Beth's father, whom she loved dearly, was diagnosed with stage-four lymphoma and within weeks was near death. Right before he died, knowing she was the most dependable of her siblings, he asked her to take care of her mom. That proved to be a turning point in Beth's life. As the youngest, she had to assume a huge burden, but she did so without hesitation. Right away her mother suffered the most horrific medical problems. Beth spent a good deal of time over the next years as her mother's medical advocate. At times the responsibility was overwhelming, and there were certainly instances when Beth was directly responsible for saving her mother's life. To Beth it was a way of showing her love—both to her mother and to her deceased father. Unfortunately, there were times when things became physically or emotionally too much for her. Instead of throwing in the towel, she'd have a brief cry, wipe her tears away, and then head right back to the trenches. Nothing would stop Beth until she could no longer function. She was relentless to the point of putting herself in jeopardy. To her, the people she loves are more important than anyone, even herself. Now she was going to put all that experience to another use. Never in my life have I needed someone to look out for me like I did from the moment I took that pill. From then on Beth was going to be my advocate, my champion.

Chapter 8

INSIDE THE BIG MACHINE

Between the late hours of May 19 and the early hours of May 20, 2011, my mind ramped up to a new level of mania. As a consequence it disconnected hurtful memories and desensitized me to negative emotions. Apparently, this was the first step in the creation of an emergency state of mind in which I was able to solve problems many times more rapidly without such things as worry, fear, self-doubt, and old baggage hindering me. Much knowledge was also disconnected as my mind streamlined itself to best deal with the perceived emergency at hand: coping with continued sleep deprivation and medications, and surviving along with other sick people in a psychiatric unit. The following is a description of the most dramatic phase of my change: losing my negative emotions. Whereas this change was for some reason interactive (possibly because negative emotions have to be unlearned), all other changes were automatic.

In the late evening of May 19, I sensed that something was happening within my mind. I felt compelled to open myself to it. I sought out my
rock-hard bed, lay down, and relaxed as much as possible. I closed my eyes and cleared my mind. In a short time, there was a sensation of standing in the middle of a railroad track knowing that a locomotive not far off was coming for me. Perhaps I felt a slight vibration through the imaginary rails or heard the rumble of the distant engine. The sensation heightened until there was no doubt that something indeed was coming. In my mind I stood facing it. I spread my arms and thought,
Come, I am ready.
A roar like that from a huge diesel-powered machine bearing down on me strengthened until it shook me to the core. There was nothing but blackness in my mind, but I knew I needed to commit.
Take me,
I thought. The roar overwhelmed me as a massive invisible machine rushed through and enveloped me, sweeping me with it toward an unknown destination.

It seemed I was in the heart of the big machine—the very core of its immense engine. The din should have been unbearable, but instead it was comforting. All around, explosions burst from invisible combustion chambers. They were so rapid fire that I could not discern anything, but intuition told me that each explosion contained something sinister. I grew fearful, and the speed of the great engine increased as if it were fueled by fear. I calmed myself; it perceptibly slowed. I wrestled with my emotions for what seemed like hours, trying to bring the engine to a standstill. I felt it was my destiny to do so. Each time the explosions slowed to the point that I thought I might study them closer, parts of my mind waved warning flags and I grew fearful. The engine accelerated once more.

Through sheer determination I managed to slow the explosions to a point where they were discernible to my conscious mind. What I saw was shocking. Each explosion was like a vision of some act being committed
against me. The first visions angered and enraged me. When I gave in to the emotions, the engine accelerated madly. Once I made it through those, I faced another barrage of visions that made me feel loathing and disgust. Whenever I let the emotions carry me away, the engine raced with joy. I made it through to a third wave that brought me great sorrow and grief. Again I battled, continually reducing the speed of the engine.

I was finally faced with the worst visions: nightmares of fear and terror. The visions played all around me with each explosion of diesel in the massive combustion chambers: beheading, hanging, strangulation. I learned to ignore them by repeating to myself,
it doesn't matter; nothing matters.
Eventually, the machine slowed to the point where it was seconds between visions, and they grew even more horrible: mutilation, dismemberment, and disembowelment.
I submit. I submit completely. I am unafraid of what awaits me.
The machine continued to slow until it was now minutes between each horrific vision: slicing, flaying.
I have no fear; there is nothing that can harm me.