The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness (19 page)

"No, no, I can't go home yet. I need to work. Quirk. Of nature."

"Elyn, we have to leave," they said, gathering up their books and
looking nervously around the room. Something was obviously scaring
them. "Please. And you need to come with us."

"No, I can't. I have to work. I'll stay here, and hide in the stacks."

I stayed long after they'd gone, sitting alone on the floor between
two towering stacks of books, muttering to myself. The library grew
even more quiet; section by section, the lights were being turned off.
Finally, frightened of being locked in overnight, I got up and left,
keeping my head down so that I wouldn't have to make eye contact
with any of my classmates, which wasn't likely at that hour, since the
last remaining person seemed to be the clueless security guard at the
front door.

Of course, it was completely dark outside. I'd never been
comfortable in that kind of dark—at least not on the ground; the roof
had been much more pleasant. My whole body shook as I made my
way back to my room. And once there, I couldn't settle down. I
couldn't sleep. My head was too full of noise. Too full of lemons, and
law memos I could not write, and mass murders that I knew I would
be responsible for. Sitting on my bed, I rocked back and forth,
moaning in fear and isolation.

I had finally done it: cracked in public, in front of colleagues, my
law school classmates. Who I was, what I was, had been revealed.
Now everyone would know the truth—of my worthlessness, my evil.
When things were this bad at Oxford, knowing I would see Mrs. Jones
each day helped me contain my psychotic thoughts when I was with
other people, or when I needed to get work done. But with no Mrs.
Jones to take my craziness to, and no comfort to be found in my
studies, there was no balm in Gilead. Something was prying my grip
loose, finger by finger, and very soon now, I was simply going to fall
through space.

After a sleepless night, I doggedly went back to the library and tried
again to tackle the memo, but I could not make my head work.
Panicked, I practically ran to my professor's office. There was no one
there. I waited. When Professor M. arrived, he looked at me askance.

"I've come to talk to you about my memo," I said. "I'm sorry, but I
need an extension."

"Why don't you come into my office and we'll discuss this," he said.
When I sat down in the chair in front of his desk, I hunched over,
drawing my shoulders up to my ears as though I expected to be hit.

"The memo materials have been infiltrated," I said, looking at my
shoes. "Jumping around. I used to be good at the broad jump. Because
I'm tall. I fall. Is anyone else in this room? It's a matter of point.
There's a plan. People put things in and then say it's my fault. I used to
be God but I got demoted. Are you God?"

Professor M. stayed perfectly calm. "You seem quite upset, Elyn."

My head was buzzing. Lemons and memos and mass murders.
"Well, with all the killings, it makes sense that I'd be upset," I said.

Then I launched into my little Florida juice jingle, twirling around his
office, my arms thrust out like bird wings. Then I went to a corner in
his office and sat down, continuing to sing.

Professor M. looked at me. It was hard to decipher the expression
on his face. Was he frightened of me? Was he confused? I couldn't
decide. Maybe he couldn't decide, either.

"I'm very concerned about you, Elyn," he finally said. "I have a
little work to do here at the office, and afterwards, perhaps you might
want to come and have dinner with me and my family. Do you think
you could do that?"

How reasonable that sounded. "Yes," I said. "That would be quite
pleasant. But if you don't mind, I think I'll just go through this
window and wait on the roof for you, until it's time for us to go." If that
didn't seem a good idea to Professor M., he didn't let on. I proceeded
out his window onto the roof.

I spent the next hour or so laughing and singing and gibbering
away on the roof of the Yale Law School. I found several feet of loose
telephone wire up there, and made myself a kind of belt. I picked up
all sorts of metal objects lying around on the roof and attached them
to the belt. The best find was a rather long nail, six inches or so. I put it
in my pants pocket, just in case I needed protection.
You never know
when you might need protection.

"Elyn? Can you come back in the office now, please?" It was
Professor M. at the window again. "I've spoken with my wife," he said,
"and we'd like not only to have you join us for dinner, but perhaps to
spend the night with us as well."

I thought the offer was exceedingly generous, and told him how
very much I appreciated their kindness. Having a home-cooked meal,
having nice people to talk to, to spend time with...perhaps that might
prevent my head from exploding and splattering the walls.

And so Professor M. and I took a leisurely walk across the Yale
campus that lovely fall Saturday afternoon, me wearing my
telephone-wire belt. Dinner at his house didn't go so well, so Professor
M. decided to phone the Student Health Center to speak with the
psychiatrist on call—whom we'll call The Doctor.

When Professor M. handed me the phone, The Doctor briskly
informed me that he'd received a call from someone at the law school
last night who reported that I seemed extraordinarily disturbed. He
then asked me a number of questions, to which I gave irrelevant
answers, and then he suggested that I might want to come in and see
him. He sounded like the kind of person who was looking at his watch
and tapping his foot while waiting for my answer. "I don't know," I
said. "No, actually, I don't think I do."

I think The Doctor was surprised, and suggested I might want to
reconsider. (And by the way, in my experience, the words "now just
calm down" almost inevitably have the opposite effect on the person
you are speaking to.) "You know, you really are a jerk," I said, and
hung up the phone.

"I don't think he handled that particularly well, either, Elyn," said
Professor M, referring to his own interactions with The Doctor.

"I think I need to talk to my friend Richard," I said. "He's a
neurologist, you know." Something was about to happen to me; I
wasn't sure what it was, but I knew it wasn't going to be pleasant. It
seemed imperative that I start marshaling my forces.

When Professor M. put the call through, and my old friend Jean
answered the phone, I said, "It's me, I've called to talk to you and
Richard."

"Your voice sounds funny," said Jean. "What's going on? How are
you?"

"Oh, well, I'm up. And down. And all around," I said. "It's a matter
of the commands put in my head." I then whispered to Jean as quietly
as I could, but with great urgency, that I was trying my best, I really
was. "But nefarious things are going on. I've been cornered and the
points are pointed. There's an effort under way to kill me." I put my
hand in my pocket; the nail from the law school roof was still there.

Richard's voice came through the phone. "Elyn?" he said. "Is
something wrong?"

"Come to the Florida sunshine tree," I greeted him.

A moment's silence, then, "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Fresh tasting lemon juice naturally. There's a natural volcano.
They put it in my head. It's erupting. I've killed lots of people. I've
killed children. There's a flower on the bookshelf. I can see it
blooming. Have you killed anyone, Richard? My teacher is God. I used
to be God but got demoted. Do you think it's a question of
Kilimanjaro?"

"How long have you been feeling like this?" Richard asked.

"It's not a matter of feeling," I told him. "It's a matter of things
happening to me. I give life and I take it away. Don't try to fuck with
me, Richard, I've killed better men than you. Children. Lemon juice.
Point."

"Elyn, you should know by now, there's nothing to fear from me,"
he said. "Jean and I want the best for you, we'd never hurt you, or
allow anyone else to do so, either."

"But people are trying to
kill
me," I moaned. "What am I going to
do? They're in the sky. They're killing me. I didn't do it."

In a kind and tender voice, Richard said that he understood how
upset I was. "Let me speak to your friend Professor M. now, please."
Dutifully, I handed the professor the phone.

I could tell from the look on his face that what Professor M. heard
from Richard was unnerving. I was having a psychotic break, Richard
said, and needed to go to the hospital as quickly as possible. There was
a chance I could be dangerous, possibly even to Professor M.'s child. (I
have never harmed anyone. Still, it was not unreasonable at that point,
given what I had been saying on the phone, for Richard to fear that I
might.)

Not surprisingly, Professor M. immediately called The Doctor and
told him he was going to bring me to the emergency room right away.

"Please, no, no," I begged. "Don't take me to the hospital. It'll
make me worse, please don't make me go there. I'm fine. I felt a little
upset before but I feel fine now.
Please
don't take me to the emergency
room."

Professor M. was reassuring, but adamant. "No, I think we have to
go to the emergency room, Elyn. You're a smart young woman, and
you're not yourself. And Richard, who knows you and cares for you,
believes you should go, too. At any rate, you can't be alone, and I'm
sorry, but I can't allow you to stay here. At the hospital, you'll be able
to talk to someone who can help you."

I tried to calm myself, to focus on convincing him to see it my way.
"Thank you, but no, I don't think so. I'd like to call a cab now, so I can
go back to my room."

But he was determined—he walked me out to the car, opened the
door on the passenger side, and gently but firmly put me inside.

I chattered nervously all the way to Yale-New Haven Hospital. "My
goodness, it's so late, you needn't stay with me," I said. "But maybe
could I borrow some money from you? I'll need to take a taxi home as
soon as this appointment is over. It will only be five, ten minutes at

most, they'll tell you I'm perfectly fine, I'm certain of it."

"Yes, of course," he said. "I'll loan you the money."

When we pulled up to the ER entrance, before Professor M. had a
chance to shut the car off, I jumped out and took off running in the
other direction. I hadn't planned to run, but I was scared. Everything
was closing in. Students knew, teachers knew, Richard knew.
This is
the end. The end.

It was not the kind of neighborhood where a woman—or anyone
for that matter—should have been running around alone, in the dark,
without money or any sense of where she was going. Thankfully,
Professor M. caught up with me by the end of the block, placed his
hand firmly under my arm, and steered me back to the ER. "This is
best," he said.

We both sat down with the admitting nurse to do the necessary
paperwork, and I quickly explained that my friend, Professor M., was
having terrible stomach pains and needed to be admitted
immediately. I laughed hysterically.

A few minutes later, I found myself in a small private room,
waiting for The Doctor. Professor M.'s role as guardian angel was
over, and he'd gone home. In his place was a hospital attendant, a
massive man with a gentle face and a softly moderated voice. "It wall
just be a few minutes, miss. Don't worry now."

"Would you like to dance?" I asked him. Smiling, he declined.

"Well, then, I'm going to, if you don't mind," I said, and while I
pranced around the room, I attempted to explain my situation.
"People are trying to kill me. They've killed me many times today
already. It might spread to you." I unwound my telephone-wire belt
and started to snap it through the air. "This is a very powerful
weapon," I said.

"I see that," the attendant said. "You know, miss, I think I have to
take it from you. Probably not a good idea for you to have it in here."

I stepped back. "No," I said.

"Yes," he said. "I'm sorry. May I have it, please?"

Reluctantly, I gave up the belt. "But you can't have my nail," I said,
patting my pocket.

The attendant asked what I did in New Haven.

"I'm a law student," I said.

"Oh, that's interesting," he said. "Must be very hard work. You
know, we had another law student in here the other night with mental
problems, his name was---

Would this nice man soon be telling someone about
me?
If my
head exploded, its contents blown all over the room, would that be
someone's idea of idle chatter? I thought health stuff was supposed to
be confidential. (And indeed, even Professor M.—though no doubt out
of good motives—would reveal to my seminar classmates that I had
been hospitalized with a breakdown.)

"What happened to him?" I asked. "The law student, I mean?"

"Oh, they just gave him some medication and sent him home." The
answer almost erased my confidentiality concerns: The student wasn't
admitted to the hospital? He just took some meds and was then
allowed to go? It had never occurred to me to think about it like that. I
hadn't been in a hospital for three years and didn't intend to end my
streak now; if taking medication were my only bargaining chip, I'd
consider it.

Then The Doctor arrived.

He was everything I'd imagined in our telephone conversation:
short, bureaucratic (right down to the ballpoint pen he kept clicking),
authoritarian, and short on patience.
The man who makes the trains
run on time.
I slipped my hand into my pocket and wrapped my
fingers around my weapon nail. His eyes followed my hand.

"Give that to me," he said.

"No," I said.

He immediately called for security. Another attendant came in,
this one not so nice, with no interest in letting me keep my nail. And
once he'd pried it from my fingers, it was all over. Within seconds, The
Doctor and his whole team of goons swooped down, grabbed me,
lifted me out of the chair, and slammed me down on a nearby bed with
such force that I saw stars. Then they bound both my legs and arms to
the metal bed, with thick leather straps.