WHAT DOES YOUR MENTAL ILLNESS SAY TO YOU? By Elizabeth Hipwell

I scratch you, I twist, harder, that’s it, I claw your guts out, I press, I stomp, with precision. I know exactly where to strike… I keep going until your heart is beating so fast, it feels like it’s going to burst, explode… I’m gonna drag you down, down, down until you can’t walk, can’t get up out of bed…
You’ll only find relief in sleep…when you can get it.
I’m going to torment you so much with horrific visions, bad things, trauma, yelling, touching, hitting, biting, kicking anger and so on and so forth…
It’s gonna race through you so you can’t sleep through the night or at all. You will drift through a fog throughout the day.
am going to do this so you will always feel alone on the side of the highway while everything passes you by. No one will be able to stand you. You will burn bridges and I will supply the matches and gasoline. Your awkwardness and slow timing with alienate. Then Without warning I am gonna flip a switch. I am going to make you feel like superwoman. For seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks and sometimes even months you will be an unstoppable Whirling Dervish; a Tasmanian Devil of productivity. You will be going so fast that the words trip over one another, you will be off balance. You can’t win. Now people will avoid you because of your flibberty jibetness…
“I hate you? You are so ugly. You’re a loser. You feel good about yourself. I am going to take you down a few pegs.” That is what I am going to say at an opportune time when your confidence is at a high. The greater the fall will be into the depths of despair. Happiness will be dangled in front of you like a carrot.
“So, you think you’re so great? Huh? I’ll show you, you worthless piece of…”
“Stop it! I don’t need this. Who appointed you to take over where the abusers left off? Even though you mistreat me all I want to do is say ‘I love you. I understand why you are so mean and cruel. You’re insecure, damaged goods. I’m here for you when you’re ready…’”
“What? Who are you to love me? You don’t have it in you. You are a worthless waste of space, pointless...” “I am so done with this. Leave me alone. I’m tired. I’m tired of saying I’m sorry all the time. It’s exhausting. I’m tired of struggling. How long can you keep this up?” “I know I’m right…”
“That’s your opinion. I choose not to believe you right now. I am feeling good for the first time in years.” You see that’s my opening. I’m gonna pick a little bit at a time. I’m patient. I cannot wait for it; the chance to insinuate myself. You’re going to trip. I will say “Wow, you are klutzy; probably cuz you’re so fat.” Someone looks at you funny when you say something, now that is a wide gap, I’ll slide right in.
I will say, “You wear your crazy like a neon sign. You are never going to fit it. Just get up, I mean give up, hey me, you are flustering me, what’s going on?”
“I am strong BECAUSE of my pain. I have a unique perspective that is all mine. I don’t have to fit in. I am accepting, flexible, loving imperfection.
“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.”
“You cannot get to me. I won’t let you. I haven’t even had my cereal yet. These early morning conversations are not my favorite part of the day. I crave peace, ok-ness, calm…”
“Ok, fine, I will give you a break, ease up…a little. I am always here, you know; ready to pounce. I’m patient. I’ve got all day.”

THE FIRST TIME I GOT THE DIAGNOSIS by Elizabeth Hipwell

Standing on the platform, waiting for a train, I stand contemplating the edge. Holding onto a pillar with all my might, white knuckling it until the train pulls up. My heart is racing as I step on and slip my hand into a strap. At the counseling center I meet with a psychiatrist for the first time. My diagnosis is major depression. My prescription is for Lexapro, Trazodone, and Lorazepam. In the two weeks that follow my depression get worse, my anxiety is off the charts, and all I think about is dying; I decide it would be safer to only take buses. My roommate/ex-lover who thinks all I have to do is change my mind and then all will be cured, calls 911 one night. I had drunk a bottle of wine and then slit my wrist. She tells me to go downstairs and wait for the ambulance and cops, as I stand there holding a rag to my wrist. A short time later I am sitting in the ambulance, and a policeman comes in. He says, “Why would you do this. Your room mate says that you just got your MFA two months ago. What have you got to be upset about? I’m stunned. I am caught between crying and shame. At the hospital I am put in an ER room specifically designed for psyche patients; the bare minimum. Blank walls and no equipment. Just a thin sheet for cover in a freezing room in August. One of the many people who come into the room says, “We have to hold you here until we can find you a bed.” Four hours later I am on another ambulance en route to the state hospital for the uninsured and poor. I am there all day in a holding hour wearing paper pants and top and flip flops; sans any undergarments. The only time I leave is when I am doing intake with psychologists, social workers and psychiatrists. “Have you ever committed a crime?” “I don’t know. Am I going to be charged for trying to kill myself?” “Do you hear voices?” “No.” “Do you want to hurt yourself or others?” “Just myself; I am only a danger to myself.” “Car, apple, pen. Remember these words and I will ask you to repeat them back to me in five minutes.” ‘Car, apple, pen, car, apple, pen, car, apple, pen…’ I repeat to myself as a sort of mantra. I’m so scared of getting it wrong. “Who’s the President of the United States?” ‘…apple, pen.’ “George Bush.” “Including him, who are the last five presidents going from present to past?” ‘Car, apple, pen, car, apple, pen…’ “George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George Bush Senior, Ronald Reagan and Jimmy Carter.” “Count backwards in increments of 3 from 100.” ‘…pen, car, apple…’ “100, 97, 94, 91,” ‘…apple, pen, car, apple,’ “88, 85, 82, 70, 76, 73, 70, 67…” Good. Okay. Now, what are those three words? ‘Car, apple, pen, car, apple, pen, car, apple, pen…’ “Uh, car, apple, pen?” “Yes.” And on it goes. The social worker listens as I tell her about my manipulative, verbally abusive, drug dealing, and ex-lover/roommate. Said person shows up with a friend. One, I feel highly anxious cuz I know she is going to be judgmental and cruel. Two, I am feeling intense shame and embarrassment because she brought someone with her. “Everyone is gonna know!’ We all sit in a dingy visiting area furnished way back in the 70’s. My kind roomie says, “Elizabeth, stop crying. You have nuthin to cry about. You are just trying to manipulate me.” I roll my eyes. ‘Look who’s talking,” I think. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me." You weren’t really trying to kill yourself. If you had really meant it you would have been successful.” “You cannot come back to the apartment. I am putting all your belongings into storage. You should be thanking me for my generosity. I am going out of my way here. The next time you see me I will be accepting my Academy Award or Tony.” My eyes roll again. “Stop rolling your eyes at me!” They leave soon after. That’s the last time I saw her; one of many friends I lost after I was diagnosed.