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The Vision |
| Written by Frances Laughter | |
| Wednesday, 23 January 2008 | |
The howling March wind had come early this year, ushering in the first real storm of the season. The rotund, stiff-shirted chauffeur, who hadn't spoken a word since departing the institution known as Ravenscroft, fondled the lapel of his jacket and sighed in boredom. One would think transporting patients was a tremendous task. Jenna just shook her head in disbelief at the man she only knew as Ralph. Approaching her home, after what had seemed an endless ride, Jenna remained silent, trying not .to remember why she’d been sent away. Approaching the house, Ralph aligned the van carefully along the curb. He was such a perfectionist! He removed his sunglasses, and stepped, onto the pavement, refusing to offer her a hand with her suitcase. Its contents held things of not much value. At the institution, her clothes had long since disappeared., with the exception of a few faded-tees, her toothbrush, and two pairs of jeans. The only thing she valued was in her handbag, her diary. She had guarded it diligently, had written in it daily, and never once reread what she’d written for the day. During the two-hour ride to Littleton, she had rehearsed what she would say when she experienced the long-awaited reception. She’d expected a well-planned family celebration. After all, it had been a harrowing six months since her mother, had hesitantly signed her into Ravenscroft, hoping that its reputation paid off, Hope, at Ravenscroft, came at a costly price; her mother had seen to it that her whereabouts not be made known to her friends.. The embarrassment of having a daughter “out-of-control” had taken its toll on her mother, Marge, who, as a single parent, had handled every situation since Jenna’s seventh birthday. Eleven years had passed since Jenna’s father was killed in an automobile accident. Maybe the spiraling downward into a storm that never seemed to dismantle itself, had begun then. For Marge, Ravenscroft seemed to provide the answer, even if it meant sacrificing much of the insurance money she‘d received from her husband’s death.. This was Jenna’s first visit home since entering the institution, located over one-hundred miles away, in a town known as Claremont. At first, it had made a difference to Jenna. She felt better about herself. The discipline it required, she needed. The anxiety and anti-depressants had certainly helped. Through psychotherapy, she availed herself of someone to talk to . She never worried about her mother’s money. and it was an invaluable service that took her out of her mother’s hair. The “meds” nurse, as she was called, dispensed her medication to her shortly after breakfast, daily, and had been given to her before her departure. Some time had elapsed and she was now experiencing the anxiety associated with being off meds, for even a few hours. However, she found comfort in knowing the prescription in her jeans pocket could be filled at a local pharmacy, as soon as she arrived home. She tried to analyze the reasoning in just giving her the morning dosage and none to take with her. “Maybe they think I’m still suicidal,“ she thought, “but what do they know? I’m a regular chameleon.” Focusing on the security of knowing her medication could be filled, she practiced the “self-generated” monologues she often used to calm herself. “Self-talk” was a technique she'd been taught at the institution. Sometimes it helped conquer the anxiety, at least temporarily, while she waited for the next round of medications. She ran images through her mind like a “flip-page” video, and she envision, without being there, the long lines of “mentally-ill” teenagers with small paper cups in hand, waiting to be medicated. They reminded Jenna of some disillusioned hypochondriacs waiting for a fix . Of course, that was not the image she held of herself. It was known to her, from the beginning, that she didn’t belong there, never in a million years. However, it met a need for her mother’s sanity. Perhaps the antidepressants could have been prescribe by her family doctor.
Today was homecoming! She was at home. With that fact sustaining her, she stared at the gray flagstone path which led up to the front door. Strange, she hadn't remembered it being so long before. It seemed longer that the length of the aisle, she’d walked down when she joined the church, at the age of nine. Nearing the front door; seeing it standing slightly ajar alarmed her. Her mother never left doors open, and always made sure the alarm system was on. So, what was going on? Of course, it may be because she was coming home. She thought to herself, “Mother, Cub, and little brother, Sammy, are all hiding, just inside, waiting for her to push the door, so they could scream “Surpise!” Pondering this thought, trembling with anticipation, she timidly pushed open the door and entered her own home. It was as if the house belonged to strangers, who weren’t home. She didn't need the proverbial “string” around her finger to remind her that the doctor's prescription was in the pocket of her jeans. It was her only comforting thought. She had forgotten just how much she depended on these little, oval pills. This much she knew, she was feeling the distinct absence of medication, anxiety was gaining control, and someone must go to the pharmacy, soon,. The distraction of the howling wind and swirling clouds occupied her thoughts, momentarily. She was thankful for shelter from the elements, and was keenly aware that real “fear” had not yet set in. She practiced breathing deeply and exhaling slowly, another technique she’d mastered at Ravenscroft. She tried to compose herself. The sky was darkening and becoming more and more threatening. Storm clouds were billowing and a real storm was definitely brewing. Anxiety fluttered like butterflies in migration, in her stomach. Calming the turbulent sea known as "self”, was a difficult thing to do. She steadied herself and again listened for any signs of life. She stood in the vacuum of being alone, again. Her past emerged before her, somewhat distorted and alien. Her thought refused to come together and “fear“ now full-blown, wouldn't dismiss itself. Dark memories, like sheep bounding the meadow fence, scattered themselves and hop-skipped through her mind. They came in rapid succession, relentless! Internalizing each, she was momentarily taken to a surreal world of pale gray walls, barred windows, nurses in white uniforms, and obsolete radiators that grumble at the thought of warming a room. Nothing pleasant seemed to surface. She assured herself that being at home would make everything okay. Surveying the situation, she saw the familiar fire logs, and the imitation fire flickering in the fireplace With such dim lighting, it cast eerie shadows on the walls. The dog’s bed, by the hearth, was empty. Cub, her dog, would be barking, were he here. The silence was now becoming deafening and threatening “Where is everyone? “ she pondered in disbelief. The weather was still cool, so even the imagined warmth of the fire was appreciated. She lingered for awhile, folding her hands, just thinking. Looking into the artificial flames, she said aloud, “My mother reminds me of artificial, superficial things . In fact, she likes ‘perfect‘.” Jenna was anything but perfect, and she knew it . Ravenscroft, had been her mother’s answer to perfecting her imperfect daughter. Had it worked? Jenna thought not, knowing she could never please her mother, no matter what. Not thinking clearly, she entertained the thought that, for some reason, her family was upstairs. Ascending the stairs, she noted the drifting aroma of familiar spices coming from the kitchen. She knew the smell of fresh-baked pumpkin bread and steaming apple crunch. She conjured up images of freshly-baked loaves cooling on a rack, just waiting for her homecoming reception From her bedroom, window, she could see the white, picket fence surrounding the backyard. Mother had said it was a security measure for keeping Cub safe. Jenna wondered why there hadn’t been some safety net in place for her. “What lies in wait for me?” Doubts were stacking up. “No one is home,” she extinguished the thought, before she had time to think the worst. “Focus,” she told herself, “I must dwell on the present and forbid the feeling of being ‘disjointed‘. I will dismiss the past and make it work this time. I will." Before she'd been admitted to the institution, there were days when all the parts of her anatomy had seemed disjointed! It was a feeling that usually started at her ankles and moved upward, finally stealing her breath away. She remembered the gasping and screaming fits she’d pitched. Moreover, she remembered how she desired to end it all. She had perfected a plan, so unique, no one would know her death was not natural. She still remembered it in detail. She wouldn’t want to embarrass her mother by denying her benefits from an insurance policy that wouldn’t pay in case of suicidal death.
At the age of ten, she had been diagnosed as “depressed” and later as “manic depressive“. Demons of the past always hovered near, ready to take their places on the stage of her life. They never completely disappeared, they just hid in the shadows, waiting for some “external” event to open a door. She determined that would not happen today, not with the homecoming which yet to come. Unwilling to admit that the absence of living bodies and no apparent homecoming had already opened the door, she’d hoped would never open again. She sighed and withdrew into herself, dismayed. Outside, the storm was worsening and an unfathomable depth of fear nestled in her consciousness. She’d always been afraid of storms, and could remember how her grandmother used to gather all seven grandchildren into the central hallway of her thirteen-room house, when a storm was raging. Thus, it became the safest place to be. In that sanctuary, Jenna always sat as close to her grandmother's knee as she could, and stayed there until the thunder stopped. Today, offered no refuge, no hallways, and the Godly grandmother slept in the ground on Vista Ridge. Jenna had heard, “Stones thrown in a stream always have a rippling effect.” Now, each of Jenna’s thoughts sent out its own rippling effect - that of danger and prophesies, yet to be filled. As the rain beat down, the thirsty ground sucked up the moisture. Rivulets turned into torrents and the small stream across the road crested. There was no sound except that of rushing water, as the street filled with water, and fear flooded Jenna’s mind. She could not understand why she'd been abandoned, why no one was waiting. Then suddenly, with unexpected, but momentary clarity, she realized that what she had longed for was not present. It was not going to happen! There was no homecoming and there wouldn't be a one. Refusing to admit what she already knew, having exhausted her efforts, she feebly tried calling for Cub. She waited for his response. None came, and the empty house only echoed her own words.. Her eyes had searched the mantle for a “Welcome Home" banner. There wasn’t one, and she didn’t recall one in the front yard, either. Paranoia was in charge now, as she told herself, "Perhaps Cub’s dead, and they just didn’t tell me. Perhaps something bad has happened to all of them." True, short chatty letters that never told her she was loved, had come bi-weekly. She had been told she was missed, but maybe she hadn’t been told everything. With her mood rapidly changing, she regressed so quickly no one would ever know of the progress she had made since she left home.
She hesitated to define her expectations, forestalling the forthcoming pain. In fact, she couldn't even remember what it was she expected, therefore, she couldn't be too disappointed. The demons summoned up the old plan for her demise, offering it only as a suggestion, at this point. It was as the lightening, like an angry-spirited god, spotlighted the path, that she saw it. Its size and symmetry, its wrinkled crevices filled with a sickly grayish pink, reminded her of someone’s vital organ, somehow displaced from its place of abode. She watched and waited for the newly-created and soon-to-vanish river to wash it away. She already knew it could not survive as a lone entity. Beyond that, she knew that it was hers and it encompassed the whole of her intellect. Her “mind” had somehow dislodged itself from her body, and that meant it was destructible. She could see it clearly, and she understood what she had to do, quickly. No sooner had the object appeared, than the wind, that powerful arm of the universe, picked it up and carried it with great strength some distance, and then dropped it with a thud! She watched as it hit the surface and disintegrated, so completely that even the “most- discerning” eye could tell that it had ever been "whole". No one would ever know she'd returned, repaired, but not fixed. She could hear the screams, but could not distinguish whether they were her own. At that moment, she realized she must be “perfect” in her plan. The storm clouds broke into unrecognizable and foreboding shapes in the sky. This vision, had suspended truth. She no longer knew what was real and what was imagined. As an indescribable emptiness filled her, her thought processes froze. The rush of the storm’s water washed the displaced garbage like pieces of floating, tattered lace into the culverts on each side of the road. To Jenna, they were symbolic of her courage, her faith, her understanding, and her will to live. It was time for the plan to be tested. Jenna didn't hear the front door when it opened. She failed to recognize the joyful barking of her dog, Cub. She didn't hear packages tumbling into a pile near the door. Nor, could she hear her name being called. Slowly the brightness dimmed, then all was darkness. For Jenna,her plan had worked…perfectly. Seeing her daughter’s sweater, as she entered the house, her mother began to search the house..It was at the foot of the stairs, she discovered Jenna‘s limp, but still warm body. Cub licked an outstretched hand, which enclosed a wrinkled piece of paper - a prescription, unfilled. No one would ever know Jenna had arrived home two hours earlier than anyone expected. Copyright 2008 Frances Laughter |
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