Other Observations Indeed

After my commencement at the University of Michigan in 1997, I took a year off because I hadn’t thought enough of myself that I could get into law school. I’d taken the GRE, not the LSAT in the fall of 1996, a total waste of money and time. You live and learn. I relocated to the eastern outskirts of Ypsilanti after my lease was up in Ann Arbor. Goodbye, college years.

I used the time to prepare for the LSAT being offered in the fall of 1997. In the meantime, I’d applied to Eastern Michigan University in Ypsilanti as a backup plan of sorts. I did eventually take a semester’s worth of classes for “shits and giggles” because before classes started, I’d been accepted to…Ohio State Law School (the BUCKEYES?!), so I knew I would be matriculating at SOME law school.

Often, I’d frequent bars in Ypsi; I knew many bouncers and mostly would go there to hang out with them while they were working. It was a pretty chill and fun time in my life. I somewhat knew my way around Ypsilanti and would mostly take the most obvious and reliable ways home. (I-94)

One night that winter, I decided to take a different, backway home. I don’t know why other than I wanted to get a better understanding of my surroundings. I started taking a less-traveled way; I figured if I started to get lost, I’d backtrack to the way I knew. I found myself on a deserted road heading towards the Ford plant. Because it was so late, there was no traffic. Everything seemed so quiet and still.

Upon approaching the end of the road, I saw something that shocked the shit out of me: a waify girl with long blonde hair, literally naked from the waist up (no coat, no shirt, no bra), and no shoes or socks. She was sprinting through the snow on the edge of the road. A million thoughts zipped through my mind, and I’ve often wondered what other people would do. (Kind of like that show on ABC, where they set up situations with actors: “What Would YOU Do?”)

I followed my instincts and starter blaring my horn. I pulled over to the side of the road, rolled down my window, and yelled: “Do you need help???” She ran to my car and got in. She repeatedly shrieked: “He’s coming! He’s coming!”

I didn’t know what to think or do, but I believed her because she seemed terrified, plus, she was half-naked and freezing. I emphatically told her we needed to go to the police station, even though I had no idea where it was. I mean, I didn’t even really know where I was. She responded: “No, baby girl. I just need you to get me to my old man’s house.” At this moment, I’m stopped at a stop sign. I can turn left and go to her “old man’s house” or turn right and head into downtown Ypsilanti, which I would assume has a police presence, if not the actual station. I can’t go back the way I came because “HE” is THERE! And HE IS COMING!

I stutter: “Butttt, we NEED the police!” The year is 1998. I had my first cell phone, which I’d had for maybe a year. That was my time where I only used it when needed, which means: it wasn’t in my hand, it couldn’t HEAR me, Alexa, or Siri, or Bixby, or whowhatever. Basically, it wasn’t a thought in my mind. I had a pager on my pants, ok?

“Please, baby girl, just take me to my old man’s house.” I turned left. I don’t think we drove for more than five minutes, with me shrugging out of my Army green Nike winter coat that was so warm and cool that I still have it, and as I pulled into the driveway, “she” was warming up in the car and comfort of my jacket. I got out and came around to help her, still so shell-shocked that I assumed she needed help. I helped her out of the car, put my arm around her, and she leaned heavily on me, though she wasn’t HEAVY. We went around to the back of the house, up a few steps, and the door opened: “Girl, what happened to you?” This was said by a man leaning against the doorway, drink in hand, leering and not at all taken by surprise by the scene in front of him.

She went into the house, and I followed. As I watched her disappear around a corner, I tried to take in my surroundings. Some guys were just hanging out, listening to music, drinking, and talking. Nobody reacted. Nobody asked a question. Well, one guy did ask for my number. He got the now-defunct pager number.

A man appeared, her “old man”, with my coat in his hand. He looked me in the eye, handed me my jacket and said: “You must be an Angel sent by God to be where you were tonight. Thank you.” I nodded, smiled, turned, and walked out.

About a week later, some friends and I were taking a cab into Ypsilanti, and we passed by the spot where this happened, although we were coming at it from a different direction. I exclaimed: “This is where I was! This is where I picked up that girl!”

Having recognized the alarm and excitement in my voice, the cab driver leaned back and asked: “What? What girl? What happened?” I told him the story. As we turned right into downtown Ypsi, he said, knowingly: “That girl is a prostitute who took a John for a ride. And you are really lucky that she didn’t do the same to you.”

I leave you, the reader, to draw your own conclusions.

The Cuckoo's Nest

Because I have a habit of compartmentalizing, I separate my drinking and drugging into segments. Typically, I start my alcoholism with the beginning of my main abusive relationship because he was a very heavy drinker (and coke head), and so my drinking picked up rapidly and severely. That was 2006. He was an everyday drinker (straight vodka), and I soon followed. But enough about that, for now.

When I look back, however, I see instances where my drinking was NOT “normal.” Where there were serious consequences. One such occasion was at the law firm where I’d been headhunted. I was preparing to leave my first attorney job, and this firm had caught wind of my departure. I received a call from one of the managing partners: get this: Within my first year at my first firm, I was assigned a very medically intricate case, with numerous expert witnesses, that went to trial; I sat second chair. It was exhaustive, last 7 or 8 weeks. Being extremely excited, I threw myself into the prep and trial with gusto. Well, apparently it paid off. The attorney who called me had been our opposing counsel, and he said he remembered me (over two years later!) AND how intensely I paid attention to everything. He said I seemed to know everything that was going on with the trial and had done a great job assisting and second-chairing. I accepted his invitation for an interview, and I accepted the job.

How wonderful that when I started that job, the firm had moved into a new building. It was BEYOND! It was a gorgeous building that I can’t quite capture in words. What I can say is the my office was huge, with a ½ bath, and I had just about anything I needed at my disposal. When I needed anything, my wishes were granted with a mere email to the office manager. I’d never imagined such a job.

To make things even better, I loved the job! I loved the people, especially the partner I worked with. He was such an understanding man and truly cared about the clients. (We also clicked on a political level, thank God!)

Because of the new, fancy, “castle” building, the firm planned an open house party, inviting many lawyers and judges. No expense was spared: it was catered to the nines with an open bar. I invited a couple of friends. We had a blast…for awhile. I proceeded to get extremely drunk and babbled to many guests. Eventually, I ended up in my office with the door closed and engaged in cutting. I have been a cutter for awhile, with the location of choice being my left forearm. I know I felt insecure and unworthy of working there, but being wasted was the real impetus behind my unfortunate choice of behavior.

Eventually, a tour group arrived at my door; there was no stopping the encounter. People kinda freaked out, and after finding my boss, it was decided I needed to exit quietly, quickly, and as indiscreetly as possible out a side door.

The following day, my boss called to check on me. He also suggested, and asked if I’d be willing, to see a therapist; he even had a reputable person in mind. I readily agreed. I knew something was going on with me!

After a week of intense therapy appointments, I received a call from the other partner of the firm. He let me go: he said: “You are not able to work at a firm such as ours. If you’d like to meet for lunch to discuss this, we can do that. But know I won’t change my mind.” Uh, no thanks. He also told me he was sending two employees to pick up the files I had, the laptop the firm provided for me, and anything I else that was property of the firm. I felt humiliated (then) because it seem as if the firm didn’t even trust me to be on the property. By the time the employees arrived (two very good friends of mine), I had swallowed more than a handful of pills, both prescription and over the counter. I wanted to change the way I felt. And if I died, bonus.

Eventually, my brother realized something was wrong. He interrogated me about what I’d taken. I, of course, underplayed it; he saw right through me. And despite my forceful protests, he called 911. When they arrived, they sat me down to explain my options: I could go involuntarily and be admitted to the psych ward. Or, I could go voluntarily and sign myself in, which does NOT mean you can sign yourself out. I said I needed a few minutes to decide, and in the process, I bolted into my bedroom, locked the door, and emptied more bottles of pills into my mouth. I thought they were going to bash my door in. Eventually, I came out and agreed to go. I don’t remember that ambulance ride.

When I arrived in the E.R., I was told I was going to be drinking charcoal, and if I didn’t, they’d pump my stomach. I opted for the charcoal, but boy did I take my time. I had to drink several cups of that crap and be monitored for a long time before I was finally transferred to a room. I did have a guest for the night: I was on suicide watch.

The next afternoon, I was transferred to the psych ward. You know? I. Did. Not. Care. I mean, I didn’t like being strip searched, but other than that, I was ready to settle in.

First off I noticed how kind and informative the patients were; one was so informational that he warned me about the tiny towels that were dispensed. I was about to shower, which he noticed, so he told me to take a few towels. After my shower, I took my meds and went to bed. It’d been a long day and night. Oh! But I did meet my roommate first: Rachel who was wearing sunglasses, even though it was night. Didn’t phase me because she was sweet as pie.

Boy, those 20 minutes “checks” during the night sure were disruptive. “Girl, Interrupted” wasn’t kidding! When morning broke, I was instructed to head to the cafeteria. I have never felt more like a new kid in school. I perused the cafeteria, tray in hand, and eventually landed on an innocuous looking group: I saw an elderly lady in a wheelchair who looked very harmless. I quickly found that dear, old Katherine loved to repeat stories in rapid succession.

When group therapy began, I wasn’t aware of the possible rules. Instead, I offered (sound?) advice to those who spoke. I listened intently, could relate, and reflected back what I thought was encouraging and understanding reflection. Nobody stopped me, so I don’t know if I did the right thing.

Following group, I went into the Occupational Therapy (OT) room, which doubled as a kitchen. A client came over and hovered near me. He grabbed my wrist to inspect my wrist band. He said: “I thought you were a therapist in group therapy! But you’re you’re  fucking crazy like the rest of us!” I laughed and responded by saying: “Yes. Yes, I am! I’m fucking crazy!” We had a good laugh over that.

I relaxingly continued through my day: nobody had any expectations of me. I met with my psychiatrist, the guy who basically put me in there, and he told me he was thinking of releasing me that day, which was odd because he previously said I’d be there a week. But he ASKED: “Would you mind staying until after dinner tomorrow?” Uh, no problem, doc. I wasn’t scared of being there, actually was quite comfortable there.

I had to attend OT later that afternoon; we were making pumpkin bread. Everyone was encouraged to participate. A therapist asked me to do a task; I wasn’t sure if I was ready for all that! Then she asked, very slowly and calmly: “Nina, do you think you can get together a quarter cup of sugar?” I was perplexed for a moment, and then replied\: “Uh, yeah I can try.” Again, super low expectations. In other words: vacation from the outside world.

There was one disturbing thing I noticed: the nurses at the nurses’ station consistently ignored patients. And by ignored, I mean acted as if the patients didn’t exist; they heard nothing and saw nothing. I was flabbergasted they these people who were supposed to care for patients treated the patients less than human. Now I’m sure there was some reason for it: maybe they were bombarded with questions incessantly daily? Well, that’s just kinda too bad. As for me something surprising happened: apparently the nurses caught wind that I was an attorney admitted for an overdose/“suicide attempt.” That pissed me off even more. So when I walked by and saw someone asking questions, being ignored, I would ask their question just so they’d get a response.

I went into the ward on a Friday night. That Saturday was the Michigan-Michigan State football game under the lights at the Big House. I was decked out in all Michigan gear, including slippers from the gift shop that my brother and friends had brought me, waiting for pumpkin bread I’d helped make and the BIG GAME.

I started out watching the game in the cafeteria area with a couple of other people who weren’t paying a lot of attention. One person who was present was Katherine, a very elderly lady in a wheelchair. Katherine had a habit of talking your ear off AND repeating stories within minutes. She was also very aggressive in catching and keeping your attention. She was with it enough to watch for newcomers because those who had been subjected to her long enough had run out of patience. And many didn’t have much to begin with; I mean, we are in a psych ward for God’s sake. But there was something about Katherine that touched my heart, so I’d been listening patiently most of the day, not only for her, but maybe to keep everyone else a little calmer by preventing them from getting re-snared.

As the game started, I was seeking, and I hate to say it this way, some “normalcy”, but normal in my life was watching football with friends. Katherine was incessantly chattering way while my eyes were glued on the game. Sadly, by the middle of the fourth quarter, Michigan was down by 17 points; people were clearing out of the stands. I was starting to feel tired, but it was much too soon for nighttime “medication time”.

But the game wasn’t over: Michigan scored a field goal, followed by recovery of an onside kick! I started lurching in my chair. Katherine droned on, trying ever harder to keep my attention. When Michigan scored a touchdown, I jumped up clapping as Katherine fixed me with a glare. The game was becoming INTENSE, and my focus narrowed. When Michigan scored AGAIN, I jumped up cheering even harder than before; the game was TIED! Katherine was having none of it, and said: “Sit DOWN! You are bugging me!”

Look, I know she was elderly and forgetful and somewhat incapacitated, but we were all equals there: we were all ‘fucking crazy’, and expectations were loooooow. As Michigan State failed to win the game in regulation, and I clapped and yelled raucously, Katherine’s further attempt to control me failed. When she turned into a grumpy bitch demanding I sit still, I looked at her and yelled: ‘Fuck YOU, Katherine. FUCK YOU!” And I promptly walked out of the cafeteria to a different TV lounge to watch overtime.

Now alone, I was fired up for overtime, or the three that would ensue. I was talking to  myself and the TV, clapping away, feeling excited and HAPPY. As the game started up again, I was letting it all hang out. That’s when the real fun began. The few people besides Katherine, who had been in the cafeteria, followed me into that room. Maybe they were glad I yelled at Katherine, maybe they wanted to watch the game, maybe I don’t know why they came in. But they sat down and watched with me. The game rolled on. I was into it. As I was hooting and hollering, and my fellows offered some clapping here and there, one by one more people trickled into the room. You could see on their faces that they were curious what the hubbub was about. I swear on my favorite movie “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” that by the final overtime, the room was PACKED with smiling, laughing, clapping people. My roommate was in there wearing sunglasses and looking in the opposite direction of the TV when she yelled out to me: “What are we cheering for, Nina???” And I smiled and said: “Just keep yelling ‘Go Blue’, Rachel! Just keep yelling ‘Go Blue’!!” When Michigan secured their win, we were all jumping around and high-fiving each other. What an experience. Clearly one I’ll never forget. And if I’m being honest, the details of the game do tend to become fuzzy, but the FEELINGS I have from that memory don’t. Truthfully, I don’t think I’ve had that much fun watching a game since.

Any Ol' Tuesday

It was raining. Freezing rain. And it was dark. I don’t recall where we were before or what my day consisted of, but I was in a suit and a pink wool coat that I loved, yet it would be ruined from that cold, dark, rainy night. My pale pink coat would never recover, but I would.

Tom and I had definitely been drinking the day before, which was no different than just about any other day. We had left my car in a parking lot that stretched across many businesses, but it wasn’t quite a strip mall. I know one establishment was a bar; I can still see the neon window signs through the rain and my eyelashes that kept catching the freezing drops. There was also a K-Mart across the most expansive part of the lot from where we were. Where were we? I can’t recall the exact location, but I know we were fighting. Again.

So here we are, drunk and coming to get my car, which should stay put, really. But because it’s in this lot that belongs to I-don’t-know-who, I’m concerned it will get towed if it sits there for another night.

I don’t know what we’re fighting about, but usually it was about cheating (he did, repeatedly; I didn’t, until we hit the bitter end, and I’d moved out of the house by then.), or money or drugs or his kids or nothing. Suddenly, he turned and RAN towards the K-Mart, slip-sliding his way to the entrance wherein he eventually disappeared. I stood there, the miserable frigid rain soaking through my coat, my head dizzy with booze; I knew I wasn’t running ANYWHERE. I pulled out my cell phone and called him. Surprisingly, he answered. We both slipped easily into alternate personalities, slightly passive-aggressive, yet amenable: “Let’s talk about this,” I pleaded. “Ok,” he replied. We decided to meet in the store, back by the toy section, which he said was straight back from the entrance he’d ran into. We talked on the phone with me telling him I was approaching the store.

Through a second entrance, further away from the first, he ran out, sprinting back to his truck, having lied about wanting to resolve anything. He sped away, traversing the approximately 20-minute drive as quickly as possible, in slick, dangerous conditions, while drunk, which never seemed to phase us. Ever.

I remember that the code to open the garage was his daughter’s birthday, and I punched it in countless times. But for the life of me, I can’t remember it now. Odd how that happens, that details fade and disappear, but feelings can come back and hit you like a Mack truck. That garage where my car had carved out an indentation in the wall from continuously, drunkenly parking too far forward. The garage was utilized as our main entrance to the house. The other doors, front and back patio, were always locked. I don’t even know if there was a house key.

Tom arrived home, panicked and anxious and hopped out of his truck, punched in the code, and tucked his truck into the garage, away from the cold and wet night, quickly hitting the button to close the door. He did NOT want me in that house. Previously, during cocaine-fueled paranoid nights, Tom would pull the plug on the garage door connection so as to disable it completely. And that was his plan: disconnect the garage door opener, and I wouldn’t be able to get in the house. As he climbed up on his truck to “win the fight”, he heard coughing and hacking coming from the bed of the truck.

Startled, he looked down at a puddle. It was me in the bed of his truck. A sopping wet, drunk and stinky woolen mess. He reacted with surprise, or course, and more than a little admiration because I’d outsmarted him: I was IN the house.

 

I don’t know how I knew, but when you spend enough time around a chronic liar and wiley manipulator, you pick up a few tricks of your own. I never took one step towards that store. I crouched in the bed of the truck, banking on the idea that he would do exactly what he did. I talked to him on the phone as if I was walking towards the entrance, commenting on the miserable weather and puddles I was (not) stepping around. As I talked, I watched as he exited the store, sprinting back across the parking lot, determined to leave me there. Eventually, as he neared the truck, I said I’d see him in a minute and hung up. Perfect timing because he got behind the wheel, and I slid down in the wet bed of the truck, hugging the metal that separated us.