Memoir by Kashala Jacobsen

I remember a very bleak time in my life where I wanted to end it all.  I filled composition notebooks with graphic ways to take my life.  I even wrote out detailed notes to be given to certain family members.  I hoarded pills and other means to stop my heart.  Damn, I didn’t give a shit about seeing so-called friends or my boyfriend at the time.  Isolation was all I knew.

                Somehow, my mother discovered the shoe box containing all these bits and pieces of what was going on inside my skull.  I received a phone call at a local video rental place, her begging me to come home.  My mom had dumped everything in the trash, out of my reach, and my heart shattered into a million pieces.  My boyfriend dropped me of at my house and I was to face the consequences:  No leaving the house during the night and staying put until my mom could take me to a hellhole the next morning:  Providence Psychiatric Hospital.

                I thought my parents were the crazy ones making a rash decision.  They wanted me locked up, put away where no one could see me, or anything like that.  I knew I was going to experience weird means of treatment I’d only read about in books or seen in movies.  Essentially, I was going to be tortured rather than lie in the ground at peace.  As I rested in my bed, my mind spun ‘round and ‘round, ‘til I fell into a dreamless sleep.

                I awoke to men in white kicking me.

                “Get up, crazy,” the thin one growled. “You’re going to the loony bin for God knows how long.  Suicidal behavior gets you at least two months.  Now hurry up and grab toiletries, and I mean zero sharp objects.”

                “We catch you trying to bring razors, blades, sharp plastic, or even a frickin’ pen,” the burly one retorted, “we will taze you right on the spot.  This is not optional.  Get moving now.”

                I ran to my bathroom, gathered up a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, wash cloths, a couple of towels, my hairbrush, hair ties, women stuff, body soap, and 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner wash.  I was greeted at the door by their frowning faces.  They dug through what I picked up and put it in a burlap sack.  It was zipped shut and the burly one hoisted it onto his shoulders.

                I was practically carried out the door into an ambulance, my mother wiping tears as I went by, and muttering prayers under her breath.  Would I ever return?  I silently wondered.  Tears began to pour down my face, and the thin one slapped me hard, knocked my head back.  I heard vertebrae in my neck pop.  Damn, am I in trouble here! I screamed in my skull.  I could make out red and white lights flashing before my eyes.  As the lights faded, I was being thrown into the back of the ambulance.

                The doors slammed shut, resonating metal in my ears.  “Please!  Let me out!” I screamed.

“Let! Me! OUT!”  I pounded with my fists on the inside to no avail.  I knew I was in deep.  Why the fuck did I keep my plans out in the open, on top of my shelf?  Why didn’t I slit my wrists sooner?  I could have, would have, hell, should have.  Why?  Why?  Why? It wouldn’t have stung that bad.  I’m used to pain, inside and out.  I slumped to the padded floor.  “Why am I such a G.D. coward?”  Tears slipped from mine eyes.  “Darkness will be home and I will reside there forevermore.”

                The ambulance doors slowly opened.  Light seared my eyes, and I couldn’t shield it away.  No, it even invaded my eyelids.  White arms snaked around mine and pulled me into that glaring luminescence I loathed.  But what was the origin of this ugly light?  Before I could make speculations, it was evanescent.  I was in a concrete garage.  No windows, one metal door, a drain full of fluffy green mold, and the two bastards who brought me here.

                I lunged at the thin one, a cry escaping my parted lips, and I felt a stinging sensation in my right thigh.  I hesitated, shrieked again, and the room spun.  “You drugged me!” I told the burly one.  “You…drugged…”  Blackness came, I was falling, and I knew I would eventually hit the dirty floor.  Might as well have been the killing floor.

                “Wake up!  I said wake up!”  A familiar voice found my ears.  It was distant, hollow.  Who did it belong to?

                “This is your mother!  Wake up!”  Mom?  I opened my eyes, felt grit and slime at the corners.  My mouth was cracked, I couldn’t summon the strength to speak.

                “Honey!  You’ve been out of it, taking off your clothes, running around in circles, accusing a doctor of raping you while you thought you were a kidnapped famous singer.  You lunged at him and seven people had to hold you down and sedate you.  You been here for a month and a half now acting crazy.”

“I don’t…remember…mom…  Where…am I?”

“The Providence Psychiatric Hospital.  I had to admit you to a place where they could help you, but being here has made it worse, you went into a psychotic break.  You have Schizoaffective Disorder, dear.”

“Schizo…what?”

“Schizoaffective disorder.  It’s like a mixture of Bipolar Disorder and Schizophrenia.”

That’s it, my mind decided.  I’m checking out once again.  Time to go on STANDBY.  Bye, bye…

My eyes quickly opened and I was in Pet Smart.

“What the hell?”

“What did you just say?”  It was my father.  I enwrapped him in a hug, tight and loving, for he was back.  Or was I dreaming?  I was out of the hellhole in front of about eight shelter cats in cages.

“I’m getting a kitty?!”  I was so excited!

“Yes, you get a cat, dear.”  My mom!  I hugged her, too.

I looked over and saw a handsome little black kitten. 

“I want him!” I exclaimed.  “Please-please-please?”

“Yes,” both my parents sighed.

And to this day, little Edward Scissorpaws, who is no longer a kitten, keeps me in check, stable, and happy.  He is my magnificent hero.