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September 1983. I pace the subway platform, not
knowing whether I am going uptown or downtown. I
have accepted two jobs, both starting today: one
as secretary to the head of the engineering department
at Columbia University, the other a steady freelance
job in the bullpen of a retail advertising art department.
I’ve been mulling over these two offers until
my brain is so tender and sore that I can no longer
approach the problem directly. My friends—even
Bernie, my therapist—refuse to discuss it
with me any more. “It doesn’t matter
which you choose,” Bernie insists. “Just
pick one. Or flip a coin.” By now I’ve
flipped a million coins; they have no authority
over my confusion.
Uptown or downtown? I stand at the base of the
stairwell, ready to run for whichever train arrives
first. A rumble slowly rises to a roar: the uptown
train. I bolt across the platform, getting there
just in time to squeeze into the crowded car before
the doors close. As we rumble north, I try to resign
myself to my decision. Columbia offers excellent
benefits, including free tuition, which will allow
me to finally finish my B.A. I imagine the Columbia
campus, the students carrying their books along
the tree-lined paths; students years younger than
myself, just beginning their studies. I pass the
Library, and enter the engineering office. I see
myself sitting at the desk, filing, typing, answering
the phone, taking dictation… I suddenly realize
I don’t want to do it.
At the next stop I cross to the downtown side and
pace the platform until the train arrives. This
time there’s no air-conditioning. I try to
yank the window open but it’s stuck. The train,
a local, is creeping along and stopping between
stations. I try to breathe normally, planning my
next move: I’ll get out at Times Square and
call both jobs, tell Columbia I’m not coming
and the bullpen manager that I’ll be late.
Settled.
But I’m not feeling settled. I don’t
know how to explain to the head of engineering that
I won’t be taking the job. I should have told
him before this. Three times we confirmed the details
of the position on the phone: salary, starting date.
The last time was last week.
At last the train pulls into Times Square. I jump
out and race to an unoccupied pay phone. I feed
coins into the phone and dial, but when I hear the
engineering department’s answering machine
greeting, I hang up. Then I dial the art department.
The studio manager answers. I tell him there’s
a subway delay but I’m on my way. Okay. I’ve
made my choice. I imagine myself in the art studio,
cutting and pasting, drinking cup after cup of coffee,
pasting up ad after ad, day after tedious day….
Time to consult my oracle of small change. I scramble
in my wallet for a penny. Heads Columbia, tails
bullpen. Tails. I flip again. Heads. Columbia. Two
out of three? Tails, art department. Once again
I dial the engineering office, determined to stick
to my decision. This time the department head answers.
When I hear his voice, kind and calm and patient,
I tell him I’m in the subway, that there’s
been a delay, but I’m on my way.
“No problem. I’ll see you when you
get here.” I say okay and hang up. The downtown
express pulls into the station, and I watch as passengers
pile on. Why not me? Why can’t I know where
I’m going? If I don’t do something I’ll
wind up nowhere, freaking out forever on this subway
platform.
Just before the doors close, I squeeze on. My skin
feels clammy and my head tingles; little white dots
flash in the edges of my vision. I close my eyes
and sway. A man gets up and gives me his seat; I
sink into it gratefully. I try to focus on what
to do next: Get out at the next stop and transfer
back uptown? Or call Columbia and tell him I’m
not coming?
Who am I? Where am I going? I look inside the space
that is myself, but it is empty. My questions reverberate
in that emptiness, clamoring and clanging like some
mad Chinese gong. I am gasping for breath, and soon
my gasps turn to sharp, rasping intakes of breath,
then sobs. People look at me, then look away. I
jack-knife over in my seat and bury my head in my
arms. I know this situation is insane; yet it is
the product of my whole life.
The man who gave me his seat asks if I am okay.
“Yes,” I gasp, then “No.”
Even this I can’t decide. But the concern
in his voice helps calm me. I tell him I’m
having an anxiety attack but that I plan to get
out at the next station, and that I’ll be
fine.
When the man gets out at 34th Street, I watch him
pass through the doors as if he was my last friend
on earth. I’ll get out of this infernal subway
at the next stop, I promise myself, and straighten
this out once and for all. I’ll call Columbia,
explain that I’ve made a mistake, apologize
to the department chairman for the inconvenience
I’ve caused. He’d be better off hiring
someone else, anyway—someone who’d never
get themselves into a situation like this.
The doors open at 14th Street; I take the stairs
at the 12th Street exit. As I pass through the turnstile
a policeman approaches me. “Excuse me,”
he says, “what seems to be the trouble?”
“There’s no trouble.” I try to
walk away but he blocks my path.
“We got a couple of calls. Apparently you
were very upset. People thought you might try to
hurt yourself.”
“Yes, I was upset, but I wouldn’t…”
I stop, feeling for my footing on the edge of a
precipice.
“You’d better come with me.”
“No,” I say, “it’s really
not necessary. I’m fine,” but the cop
slides a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and
slips one bracelet on my wrist and one on his.
“Tell it to a professional,” he says,
clicking the handcuffs closed, “and let him
decide.”
People in the station are staring, watching the
cop make his arrest. Though I’ve observed
scenes like this before, it’s never been me.
Suddenly I’m the star of the show —
a tawdry real-life prime time episode. Handcuffed
to a man in blue.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Bellevue.”
My worst nightmare come to life. Bellevue—the
last stop on the loony train for the homeless, the
poor, the psychotic. How could I have let this happen?
I wish I could go back to the train, the pay phone,
last week… how far back would I have to go
to undo this?
There is a surreal finality in this moment. A peculiar
lucid calm comes over me. I no longer care about
the jobs. Now all I have to do is save my skin.
The car pulls into the emergency entrance of Bellevue
and I am escorted into a waiting area, a drab, dingy
room with an institutional atmosphere—the
courtroom where my fate will be decided. A few other
miserable souls are draped limply in their chairs,
disheveled, haunted-looking down-and-outers. It’s
a familiar scene. On the other side of this room
is Inside—a place I know well.
As a rebellious teenager in the mid-sixties, I
spent 28 months confined to a psychiatric ward,
on court remand until I turned eighteen. It was
a hard place to grow up, the doubts and demons of
adolescence magnified and distorted by Thorazine,
confinement, and misdiagnosis. Though it was long
ago, I still have nightmares in which I find myself
back inside.
The psychiatrist on duty is slender, with dark
hair and eyes. He doesn’t look much older
than me. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“I had an anxiety attack. It was really nothing.”
“That’s not what the police officer
reported. He said you were very upset, possibly
suicidal.”
He asks why I was upset and I start to explain about
the jobs. He scrutinizes me, then asks me questions.
Have I been upset lately? Do I take medication?
Do I use drugs? Do I see a shrink? Have I ever had
a nervous breakdown? Have I ever been hospitalized?
We are playing a game in which my freedom is a
house of cards. If this one, crucial card falls,
the entire house will collapse in on itself. Should
I lie? What if he has a way of checking? No matter
how believable a story I muster, if they know about
my past they’ll never let me go.
I tell him. He asks for more details and jots it
all down then looks at me as if trying to decide
what to do.
I speak up, determined. “It’s been
over ten years since I was discharged. I’ve
been to college, held jobs, rented an apartment.
This was one just one incident. I got upset, but
really, I’m fine.”
He chews the top of his pen. “Why should I
believe you? What happens if I let you go and you
do something crazy?”
I lean forward and look directly into his eyes.
“I got myself into a bad situation and things
got out of control. People make mistakes—don’t
you? All I can do is tell you that it won’t
happen again.” To my immense relief he says
okay.
Outside, under the gray city sky, I find a pay
phone and call Bernie. As I tell him what happened,
I start to cry. How can I ever forgive myself? The
thin tissue of my self-esteem seems irreparably
torn.
Bernie’s voice is firm. “Go home, take
a bath, get a good night’s sleep, and in the
morning you can begin to clean up the mess. You’ll
know what you need to do. It is an entirely workable
situation.” Although I don’t entirely
believe this, I decide to take Bernie’s word
for it. I wipe my eyes, take a deep breath, and
look up just in time to see the bus approaching.
Before stepping into the tub, I take a look at
my face in the mirror. It is just my face, the same
one that’s looked back at me for years; the
same one that’s sat in a classroom, gotten
hired at jobs, kissed by boyfriends, labeled as
crazy and locked up. It suddenly hits me how close
I came to jeopardizing my freedom. What did the
psychiatrist see that convinced him to let me go?
I take another look in the mirror. My face looks
absolutely fine—still young and pretty, in
my hippie-ish way. Maybe just a little too red around
the eyes, a little too much sadness behind the hazel
gaze.
Maybe with enough practice I’ll convince myself
I’m okay. I take my bath, eat some food and
go to sleep early. The next morning, remembering
Bernie’s words, I take a deep breath and pick
up the phone. What’s the worst that can happen?
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