Free The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness by Elyn R. Saks Page B

another dialogue
was going on: I am bad, not mad. Even if I were sick, which I'm not, I
don't deserve to get help. I am unworthy.
    A few weeks later Jean's fiance, Richard, came to town. A
neurologist, Richard was somewhat older than Jean and I, and had an
air of casual authority. He intrinsically seemed to understand that for
some people, it was harder to be a student than to be a professional
working in the world. His presence was reassuring, not at all
threatening; in fact, his looming height and excess poundage gave him
the appearance of a large and generous teddy bear.
    "Jean and I are very concerned about you," he said quietly. "We
think you may be quite sick. Would you mind if I asked you some
questions?"
    "I'm not sick," I responded. "I'm just not smart enough. But
questions, yes. Ask me questions."
    "Are you feeling down?"
    "Yes."
    "Loss of pleasure in daily activities?"
    "Yes."
    "Difficulty sleeping?"
    "Yes."
    "Loss of appetite?"
    "Yes."
    "How much weight have you lost in the last month?"
    "About fifteen pounds."
    "Do you feel like a bad person?"
    "Yes."
    "Tell me about it."
    "Nothing to tell. I'm just a piece of shit."
    "Are you thinking of hurting yourself?"
    I waited a moment before answering. "Yes."
    Richard asked still more questions; I answered yes to each one. As
dim as I was, it wasn't difficult to see the alarm on his face.
    "You need to consult a psychiatrist right away," he said in a
measured tone. "You need to be on antidepressant medicine. You're in
danger, Elyn." This was serious business, he explained. I couldn't
afford to wait.
    I thanked Richard and Jean for their concern, and told them I
would think about everything they'd said. But I was not persuaded.
Pills? Something chemical to go into my body and muck about with it?
No, that would be wrong. That's what I'd been taught at Operation
Re-Entry, that's what I believed. My father's voice: Pull yourself
together, Elyn. There could be no drugs—everything was all up to me.
And me wasn't worth much. I'm not sick. I'm just a bad, defective,
stupid, and evil person. Maybe if I'd talk less I wouldn't spread my
evil around.
    I needed to present another paper in my weekly seminar, but could
not write. A feverish all-nighter produced three or four pages of pure
drivel. Gobbledygook. Junk. Nevertheless, I read it aloud. Eyebrows
rose. But there was no laughter, only silence. I had thoroughly
humiliated myself in front of my Oxford colleagues. I have come to
Oxford and I have failed. I am a bad person. I deserve to die.
    I suddenly knew, as sure as I'd ever known anything in my life,
that if I tried to kill myself, I would succeed. Richard's words came
back to me, and this time I really heard them: I was in danger. This
was serious. I could die. And so many others—my parents, my
brothers, my friends, the ones I'd allowed myself to actually care
for—they would be badly hurt. However much pain I was in, however
dimly attractive an ending to this might be—I could not bring that
kind of pain to the people I loved and who loved me.
    There was no time left to think, or consider, or strategize my way
out of this. I called Dr. Johnson, a doctor I'd been assigned as my
general practitioner when I first arrived, and urgently requested an
appointment for that very day.
    Once at Dr. Johnson's office, I said I was feeling depressed. He
asked me why, and to my monosyllabic answers he reassured me that
I could come and talk to him from time to time, as I felt the need. He'd
no doubt seen his share of stressed-out students; perhaps I was simply
another.
    "I think I need to see a psychiatrist," I said.
    "I think I can help you, if you allow me," he said. I hadn't slept in
days, or bathed, or changed clothes—even I knew that I looked like
hell, why couldn't he? Why wasn't he more alarmed? Couldn't he see?
Didn't he know?
    Dr. Johnson started to ask the same questions Richard had asked.
Was I sad? Had I lost pleasure in usually pleasurable things? How
were my