All the things you haven't seen

Hey mom. I never told you this before, but I probably will never be able to forgive myself for failing to love you when you most needed it. While you gave me life, I was in turn watching yours breaking at the seams without knowing what to do.

***

It was a mild August day and I was on the job hunt, downing a bagel and reading up on the company I was about to be interviewed by in thirty minutes. Aptly, coffee shops are meant to harbour those between two places.

With perfect timing, you called me from Chicago, saying you wanted to talk. I vomited out my nervousness about the interview, you listened. I asked where you were and you replied the airport. A bit cold, you had mentioned. But with a sweater, it's manageable. The conference was good but you were looking forward to coming back. I was excited for your return so that we could sit together on the deck during breakfast again.

In the line to catch the plane? That's right, I've been waiting for a while. Did you grab anything to eat? No, no I haven't yet. Will you soon or just going to wait after the plane ride? I'll probably wait, it's just not worth the price. No, no it's not. No, not it's not...

Then just a pause, a shift on the other end. Silence, hesitation before a higher-pitched voice. A different sound.

I have to say... Hm, about what? Well...Did you know that the people right in front are talking about me? What do you mean? The people in line are talking about me, I know they are. What makes you say that? Nothing, nothing...

A pause.

What do you mean they're talking about you? They're talking about me and they're making fun of me. They have been for a while now. For what? Nothing, nothing... Listen, sweetie, I've got to go. Good luck with your interview.

And you hung up.

***

Dad called me while I was coming home from a date with a guy whose last name I don't remember now. It was at the Mexican restaurant across from my new job.

I picked up. He could barely speak but when he finally did, his voice was weak with a note of pleading, he didn't know what to do. That night, you had sat up from your favourite spot on the couch and told him: Tomorrow, I’m going to throw myself in front of a moving car and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

I imagined you lying in front of a pick-up truck, milky flesh branded by skid marks, and your organs oozing out of crevasses in red chunks textured like sorbet.

It was one of those days that was slow to darken, drawing out the last few dishrag drops of daylight from the sun. Your favourite spot on the couch is in front of our wide TV, close to the doors that lead to the outdoor deck. You were probably wearing your usual dress, the one that you wash twice a month, and a pair of wool socks to keep your toes warm from the draft. Which draft, I was never sure. It was a humid, sticky summer day suffering through a nonexistent wind.

Maybe the contestant on TV finally gathered the courage to start singing “Over the Rainbow” on stage. My thoughts vaguely drifted to your dress again.

I thought about it, trust me. You think I didn't, but I did.

I couldn't see an end, and the fear in dad's voice spoke louder than anything else. Was it rational? Was it right? Maybe to both. Did I think I had no other way, gripping the phone outside the Mexican restaurant, watching people filter through its doors, thinking of how far away you were from being there with them in the throng of smiles, how far away I felt, myself, and if we'd ever return...

I told dad to dial 9-1-1 while I stayed on the phone.

***

When the cops came, I didn’t realize they’d be the ones to bring you in until I heard it on the phone and dad told me more about what happened. He was grasping at absolution even though I was the one who told him to call in the first place.

A pair of cops sauntered through the door like they were entering a coffee shop. They started off by telling you that you had to go with them to the hospital. They explained that now you must go, since you had threatened to end your life. That, apparently, was enough for the law to impose itself.

You protested.

They tried again but were greeted by the same result. After your third protest, the pair lost any last vestige of control and grabbed you by the forearms. The way they held her hands looked like they were grasping two sausages, holding you still, dad said after.

I heard dad's deep voice straining, urging; you'll walk, he said, you'll cooperate, you'll listen, just let her walk alone, stop holding her down. You were screaming.

Small, is what dad said. You looked small.

You were pulled onto the grass barefoot in handcuffs, and your toes curled on the front walkway. The handcuffs stayed on all night. Let her take them off, she's calm. But they didn't remove them.

I wanted to scream out “She’s not a mental patient,” and grab you out of their hands. But I was the one who called them in the first place.

When I first arrived, I saw you on the metal hospital bed. Your hair was hanging over your face, your hands were now chained by the handcuffs to one side of the bed. I wanted to pull your humanity from their grasp and offer it back to you. I tried to catch your eye but your hair shielded you from everybody.

When I was on the phone, all I could do was listen. When I arrived, all I did was watch, lodged in the doorway.

You didn't want to look at me between your limp, dark hair. But I caught a glimpse when you turned ever so slightly.

And I looked away.

***

Winter came and we watched carefully for signs of worsening.

You didn't want to take pills, you didn't think you needed them, we begged you would. Spirits dwindled. Each day felt like waking up inside of a nightmare. There was always a tinge of absurdity that made it all feel surreal.

Years of coming to you as my rock fluttered away and I watched them leave to be replaced by our newfound dynamic. A dynamic I'm not even sure you were conscious of.

Without realizing it, you were slowly removing yourself from our lives in any way that you could. Time spent by the fireplace turned into on your phone and behind closed doors, conversations that lasted hours were now void of any substance, just empty words. Far worse than the emptiness was the paranoia that was creeping from the recesses of your mind, rearing its head into our days, and changing everything.

We'd tiptoe past your bedroom and listen from behind a closed door to hear sporadic laughs that were far too loud.

Your eyes darkened over time and darted behind your thick, black frames, losing your ability to focus.

We'd catch you brushing your teeth in the closet and ask why. You'd say it was because the windows in the bathroom are too open, too visible, and that they'd see. The closet was safer than the bathroom. You thought we'd understand.

I tried to hide that from Johnny who was only eleven, but he'd come up to me and ask about you. I'd make up a translucent excuse, he'd take it.

We hoped that we had reached the end of whatever was happening, that this level of paranoia was the upper limit. We clenched our hands at the dinner table and muttered to each other between worried glances in the hallway, all unseen by you.

There was a heavy quiet between us, weighing down each step of each day. And we just became cautious observers of your world.

***

The bonfire was quietly cackling underneath the bright moon. My right hand nursed a beer while my left was interlaced with Ollie's. Ollie and I sat precariously on a lawn chair, along with the first two guests who arrived for his birthday. The music was so loud that it took four full rings for me to hear my phone buzzing in my pocket.

Come home, dad said.

I stood up from Ollie's lap and created distance between me and the laughing group.

Why? What's happened?

Mom's going to your apartment. She didn't say why. I tried to ask but she's not talking to me or anyone else. She's been silent all night, and I'm scared she's going to jump off the building. I need you to come back and stay with Johnny while I drive down and try to get there before her. Can you do that?

Sure.

***

I was picking out chocolate-covered somethings in the local drug mart, stationed right beside a plant store. Ollie was outside in the car waiting for me, hazards on. I knew you liked dark chocolate, that'd be the common denominator, but I couldn't remember which nuts you preferred - almonds, hazelnuts, or peanuts. There was one fluorescent light flickering above the aisle that was starting to drive me crazy. I grabbed all three Brookside bags and a bag of raisins.

The joke was that they ended up only taking the raisins; nuts aren't allowed in hospitals because of allergies. I brought them home and finished all three bags in two days.

This time, your second time, you were on the wet tarmac. Somehow, on a downcast, foggy kind of spring-summer day, you managed to breeze past all security and stand right where the planes take off and land. They spotted you and shipped you straight to the largest mental hospital we have in the city.

This time, it wasn't me who called them to take you.

No, this time it was others. Others knew you weren't well. Others could tell you were sick and needed help. It wasn't just in our own minds, or what felt like our own bubble of uncontrollable chaos. Our worlds felt slightly more rational, our decisions reasonable, our characters vindicated.

Johnny, approaching thirteen at the time, called me to tell me what happened with dad driving in the background and filling in the blanks.

Go to see her since she's at the hospital by where you are, I know they brought her in an hour ago, dad said. I asked him if they were accepting visitors. Not now, but during the weekdays they are. Okay. I'm bringing her a pair of clothes and socks. Dropping them off soon? Yes. I'll go get her snacks and a plant and drop it off now and then I'll try to visit her on Monday.

It was just like last time, but now it felt familiar. We'd been here before, we knew the drill. Only unlike last time, things felt sheltered by society. Controlled by the white hospital beds and police uniforms, enforcing the law to protect others.

I left the mini succulent and chocolate-covered raisins for you on the main floor and took an Uber home, calmer than I had been the first time.

This was life, it had started to seem. It was just life. And so we go on living it.

***

Your body shook for a whole month after they injected you with the anti-psychotic shot. You'd sit on the porch swing, in your favourite dress, and shake uncontrollably. Pills couldn't stop the cruel side effect. You felt restless, suicidal. We visited the ER every other day because of your panic attacks.

One night, you couldn't move from the swing.

Just move, we told you.

No, I'm terrified.

Just move, we said. Move. Nothing is stopping you.

I can't.

It was as simple as that, you couldn't and we could. We couldn't bridge the gap into your world that summer. You cried, begged, pleaded, trying to understand what was happening to your body.

At least the psychosis is gone, dad had said. Seems to be gone, at least. But will it come back? Nobody fucking knows. Nobody fucking knows anything about what's happening. Not the numerous, unending rolodex of doctors, police officers, nurses, therapists.

We drove, cooked, watched, listened, walked away, and came back. We researched, shut down, drove, listened, sat, surveyed. We kept going any way we could. We did what was necessary and didn't have the bandwidth to do anything else.

I started to remove myself more and hide. I yelled more. I cursed. I let myself ignore your needs, your hugs, your pleas. I was fed up with driving to the hospital to quell your fears and I made sure you knew. I told you all the ways I felt you had let me down, left me to handle Johnny alone, left me to grow up and navigate the world, made me feel like you'd never come back to us, that I'd never be able to have a proper conversation with you.

***

I wasn't kind.

Maybe I told myself the resentment I felt towards you and your decisions justified all the ways I had let you down. But no matter the cause, all the ways I shed my responsibility of loving you started to collect like cesspools in my subconscious. In quiet, private moments, I'd let my guard down and be honest with myself. I let the truth rise to the surface and started to bear it on my own.

I remember reading that the only event truly deterimental to a human life is the tainting of one's character. Anything else is more bearable than destroying who you are.

There were moments where I knew I could do more for you, help you off the ground, be stronger, be less self-seeking and resentful, push through it, and put you first.

I know.

I haven't been able to understand why I was disconnected and removed but I am sorry. I feel like I can't forgive myself for the way I acted.

I know and it's okay.

***

I didn't know that the conversation we had that day in the aftermath was vital to my well-being. Since then, I've been able to love with an open heart and see the beauty in my inhumanity. I've been able to recognize that love is both a decision and an action.

Every human falters and breaks, makes mistakes, and has the potential to inflict pain on others. To think otherwise is a pipe dream. And I spent a lot of time unable to love those parts of myself.

Hey mom. I never told you this, but your forgiveness has made me love myself fully. Knowing that I can be imperfect and redeem myself, knowing that you're able to see me and still sincerely open your heart to me.

I will be able to love others more fully, knowing there is potential for deep hurt and love in all of us.

***

The nurses’ chattering in the hallways had quieted down as we entered mid-morning. They had finished cleaning up after breakfast, and their footsteps were now scarcely heard.

You sat on the only armchair by the window, shimmering. Your white blouse, your favourite one, creased as you bent over to tie your shoe. Your eyes were dark underneath, but calm. Your hands were closed and still.

Through the window, the sunlight started inching towards our room this time around.