Dear, Kitty

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I don’t know what to do with myself, Kitty.

I was on the brink of being admitted into one of those looney hospitals. Too, too close to the edge. Not many things bring me to tears, but when I think about this, it does. And you know I hate sentimental people and talking about sappy things, but the worst part was seeing my mom cry because she didn’t know how to help me; because she couldn’t. But let me start from the beginning and, the way I typically do, end on an incomplete, random note. I know sometimes I come and go so suddenly like a whim, but that’s the way my mind is wired. I say what I have to say and go. Or sometimes I don’t. Not because I don’t want to; because I can’t.

My mom had been given a flyer with information on facilities that were providing mental health services in Huntington Park while she was walking by City Hall, so we were headed to one of them. I can’t recall the name. My mind was fuzzy at that time. All I can recall were the tears, my mom holding my hand like I was a toddler, frustrated, and the people in their cars and bikes and on foot. The looks they gave me. Sympathetic. Pitiful. The way the doctors and nurses looked at me the first time I ever went to the hospital for a mental breakdown. Though at that time they, much less myself, knew what was going on with me.

Apa used to say, when he learned that I was afraid of seeing ghosts or spirits, that I should be more afraid of the living than the dead. And he was right. Though I never imagined that the living person I’d be most afraid of was myself.

The first time I was taken to a hospital, for what I now know are symptoms associated with OCD and depression, was in 2010. I couldn’t move from my mom’s bed. I wouldn’t. I peed in a bucket so I wouldn’t exhaust myself and only went number two –which was rara avis because I didn’t eat unless I was forced to– if it was absolutely necessary. My mind was eating up my energy like some sort of ravenous Pac-Man. I couldn’t sleep alone either. Luckily for me my stepdad had gotten arrested for driving inebriated with my little brother in the passenger seat with no seatbelt. I slept on my mom’s bed, beside her. I was too afraid of being alone with my thoughts. It’s such a horrible experience to be afraid of yourself. Apa used to say, when he learned that I was afraid of seeing ghosts or spirits, that I should be more afraid of the living than the dead. And he was right. Though I never imagined that the living person I’d be most afraid of was myself. Not some natural disaster (though those terrify me too!), not a police officer, not a judge, not a murderer–but me.

I’m sorry, Kitty.

This is too heavy.

I have to go.