Twirling

"Well, I fought with a stranger and I met myself
I opened my mouth and I heard myself
It can get pretty lonely when you show yourself
Guess I could have made it easier on myself

But I, I could never follow
No I, I could never follow"

- Dixie Chicks, Long Way Around




Here's the thing. Some folks in my family think I'm crazy. Or at least seriously consider it.

I have done some crazy shit. I have made many mistakes and hurt some folks along the way. I have, at times, been desperate and panicked. I do not live traditionally, nor do I wish to do so. I take a lot of risks and I don't worry about how things look very much. I open my mouth and stand up for myself sometimes. This, I know, baffles some folks, especially when my ideas directly oppose some of theirs - or the other way around. But, on a very basic level, I am not even one iota of crazy.

Trust me, I would be. I even should be and have been, briefly. But not today. Not today. And not for most of the days of my life.

I told the therapist i was tired of living, told him I had thought about ending it. I was seventeen. I had been abused, my parents were divorcing, and my mom was a raging drunk. I was in all advanced courses, working twenty five hours a week, was president of the orchestra and twirler in the band. I don't know, call me crazy. Oh, wait. I actually think I was just tired and depressed. Oh, and drinking alcoholically. Minor detail.

They hospitalized me for "major depression." It was actually voluntary. I signed myself in. Imagine that. I thought i could use some help and rest. Sounds nuts, I know.

I forgot to mention it was Christmas time. I am pretty sure all these things can depress you. In any case, there i was.

The morning after I arrived at the sanitarium, Mom came to visit.

What an entrance. She wore her blue, silk dress and fox fur coat, hair all done, stumbling in her heels, smelling like liquor, and loud for the very quiet "unit" I was on.

Oh, the irony. She left. I stayed.

Relatively speaking, nothing much happened. I hung out for a few weeks, had some therapy, and left.

But first, Mom had to ask a question. The day before I was discharged the doctor told me he was testing me for bipolar disorder. I asked why, whether this was standard operating procedure. He said that it was not. So, then I deduced that he must suspect me of being bipolar and suggested such, to which he replied that no, indeed he did not suspect me of being bipolar. When I looked at him quizzically he grew agitated and finally burst out with his explanation.

Sighing heavily, he quipped, "Kollette, your mother has requested this."
"Oh! Is she worried about me?"
"In my opinion, Kollette, she knows you are being released and yet you still do not see things her way. Therefore, even though we are telling her otherwise, she thinks something must still be wrong with you."

This simple statement set my world on edge. It both terrified and freed me. It has served me multiple times, since Mom is not the only person who has gone to such lengths to perpetuate some needed fantasy.

And the strength, the power, the cunning and baffling force of the disease of alcoholism once again attempted to engulf us both.