11. Beyond The Psych Ward
The joy of life outside the psych ward and a podcast episode for paid subscribers about what is next
We made it to Friday! I’m not sure why this Friday in particular feels like such a welcome relief. I think it has something to do with the endless rain we are having in Vermont. It feels like we are living in a rainforest right now and although I am always one for a summer thunderstorm or two, this third week of persistent downpours and grey skies sure has caught up to me. It’s no secret that I am not my best self in muggy weather and the onslaught of slugs as they slay flower after flower in Dave’s garden is wearing both of us quite raw. I keep trying to be glass half full about it — to remember that it is a gift to have rain when we have so many catastrophic droughts worldwide — but I can’t help but feel like this rain is reminiscent of a depression that lingers for far too long.
The one thing that has brightened these many storm-filled days, however, is you. Your support of this space is blowing me away and though I am rarely speechless, I find myself tongue-tied trying to find the right words for my gratitude so please allow me to take a sincere moment to emphasize this —
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR INCREDIBLE SUPPORT!
It means more than you know and I will do my absolute best to honor your generous patronage with continued podcast episodes and written work that serves you. Since I am no mind reader, please don’t hesitate to request written work and podcast episodes that you are interested in. All I want to do is honor you as you honor me.
This week, I share a piece about the joy of Maura and my adventures beyond the psych ward. For paid subscribers, I have a podcast episode where I answer a whole smorgas board of your questions about the Doctor Waffle documentary, grief, navigating transitions, dancing, and how I got into writing in the first place, among other things.
For your own peace of mind and so you don’t think I’ve disappeared into a depressive episode or worse, I do want to be upfront in sharing that I will be offline for the next two weeks. We are leaving the slugs to our house sitter and heading to sit by a lake in the (hopeful) sunshine. Thanks to the magic of technology, I have slated essays for you so I will still show up in your inbox on Friday while I’m away but future podcast episodes — Love + Mental Illness with my husband Dave, How to find and/or train your own service dog, and The Making of Doctor Waffle with my Co-Director — and community chats will resume when I am back in mid-July.
If you celebrate July 4th, I hope you have a wonderful holiday and if you are like us and you do not, I hope you use the holiday weekend to enjoy some extra ice cream (or whatever suits your fancy) and time with friends and family.
Sending snugs from the girls and love from all of us.
Kindly,
Kate
11. Beyond The Psych Ward
We pulled off the paved road onto a tree-shrouded lane and after a mile or two, took a hard right on what seemingly wasn’t a road at all. As the truck bumped over potholes and muddy ruts from ATVs galore, I became acutely aware of our surroundings. Beer bottles, burnt trash, and rusty carcasses of trucks that would never see the road again were scattered amidst the towering trees. I tried to keep singing along with the Dixie Chicks but as we bounced along, I went silent disappearing into my complete inability to contain the overwhelm mounting in my chest.
Maura was unphased by my quiet and clear concern and as I tried to find my words — to mask my guilt and shame at my complete inability to have understood her lived reality earlier, she read me like a book. “What? Never lived in poverty before, have you, bipolar bear?” We both laughed — her in complete compassion and me in utter discomfort. I tried to say the right thing — to apologize for my reaction – to take ownership that she was right, I was out of my element – but she brushed it off with kindness and a diatribe of stories about each rotting truck. She just knew. She knew I wouldn’t find the right words. She knew I was an upper-middle-class white girl — a WASP in my entirety – a human with health insurance, a care team, an intact nuclear family, and two parents who paid my health care bills each and every month with credit cards that had no outstanding balance. She knew I didn’t worry about where my next meal would come from or if my truck would get me to the hospital when I needed it. She just knew, and as she shared story after story of off-road mudding in one truck and getting lost on a hunting trip in another, she spared both of us the deep discomfort of discussing my privilege and gave me time to acknowledge it and remember the human I was.
After about a mile and four truck stories, we came to a clearing and Maura’s face broke into the widest of smiles. “HOME!” she yelled and in witnessing her joy, I melted back into the bipolar bear she knew and loved. We spent the next hour running around her property as she gave the most pride-filled tour — her pale blue seatbelt-less truck – her beloved recliner that had not two but four different lounging positions — her table and stools that she had built herself out of a felled tree — her bed that was also her couch — her fire pit for roasting marshmallows from the food kitchen — and last but certainly not least, her can collection, the most creative wind chime I had ever seen that danced in the breeze as it hung in the large maple tree out back. We stood admiring the iridescent cans as they sang in the wind and the sun bounced from one to another, I grabbed her hand. This was it. This was joy.
After a few minutes of basking in the glow of warm sunshine and soft melodies, Maura spun me into her arms and we proceeded to dance in glee at the gift of being truly together and alive in our freedom. Do-si-do-ing and stepping on each other's toes, we had our own rave right then and there. We danced for hours using her crank radio to stream Earth Wind and Fire and the Supremes before crashing beneath the large maple tree.
Holding her hand once again, I apologized for how I had behaved upon arriving — for my absolute inability to truly process what her life was like when she had shared her stories in the ward. She listened patiently knowing I needed to get those words out and once I had, she just squeezed my hand in acknowledgment knowing no other words were needed.
We lay there as dusk descended and the sky turned neon pink. She hummed a song as the radio died and I stared at the can wind chimes above me thinking that this might very well be the happiest moment of my life. I was alive. I was with Maura and we were together again. A strong gust of wind rippled through the leaves and as a new melody played, a hole in one can caught my eye. I hadn’t noticed it before but as I studied them all a bit closer, I came to see that many of them had holes. Unable to keep my curiosity contained and allow the bliss of that perfect moment to last any longer, I asked Maura about them. She chuckled. “Oh hell yeah, there are holes. It’s not just a wind chime, you silly goose. It’s also my shooting range.” Her words, said with such lightness, held anything but within their meaning. Maura had a gun and we were two women with bipolar disorder who struggled with severe suicidality.
Just like that, the perfect moment was gone as an icy chill crept down my spine.
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In the podcast for paid subscribers this week, I answer your questions:
What am I doing with my life?
Is the documentary film still happening?
Am I still dancing?
How did I get into writing?
What are the hardest parts of this transition and what has offered joy?
Lighter fare too — how I take my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and my ice cream flavors of choice. Spoiler alert — it’s not about the ice cream for me at all.