How to Get Lost
Meanwhile, there were shrinks. I visited several psychiatrists who listened while I described the previous months and then recommended several treatments. Three wanted me to voluntarily commit myself to a locked ward, while two gave me generous Valium prescriptions and said I had the saddest story they had ever heard. One doctor actually cried. I didn't return to see any of them. I decided to wrap myself in cotton wool woven by the linen man’s workers, drivers, restaurant meals, the Hamptons, my birthday with a tumble of expensive gifts, chocolates from the most expensive store in New York City, a new pair of running shoes and a state-of-the-art electric typewriter.
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An Atlas of Grief
Was this paralysis foreshadowing the future frenzy, the insane grief, the understanding that love was dangerous, heartbreaking, and doomed? So many stories told me the same truth over and over again: life was a series of disappointments, dashed hopes, letting go, and tear-stained memories of happiness lost. When I see Catherine, I see her joyous, dancing down Atlantic Avenue, pregnant, happy, and greedy for everything. I see her with Henry at my play, smiling, laughing, encouraging, wise, my sister, my friend, and my heart. She would save my life after her death, but her death sent me to the brink of madness and suicide. Schooled as I was in denying pain, nicknamed “the bison” for my endurance and constantly reminded that it was crucial to conceal weakness, my spiral downwards was halted periodically by guilt. But down I fell; deep, dark, and seamless was the descent, and once I reached the level of despair, it was beyond anything I could anticipate.
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