To be honest, I hate Christmas. I don’t know too many people who are truly ecstatic at this time of year.
Ten years ago on this day, I woke up inside the PIOU (Psychiatric Intensive Observation Unit) of Scarborough Grace Hospital. I wasn’t in great shape. If I wanted, I could go home for a couple days to be with my family for Christmas. And so I went to my room and packed my things. I was drifting through a foggy dreamworld. If someone spoke to me, my answer returned to my ears as if someone else had spoken the words. My minister arrived. She had just come from the Christmas service at our church. She administered communion. When you are in the midst of an illness of the mind, religious symbols are doubly powerful. I can never again take communion without being drawn — even if only a little — back into that dysphoric state 10 years ago. Then, she drove me home. I have a vague remembrance of a conversation as we drove along. She later told me it was one of the most profound conversations she has ever had. I believe her. I was speaking to her from out of the depths. Once I left the hospital for good, I would never view my world in the same way. How could I help but speak of things that are profound?
This Christmas, I was very much present. Where there is no memory of anything that happened that day 10 years ago (save one photo), now, I find myself firmly in control of my memory — deciding what I shall keep, and what I shall discard. Ten years ago, I’m sure my children (or at least Mitchell) would have woken up early, excited about the arrival of Santa Claus. But I can’t remember. Now that they are older, they awake at a reasonable time. This morning, we gathered by the fireplace in the living room and exchanged gifts. There was excitement. And there was something that I shall always remember — the fact that this year, for the first time in many years, I can remember, and can participate, and can be present to everyone around me. This is more precious than any of the gifts we shared.
Mental illness is a gift — a strange gift — but a gift nevertheless. I do not expect ever to be happy. In fact, I find no allure in the promise of contentment. What I hope for, and what I believe the experience of mental illness provides, is the opportunity to grasp some small measure of wisdom. Spare happiness for someone who needs it more than me.
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Sat, Dec 25, 2004
Half-filtered